Come On Down!

While taking a reprieve from time in my workshop for a bite of lunch, I noticed my sainted wife was enthralled in a television program.

It is The Price is Right, and chock full of ritz and glitz.  It seems as though the show has changed hosts with the former one, Bob Barker, gone to a California golf course.

I remember Bob was old when I was a kid and he emceed the show with a microphone that closely resembled a giant lollipop.  He ended each show with a warning-like-suggestion to “spay and neuter your pets.”

Ol’ Bob was put out to pasture some years ago and replaced with someone who still has a pulse – Drew Carey.

The show has taken on an ultra-hip atmosphere with new games and hoopla and extravagant prizes in the form of luxury automobiles and fabulous trips.

This particular episode showed a $300 blender, $2400 in luggage, and women’s and transvestite’s shoes worth thousands.  Gone are the days of Rice-A-Roni.

But what really caught my attention was the Drew’s Crew members.  Bob used to have comely ladies who stood by prizes as they spun around on a giant turntable; they referred to as Barker’s Beauties.  I can only assume Drew’s ladies would have earned a similar moniker.

In any case, there were two models that were simply stunning.  Yes, I can say this because my sainted wife does not read www.easternshorefishandgame.com. 

One was named Manjuela, the other was Rachel.  Both were, again, stunning.

I was mesmerized by their leggy gyrations around a riding lawnmower, and later a dehumidifier.  Both prizes appeared sexier because of the way these two ladies maneuvered around them on the stage.

Just as with people who say, “Everything tastes better with bacon,” these models do the same thing to floor lamps – they make them better.

My mind drifted away to my “happy place.”  In the event you’re unfamiliar with happy places, those are where you mentally go to reduce stress and want to relax.

I was mentally in my workshop preparing to fire-up my drill press when my sainted wife entered.  In her hand was a steaming cup muscular black coffee.  She was wearing a sequined gown with satin pumps and motioned with her free hand that this cup of joy was mine.  A facial gesture along with a smile and wink from her confirmed this scenario.

A quick twist of her head and a bigger grin appeared that coincided with a small nod…

 

I returned to reality when I heard Drew’s voice say, “Place your bid to the nearest dollar without going over.”

 

Perhaps my sainted wife could try a smooth wave and hand motion when she announces dinner is ready, or maybe she could sashay over to me while I’m painting and offer me some iced tea.  The bottom line is presentation is everything.

 

That lucky Drew fell into it.

Doctor, Doctor!

Three months ago I, along with countless other dupes, made a New Year’s resolution.  My resolution was to diet, exercise, and get healthier.

 

I’m proud to announce that after 68 solid days of regimented living I have lost a total of – drum roll, please – 2 pounds!

 

This health marathon did not begin January 1^st.  Rather, it began decades ago when my clothes started shrinking.  Actually, they remained the same, I was simply growing.

 

To stave off serious illness later in life I began eating “lite” foods.  After a few years of that I began eating less lite.  There has been no alcohol in the form of beer, liquor, wine, or even flambé dishes.

 

The result was being a fat guy who didn’t drink.  That’s even less fun than being just a fat guy.

 

In any case, my doctor decided to send me to a dietician.  There I collected papers, menus, and sage advice from both the dietician and the other participants.  I should have known better since my fellow dieters had been attending this diet clinic for years, and still they were 80 pounds heavier than I.

 

My dietician put me on a 1200 calorie per day diet.  If you don’t know how much 1200 calories is, stop by my house and look in Smokey the Cat’s bowl.  That is 1400 calories.

 

I’m bringing this up now because I have a doctor’s office visit scheduled for this week and am prepared to duke it out.  You see, I gained 14 pounds on my diet since my last doctor visit.

 

This past year I changed my diet to be even healthier.  I grew my own veggies and fruits, and I know that they are all organic because I know what I put in and around them.

 

My doctor was talking to me about lettuce I grew and asked me if I got any.  I told him no, because I was too busy growing lettuce to get any.  He didn’t think that was funny.

 

But I got my blood test results back and they look pretty good considering I have one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.

 

Of course my doctor won’t let me die until I reconcile all my bills.

 

For all you spindly folks reading this, keep in mind I have a metabolic imbalance –through no fault of my own - that is being re-balanced through pharmaceuticals.  Nonetheless, the antics and gyrations that are being performed are tenuous and un-fun.

