Now Hear This

With the Christmas holiday waning, the carols are still being played and remain in our collective consciousness.  So, this is an ideal time to examine the magnitude and magic of all music.

 

Whether made by a guitar, piano, saxophone, violin, or trombone, music is created and played by using only 13 notes.  Yes, just 13.

 

Johann Bach, Paul McCartney, and Weird Al Yankovic, all use the same 13 notes to make songs that convey serenity, love, and satyr.

 

When I speak of music, I am not referring to rap, which is nothing more than frustrated poetry coming from no-talent clowns.  Rather, the music to which I refer is classical, rock and roll, heavy metal, big band, easy listening, and even new wave.

 

The same notes are used to construct mediocre songs or masterpieces offered to the masses for their listening pleasure.  Incorporated therein is the often butchering vocalist. 

 

Lately, I hear way too much of whiney women strumming a guitar sounding as though they are being water-boarded during the actual recording.  They imitate a breathless pleader begging to be saved from another Alec Baldwin movie screening, which only makes that song more annoying.  But, I digress.

 

Accidentally tuning in to one of those many show that are helping America replenish the dwindling singer stock, I caught a “singer” making the song “your own.”  Evidently that means yodeling until the listeners’ ears bleed, while grimacing as if being attacked by a snow blower.

 

These disturbing shows only ruin the sanctity of melodies that were written one way, yet performed in another.  That is sacrilegious.  A case in point is the oft heard Star Spangled Banner.

 

This reverent song is played before each sporting event and known, by heart, to nearly every American.  Still, when sung by many, it is so mangled that it is almost unrecognizable by anyone except the performer, who made it “their own.”  This is akin to karaoke night at the local Italian restaurant, and having the tune Mandy being corrupted by some drunken biker wearing leather chaps.  But, I digress, again.

 

In any case, Christmas songs are very few and limited in number so, we all know the words to most.  Keep in mind that the notes creating Deck the Halls, are the same ones that composed Ave Maria, and Back In Black.

 

I find that amazing because it is the onus of the composer to arrange the appropriate notes in a sensible fashion, thereby manufacturing a melodic work that is sometimes catchy.  Maybe they are too catchy for our own good.

 

Too often I find myself with what is referred to as an “ear worm.”  Those are tunes that are hard to shake and cause us to whistle, hum, or actually sing that tune over, and over, and over again.  They don’t have to be good tunes, only catchy.

 

In any case, the composers and musicians of the world have a limited supply of notes with which to work, yet create some great works of audible art.  Manufacturing a cerebral image through sounds, alone, is a gift.

 

And that is why I enjoy music.

 

It’s Called What?

As a child, I remember one project that my father was working on in our home.  My Dad had an entire workshop in the basement with his tools neatly placed in labeled drawers or hung upon pegboards, all polished and sharp.

 

But because we lived in a second-floor flat, the trek to retrieve a simple screwdriver was a job in and of itself.  Dad kept a few regularly-used tools in a Maxwell House coffee can in our pantry.  Therein were some loose nails and various screws, an awl, pliers, adjustable wrench, and a couple of screw drivers.  Lying nearby was a hammer, as it was too large to fit inside.

 

This quick and easy project required only the use of this ersatz tool kit, and I was the gofer.

 

I was a five year-old told to fetch a “Phillips” screwdriver.  I went to the coffee can and brought back a screwdriver, albeit a wrong one.

 

I promptly received a thorough lesson on the difference between flat point and Phillips screwdrivers.

 

It seems as though back in the day, most people used a flat point screwdriver for their screwing needs.  Being a novice, I didn’t know that Mr. Phillips didn’t invent the flat point screwdriver as well as the one with the “x” tip.  Nonetheless, I was made aware.

 

Yesterday, I visited a local hardware store and needed fourteen #10, 1½” long screws with Phillips heads.  I handed my list to the clerk who asked if I wanted “cross point” screws.