 

And until I drop another 78 pounds, I’ll be the guy no losing weight on a diet.

Deja View

Not Smokey the Cat

With the Oscar ceremonies still warm in our brains, I’d like to visit an arena of cinema of which no one speaks: Remakes.

 

I enjoy movies as much as anyone because they are commercial-free in their original form.

 

Remakes are not those tired movies that get recycled like old newspapers or soda cans rather, they are original movies that are re-made by someone other than the initial director and cast to improve the film.

 

The first one that comes to mind is King Kong.  This movie was first seen by me as a child when I was inside on a Saturday morning.  It appeared on TV and enthralled me that such a large monkey was able to escape in a large metropolitan area.

 

Of course that was not the point of the flick as I later learned.  Still, I was agog at the amazing cinematography which, today, looks like it was done with crayons by baboons.  Nonetheless, it was cutting-edge technology interspersed with real actors, and it was exciting.

 

Its remake was touted as the biggest thing since the moon landing.  It wasn’t.  But, this led the pack in the remake world.

 

No one would think of remaking Rocky.   We’re up to Rocky XXXIV, I think.  We‘re also lousy with Die Hard movies, Shrek films, Rambo, and Saw cinematic works that can be easily distinguished by the numbers following the title.

 

James Bond adventures do not fit into these forms as they are all their own individual adventure, often with a different title character portrayer.

 

But movies like The Karate Kid was good.  It didn’t need to be remade, but it was.

 

Arthur is another that had a fine original but, was painfully contorted into a weak attempt to make money off the original.

 

It must be a sense of an overinflated ego that feels they have a better idea as to what the original should have been like.  One successful movie is the Wizard of Oz.

 

The Wizard of Oz was released in 1939 and has enjoyed great success for decades on both the silver screen and the small screen.  It is still shown as an annual event on television.

 

Enter Sidney Lumet who directed a black version of the Wizard of Oz entitled The Wiz.  It starred Dianna Ross, Michael Jackson, and many other black actors because it was set in Harlem.

 

Just as The Great Gatsby was remade into a black version called G.  G is a modern day story about a hip hopper named Summer G.  Summer G spends years making himself into an entrepreneur to entice his wanna-be squeeze back into his arms.  Wow!

 

Speaking of nutty, let us not forget the remake of that Walt Disney classic The Nutty Professor.  Yes, that too was remade starring Eddie Murphy.

 

Not to be outdone, check out the new version of Annie.  It seems as though Annie is now a sassy black girl who lives with her mean foster mother and is taken in by the mayoral candidate who happens to be a business tycoon.

 

The originals were just fine.  Let them be and please come up with some new, fresh, original ideas for movies.  I’ve already seen that one you’re trying to remake.

School Daze

It’s been forty years since I was in high school, and I now realize how much I missed throughout

those formative years.

Indeed, high school was the best seven years I spent in my life.  For you mathematically-challenged readers, that is a joke.

I mostly hung out with equally nerdy kids – none of which could buy a date much less get one from a fellow classmate for nothing.  To say the least, we were woefully inept upon reaching the real world of dating in college.

Jocks were not in our clique because they were so much better than us.  They were more muscular, better-looking, drove cars, wore fashionable clothes, and had facial hair, but none could be accused in a court of law of being intelligent.

It seems as though high school girls in the Stone Age were attracted to muscles, vehicles, pretty clothes horses with beards, over someone smart enough to come in out of the rain.

So it is with interest that I read yet another unbelievable story, this one from Florida.  Florida is a place where the sun is so hot that it actually bakes brains.  In case you don’t believe me, do an internet search for weird stories and see how few are not centered on Florida.

Once again, a teacher was arrested for having sex with a student.  Before we jump to conclusions, we must check the ages of the participants.  Some of my fellow jock schoolmates may still be in high school, and this “victim” may be one of them.

Alas, this victim was only 15, while the teacher was 30.  Nope, none of my classmates.

In any case, this teacher was allegedly discovered performing lewd acts in this minor because of some stupid reason.  You see, if the kid was a jock, he told on her; if he was a nerd, he’d never tell anyone but his nerd buddies.

Instead, this teacher is in jail for teaching sexual education lessons after hours.  Where’s the outrage over not applauding this educator for going the extra mile?

But I’ve read this story before.  So an internet search of “teachers having sex with students,” turned-up voluminous lists and accompanying photos and bios of the imprisoned teachers.  This list contained literally hundreds, and there were several lists from which to choose.  This seems to have reached epidemic levels.

Some quick ciphering – based on this list alone – tells me that in 2023, America will be fresh out of female teachers that aren’t teaching reading to fellow inmates or aren’t wearing ankle monitors.

Granted, some of these relationships are lesbian in nature but, for the most part, they are heterosexual.

So, if you are a female teacher with an over-exuberant libido, and simply can’t find a more age-appropriate partner for your sordid sexual escapades take my advice and get yourself a nerd.

After all, they know a lot.  They would also be delighted to not be virgins and not to open their mouths.  That is free advice.

At No Charge

Doggles

If you’re not a regular visitor to this website, you’ll be delighted to know I am chock full of ideas.  Some of which are really good, too.

 

Although I’m not yet a wealthy man because of all my astute observations and drive, I still believe I will stumble upon that one stellar inspiration needed to help me fulfill my dreams.

 

Too often inventors are discouraged from formulating thoughts from whole cloth; others thrive on such initiatives and wind up wildly successful.

 

Pet rocks, working vacations, and doggles are just a few ideas at which the masses laughed, but made small fortunes for their creators.

 

Last St. Valentine’s Day I brought up a cutting-edge idea that because Americans are led to believe there are only twelve straight people alive in the United States today everyone else is gay and should rule society by simple majority.

 

Yet, it is impossible to find Valentine’s Day cards targeted to gays, lesbians, bi-sexuals, and transvestites.

 

An ardent search through the extensive greeting card selection in my local department store failed to turn up any cards that would be both specific and appropriate to be sent on Valentine’s Day.

 

Clearly there is a void in this market.  A closer inspection negated the location of congratulatory wedding cards, too.

 

With all the hoopla about gay marriages, replete with lawsuits on both the local and federal levels, it is plain to see there is much love to celebrate and something for which corporate America can capitalize on.

 

While we’re on the subject of greeting cards, there is another chasm in the I-feel-your-pain/love arena.  Before retirement I spent countless hours listening to cry-in-your-beer tales from women who decided to leave their husbands for any number of reasons.

 

They were tired to him not picking up dirty socks, dropped food, or the toilet seat.  All were grounds for divorce from the female perspective, along with parties to celebrate the big break.  Similarly anguished friends and co-workers would throw galas to mark the end of potato chips on the shag carpet.

 

Not long after though, the departed party would be less elated and require moral support.

 

Here’s another free Hallmark© freebie.  Divorce cards.  They could easily fit in-between “Sorry your hamster died,” and “You should have gotten that fast-food job.”

 

Speaking of pain, bandages are available in all sorts of styles, designs, and colors.

 

They can be found in camouflage, pink, adorned with cartoon characters, superheroes, and “flesh color.”

 

I got the “flesh color” from my Crayola© crayon box.  I often used the box of 64 which included wax crayons of 63 colors plus flesh.

 

Again, I see a void in the medical supply field for bandages for black people.

 

I was careful not to use the term African-American because Gary Player and Charlize Theron are white African-Americans.  That’s a freebie for all you politically correct douchebags.  But I digress.

 

If I were black, I’d like to have a wound cover to help me deal with my trauma without the wild color variation that cries: I’m a klutz!

 

There you have it.  A couple stellar ideas for making millions.  You are welcomed!

XOXOXO

It is crunch time for anyone who is in love.  Yes, we are in the home stretch toward that annoying contrived holiday, St. Valentine’s Day.

To appease agnostics, pagans, and the politically correct, society is dropping the religious portion of that day which honored the patron saint, St. Valentine, and converting it into the secular Valentine’s Day.  This move is not unexpected in the vein of Sparkle Days being the replacement name for Christmas, and That Spring-Egg Holiday a poor substitute for Easter.  But, I digress.

Valentine’s Day is one of those Hallmark holidays that grew dramatically in the recent past, springing from the Hallmark Greeting Card Company, as a vehicle to sell more cards.

Goading men into showing women how much they loved their women by purchasing cards, flowers, and candy, has grown into an extortion-like moment that sets the stage for the balance of the calendar year, and puts in jeopardy any physical activity associated therewith.