 

After spinning nine revolutions, I was able to stop my head from unscrewing and falling off altogether.

 

This pimply-faced turd was a lot older than I was when I got the lecture on the difference between and betwixt screwdriver types.  It was about time he was schooled, and by someone like me.

 

“Yeah, Phillips screws,” I said.

 

“We call ‘em cross points, now,” he retorted.

 

I wasn’t nearly as good at lecturing as Dad was so, I gave up.  The turd won.

 

The trip home was filled with thoughts of other name changes.  Immediately, Christmas came to mind.

 

Do-gooders in Pittsburgh changed Christmas to “Sparkle Days,” so as not offend anyone except Christians.  And, Buttinski’s in Arlington, Virginia changed Christmas to “Winter Holiday,” to honor Hanukkah.

 

Feminists have urged the use of “gingerbread figures,” rather than the uber-offensive “gingerbread men.”  No immediate word on “snowmen” or “man-hole covers.”

 

Still, I will always refer to screws with little x’s on the top as Phillips screws, and Christmas as Christmas.

 

Let’s offend everyone by wishing everyone “Merry Christmas!”  Merry Sparkle Days doesn’t have the same ring.

On a Budget

I have several hobbies to keep myself occupied and out of trouble.  One of my favorite hobbies, though, is saving money.  That sounds ridiculous to the uninformed so, allow me to explain.

 

Most people simply buy things at retail price and are delighted to get what they want.  The price is rarely an issue in the decision making process.

 

For me, it is the thrill of the hunt.  I am usually armed with coupons, sale flyers, and the patience of Job, in order to get the most for the least.

 

For decades I bought used cars to avoid that nasty ‘depreciation’ penalty which amounts to roughly $3,000 to $5,000.

 

But for smaller items I usually turn to one of those on-line want-ad services or the newspapers to find my treasures.

 

To be clear, a newspaper is a regularly printed stack of recycled paper with information printed thereon.  They can be purchased at stores or can be arranged for home delivery.  They contain all sorts of things including news, sports scores, and want-ads.

 

People who advertise in newspapers generally want to quickly unload their stuff to clear out their basements, or make room for their cars in their garages.  Baby items and tools, furniture and exercise, equipment can all be found for sale in these ads.

 

Occasionally you will see an outrageous price for a piece of junk that is being sold as “old.”  Just because something is old doesn’t make it valuable.  I have a 350,000,000 year-old rock in my backyard that no one will give me a dollar for.  But, I digress.

 

In addition to finding bargains in these listings, one can also find great entertainment in the form of amusing ads.

 

Emmett Kelly dolls are a dime a dozen.  Evidently they were big some years back.  One hundred-seventeen bedroom sets were for sale in one issue; are people sleeping standing up like horses?

 

Five dollar blue plastic 55 gallon containers sold as “rain barrels” can be bought for only $30.  “Wheel barrels” can be found, too – whatever they are – not to be confused with “wheelbarrows.”

 

I located two “mirrows.”  And, plenty of broken refrigerators can be purchased for a song.

 

Animals appear in these publications for the rescuer in all of us.  Sugar gliders are $35, red-eared turtles are $6, and hedgehogs $120.

 

“Mixed breed” dogs are code words for “results of a pit bull with an over-aggressive libido.”

 

And, regional bargains should not be overlooked.  Check for surfboards for sale in Iowa, snow blowers in Florida, and solar panels in Oregon.

 

In any case, bargains abound and should not be overlooked when shopping for that treasure.

 

Now I have to figure out why my picture was listed under “antiques.”

Brainstorm

We’re well amid the Christmas season where people like me are desperately searching for gift ideas.

 

My sainted wife claims she has everything she needs – except a young, virile cabana boy – so, shopping for her is arduous, at best.

 

I, on the other hand, can use practically everything, including a brassier.  My man boobs are often dwarfed by those of acquaintances but, I could still use a training bra.  But, I digress.