Trinkets of our appreciation and adoration via a box of chocolates have evolved to chocolate-colored diamonds.  “Special pajamas” for “her,” giant teddy bears, $120-a-dozen red roses have become the norm, where money to show gratitude and adoration should have no limit.

I don’t mean to sound cheap but, greeting cards used to cost a buck.  Today, those same cards with the same words are $5.50.  Roses that are astronomically priced come from Brazil and their sale, along with that of chocolate, only help the South Americans and their third-world economies.

Still, I would expect to be relegated to the dog house if I gave my sainted wife footy pajamas for any occasion, much less Valentine’s Day.

I suppose this Kwanzaa-like event, which means nothing to anyone not a Christian, began innocently enough.  Unfortunately, its evolution has become troubling by encouraging the average guy to show how much he loves his woman with proportionate amount of money spent for a gift and dinner out.

Of course, women get in on the act, too.  They already have cards purchased back in 1987 with cute koala bears or some simply adorned with lacy hearts, bought during those “just-in-case” days, when a card of such might be needed when they find a guy

Today, however, is a bit more complex.  My Inspector Clouseau-moment of investigation kicked-in while at my local department store.  I was curiously searching for a card that was specifically written for a member for the lesbian, gay, bi-sexual, and transgender community.

After all, with all the hoopla over same-sex marriage and the right to love anyone anyway, I was inquisitively hoping to find cards or balloons or stuffed critters that would state some peculiar proclivity.  I could find none, though.

Two guys holding hands, a pair of women in silhouette walking hand-in-hand, a woman dressed more manly than The Rock, all eluded my search.

But Valentine’s Day is one of those occasions that will find the non-adoring of any sexual inclination in hot water – and not necessarily in a spa.

Good luck trying to please that special person.  You can always write to Uncle Paul for advice at a later date.

http://easternshorefishandgame.blogspot.com/p/ask-uncle-paul.html

Da Big Game

Today we find ourselves recovering from the “Big Game.”  I am not using the normal words for the annual match between the AFC and NFC champions rather, I am wisely using Big Game for a specific reason.

 

Is seems as though the Big Game police are charging for use of the registered words, er, you know what they are.  It is like trying to describe an orange without using the orange.

 

By the way, nothing in the English language rhymes with orange.  But, I digress.

 

The Big Game is the culmination of weeks upon weeks of grown men running up and down a field in tight britches grabbing other guys.  They try to move an oddly-shaped ball around and score more points than the other team.

 

They dilly dally or lollygag – is there a difference? - for nearly four quarters of fifteen minutes each.  Then, when they are near the end of the game, they are magically rejuvenated and quickly play ball as if their lives depended upon it.

 

These football players complain about everything from their poultry salaries of several million dollars to being hit and later suffering from their injuries.  Some dislike the idea they must speak with the media to produce stories for their moronic fans that actually pay money to watch these whiners.

 

It seems the money should be large and the fan base small, according to these geniuses.

 

In any case, Big Game day is usually celebrated by nearly everyone who likes to eat and drink.  Beer and snack companies deluge the circulars and supermarkets for weeks prior to this event, each hawking their goods to die-hard football fans.

 

Nachos, dips, potato chips, brats, and a compendium of various beverage companies all vie to cater to the discerning appetites of Big Game fans and other wannabe fans.

 

But during the Big Game many other products are advertised to the inebriated masses tuned in to see the nearly endless commercials and the usually-less-than-spectacular half-time show. 

 

In fact, many, many people tune in just to see the commercials.  And that is good news for the advertisers inasmuch as they are paying $4,500,000, for a 30 second spot this year.

 

Speaking of this year, the performer is someone named Katy Perry, I think.

 

People on the news were agog over her selection as this years’ big performer.  Evidently Ms. Perry is popular.  Somewhere along her career path she became pretty popular for showing her cleavage, and a lot of it.  Catching a glimpse of her attributes is the only reason I tuned in, only to find she had a modest moment for this exhibition.  Just my luck.

 

Still, the game goes on with the drunken debauchery of Big Game Sunday with copious amounts of alcoholic beverages flowing, wagering happening, and food being consumed.  All that leads to a week of recovery.  Welcome.