 

Watching late-night television the other night caused me to catch an ad for a giant, pajama-type wrap that contained footies to keep your tootsies toasty.  It was sold as “one size fits all.”

 

This 60-second spot showed both men and women lounging about with bowls of food and apparently watching TV.  In essence, these are thin sleeping bags with arms and legs.

 

The Snuggies appear to be geared toward folks who have ample television-watching time on their hands, are too morbidly obese to wear PJ’s, or are simply out of Christmas gift ideas.

 

Some serious thought came to me at this point.  During the last commercial break seven-minutes earlier, an Australian-accented guy was trying to sell me a genuine imitation chamois cloth made from synthetic fibers.

 

It seems this ShamWow! rag is banned from the Great Lakes area.  If it happens to fall in to a lake, it is just too absorbent to be safe and ensure any water will be left.

 

After a thorough wash, the video salesman dried an entire Buick in nine seconds!  He sopped up spilled beverages of all types and after a quick wringing-out, he implied Moses didn’t part the Red Sea.  Rather, Moses used one of these shmatas to do the job and, for only $12.99 plus shipping and handling.

 

Here is where my grey matter kicks-in.  Normally known as “The Idea Guy,” I often come up with really terrific ideas that are the envy of everyone else too lazy to patent them.

 

I enjoy watching hours of NASCAR, football (not soccer) games, and baseball.  The most annoying part of all these events, aside from the relentless commercials, is the bathroom break time.

 

My sainted wife will espy me making my way from the bathroom and immediately recall an inane task that absolutely must be completed RIGHT NOW!

 

She thinks that since I am taking a break from the TV action, I am disinterested in the goings-on in the sports venue from which I just broke.  She thinks wrong.  But, this is not the time for an argument.

 

Now if I could only buy twelve of those super absorbent towels and configure a pattern of sorts, I could sew them into one of those over-sized pajama loungers with the footies.

 

Allow me to explain.  Not only would one of the homemade garments work well for me, allowing me to avoid those pesky bathroom breaks, it would also be beneficial to those folks targeted by the PJ wrap merchants.

 

Of course this is where you are likely trying to figure out how to invest this stellar plan.

 

Sorry, but I work alone and count my money the same way.  Just keep your eyes open for a late-night ad for the “Snug-Wow!”  And, my sainted wife’s eyes will light up with delight when she receives the prototype as a Christmas gift.

 

 

Free-for-all

It came to me in a dream, and this is one of my best ideas ever.  Since times are financially tight, I would take up a cause du jour, and then “go shopping.”

 

Allow me to explain.  Simply find a reason to do something – anything.

 

As a kid we all heard those excuses in school, such as “my dog ate my homework,” “I was too sick to lift a pencil,” and “my mother’s meth lab blew up.”  That’s bad behavior we learned from attending school.

 

Well, we now have a way to not only behave badly, but also get stuff while doing so.

 

Peruse the news and select a story that is rather mundane except for that odd dog-bites-man twist.  It can be about same-sex marriages, or an unexpected death, but it has to be something that is local and can be imagined nationally.

 

It is imperative that you are able to feign outrage, and it would be good to have the ability to manufacture “facts” about your chose event, out of thin air.

 

Now simply text your friends and associates, and tell them about this selected injustice you’ve opted for.  Using social media is a plus as it will find its way to all the losers who don’t have, or want, jobs.

 

At this point you will want to direct all your 300 closest friends and former cellmates to gather somewhere very public.

 

Have them bring legible signs or cardboard.  Be certain to have someone who can spell waiting with a magic marker, and someone with clever sayings show up, too.

 

Imagine if everyone brought 50-or so buddies, Molotov cocktails, matches, ski masks, and baseball paraphernalia in the form of bats.

 

Soon, the police will arrive as they are pretty curious folks.  A megaphone would be useful to begin the crowd chanting, “No justice, no peace.”  It could be, “No cold ice, no peas,” too.  Either one is pretty catchy.  For future reference, “Hey, hey, ho, ho, [fill-in-the-blank] has got to go,” is always a crown pleaser.

 

In any case, as the throngs grow and noise escalates, keep your fingers crossed for some tear gas to be dispensed by the police.

 

It is at this point you and your comrades should throw your Molotov cocktails, and run in varying directions.

 

This is where that sports equipment comes in handy.  Breaking into businesses to get fifteen pairs of size 7 EEE sneakers, or three magnesium car wheels is the crux of this brilliant plan.

 

Of course entering a smoldering beauty supply to get away with nine bottles of hair gel or a couple of jugs of that blue juice they put combs in, is an opportunity that should not go wasted.

 

I can’t stress enough that it is imperative to plan the “shopping,” well.  Your protest needs to begin near your favorite merchants.  Remember that display cell phones in those wireless stores always make great Christmas gifts, as do 22 pairs of the wrong-size jeans.

 

Sure, other non-progressives might call this behavior “looting.”  I call it “justice for peace.”  A rose by any other word is still a rose.

Thanksgiving Day Festivities

Once again we are quickly approaching that time of year when we are inundated with an abundance of spare time on our hands because of holidays.

 

We just finished with Labor Day, Armistice Day, and are looking Thanksgiving Day in the immediate days.  Unlike Christmas, this is a secular celebration meaning that people of all religions can get into the celebration mode and fight and argue like us Christians.

 

Thanksgiving Day was established so that we, as both a society and individually, could take time to reflect on our lives and give thanks for all we have.

 

That day, we are expected to gather as a family and grin and smile and nod to one another as we overlook Aunt Edith’s false teeth lying next to the sweet potatoes during the Thanksgiving dinner, or Dad’s ability to belch during the quietest moments of the meal.

 

We are also expected to watch football on television.  For our international readers, that is not soccer.  We are expected to see the Detroit Lions win; they won’t.

 

No, the turkey will be especially dry because Mom wants it to be “safe” so, she leaves it in the oven for an extra hour, or so.

 

Gravy will be lumpy, the green bean salad will be gone first, the sweet potatoes with those little marshmallows will be overly sweet, and the mashed potatoes will be cold.

 

All those pumpkin pies will be store bought, and the coffee will be bitter from sitting so long.  No one drinks coffee on Thanksgiving Day.

 

Rather, we rise in the morning to rattling pans and spoons and join the rest of the family for Bloody Marys during the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.  In fact, that is no longer a parade but has turned into three hours of ads with a few marching bands sprinkled therein.

 

By the time the Santa float arrives, we have switched to beer and are ready for discussions about how poorly our favorite football teams are performing.  We’re still not talking about soccer.

 

Eventually, those discussions become louder until it is time to eat.

 

Dad carves the turkey with everyone oohing and ahhing adding comments about how great everything looks.  At this point, we’re all so hungry we could devour broken glass soaked in used motor oil.  But, we are forced to tell the others what we are thankful for.

 

By the way, I’m thankful for not contracting the Ebola virus.

 

It isn’t long before all that preparing, cooking, ironing table cloths, and polishing flatware has come to an end.  The guys are tired as the tryptophan and booze kicks in.  Those who have a greater tolerance will likely start arguing about something – anything – and still be doing so while the police arrive.

 

Folks eventually leave, some of whom will return for Sunday’s meal, a few will not be seen until next year, others will disappear until their bail is paid.

 

In any case, think about what you can give thanks for.  And don’t argue.

I’ve Got You Covered!

In case you just arrived on this planet via spaceship, you likely have heard of Judge Judy.  Judge Judy is a grizzled, but somewhat pleasant, adjudicator of interesting legal cases. 

 

Some of these cases involve folks who have had entertaining traffic mishaps, most of them centering on the lack of auto insurance.

 

Today, I just paid my flood insurance for my home in Virginia.  The bill was nearly high enough to reach the International Space Station but, it is because my home is in a “flood plain.”

 

It is called a flood plain because it is a plain that floods.  Typically, high tides, the occasional nor’easter, and fairly rare hurricane can make things pretty, well, flooded.

 

To grease the skids for the insurance companies, they charge those exorbitant rates to protect themselves from us trying to protect our stuff.

 

I also have a small bungalow in God’s Waiting Room, also known as Florida.

 

This place also is insured against flood with flood insurance, wind with wind insurance, hurricanes with hurricane insurance, fire with fire insurance, and something unique to Florida – sinkhole insurance to protect against your home vanishing into the ground.

 

None of these insurances are cheap and all must be paid annually.  My last bill demanded money plus my first born male child.

 

To get to and fro, I have a car that requires insurance, too.  This insurance is really special inasmuch as I get to select how much insurance I cover plus I get to select my deductible rate.

 

Allow me to explain how this works.

 

After using the same auto insurance carrier for nearly three decades, someone slammed into the back of my car while stopped in the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.  The little tart driving the other car was fumbling for a CD under the passenger seat and blamed me for not simply driving through traffic stopped ahead of me.

 

My insurance company, whose identity will not be revealed – but their name rhymes with “Wallstate,” was delighted to collect nearly $25,000 in premiums from me.  Now, they were hesitant to talk with me about paying me for any damage.

 

As luck has it, tart-girl’s insurance company delivered a suitcase full of twenties to our door, about the same time our insurance agent disconnected his phone.

 

This adventure was eye-opening since I can only imagine trying to collect for my homes which could be damaged by a storm.

 

“We’re sorry, Uncle Paul.  Your hurricane insurance doesn’t cover the wind damage that caused your roof to blow away.  By the way, we found it in Ames, Iowa.”

 

“But what about my wind insurance?” I would query.

 

“This is rain damage I’m talking about,” claims the insurance clown.

 

“How can the rain get in there without the wind?” is my next question.

 

And so, this circular debate is akin to one I would have with Smokey the cat.

 

That, Judge Judy, is why I don’t have insurance.

Gotta Have It

Every few years a new fad arises to tantalize folks of all walks of life.

 

Remember the hula hoop?  That was a fad for nearly everyone except Hawaiians.  How about the Frisbee and whiffle balls?   Also fads.

 

Superballs, slime, Slinky, pogo sticks, Razor scooters, ape-hanger handlebars and banana seats for bicycles, are all examples of fads, too.

 

A fad is a form of behavior that becomes obsessive to a large number of the population, and can be found virtually everywhere.

 

Throwing a Frisbee on the beach and in school quads was unavoidable in the 1960’s.  Some folks were good at passing a flying disc to another person, others not so much.  The good ones developed tossing a Frisbee into a sport of ersatz golf, still being played today.

 

Whiffle balls and bats – once found near every toy counter – were used to aid actual organized Whiffle ball tournaments, likely for frustrated baseball players such as myself.  They are constructed from plastic, with the balls containing large perforations making them less-than-aerodynamic, thereby precluding extended flight.

 

My sister had a hula hoop as a kid, only to see it mysteriously vanish one trash-collection day.  Otherwise, it could be found lying in the yard, unused.

 

Tons of kids my age had old bikes that needed freshening for the age.  Rather than tossing them into the dump, they were retrofitted with tall handlebars and elongated seats.  These accessories made them appear more modern and added a few more years of use for just a couple of dollars.  Another fad.

 

Each child in America had to have a Razor scooter at the turn of the last century.  These aluminum foot-powered devices came with just enough accessories to introduce kids and their parents to their local hospital emergency room personnel.

 

These things were no more dangerous than those steel roller skates that my sister also had.  Her skates needed a wrench called a key to fit them to your saddle shoes.  These skates were endorsed by the Orthopedic Association of North America.  Please include skateboards in this list of potential widow-makers.

 

Let us not forget Beanie Babies.  This was akin to the Enron scam that bankrupted much of America.  BBs were small stuffed animals that appealed to adults as well as children.  They came in various designs, and an entire set was needed to make them worth anything.  To complete those sets, people were spending their trailer rent to acquire that stuffed red crab, only to realize another Baby was just released to create more economic drama.  These Beanie Babies can be found today at yard sales and thrift stores, nationwide.

 

But, the rich are not immune to fads.  A handful of years ago, everyone with a pulse suddenly bought an SUV.  Not sure why, gas companies delightedly raised the price of a gallon of fuel by $1.50 as a way to say, “Thanks!”

 

Today, 11 people do not have SUV’s, and those people are blind and cannot drive.

 

The latest fad is to stay Ebola-free.  Not exactly sure how it is transmitted or treated, the hemorrhagic disease has the population on edge.  Meanwhile, our national leaders are sure no one will get it in America.  Unfortunately, hundreds of Americans are being treated for it, and the president wants to bring additional infected Africans to America to prove he knows what he is doing.

 

This is irresponsible coming from a hapless leader.  Let’s let this fad stay overseas and create a new toy.

Wipe Your Troubles Away

Not appreciating something until it’s gone can best be found in the bathroom when the toilet paper has run out, and no one is home to help you.

 

That being said, I was shopping for TP at a local Wally World when I felt as though I had stepped into the Twilight Zone; Rod Serling was expected to step out from between the paper towel section and the plastic sandwich bags to greet me.

 

The array of paper products with which to wipe yourself into a sanitary state was mind boggling, to be modest.

 

Price was a driving force to get my attention.  The least expensive TP was clear upon close examination.  It seems the paper is single-ply, so thin you can read a newspaper through it.  ‘Single ply’ indicates how quickly your fingers will pierce through the TP while actually using it to take care of business.  The lower number of plies, the more quickly you will wind up with a second mess.

 

That rule of physics is hard and fast science, and can be changed no more than gravity can be altered.  To counteract the flimsy, one-ply TP, you can simply use more sheets.

 

This is the time when I like to think of Sheryl Crow.  In case you missed it, Ms. Crow, a prominent environmentalist, set the limit for her 2007 “Stop Global Warming College Tour,” use of TP to between one and three squares.  Ms. Crow was under the impression that her delicate bowel movements requiring the use of one toilet paper square was necessary were mirrored in mine; she was wrong.  But, I digress.

 

In any case, rather than buying inexpensive TP simply to experience the exercise of cleaning with fragile paper products, you can go to a Wally World bathroom and use their paper goods.  Saving trees can be better directed by receiving less junk mail.  By the way, those mailers for carpet cleaning or rain gutters are about the right thickness.

 

But, if you ever wondered when the name changes from “toilet paper” to “facial tissue,” it is when the price increases by 50¢ per roll.

 

Eliminating the bargain brands, I quickly found the premium ones that became amazingly baffling.

 

It seems as though you can buy “extra soft,” “extra strong,” or “sensitive,” but not extra strong and soft TP that is sensitive.  I needed to make a choice.

 

Believe it or not, you can even buy “chamomile” TP.  I’m not sure if it is chamomile scented or flavored but, I have other products to make tea and deodorize the bathroom.

 

Now comes the hard part.  Toilet paper is unlike anything else that is packaged.  The premium brands are sold on packs of twelve, eighteen, or twenty-four.  The dozen pack was clearly for the Sheryl Crow-types, who use very little.  On the other hand, the 24 pack was for types like me.

 

Let the ciphering begin!  Twelve rolls sold for $7.95.  This meant the price per roll was 66¢.  Eighteen rolls were $10.95, meaning the cost per roll was 60¢.  At this point I simply gave up and assumed the 18-pack was going to be the cheapest, and because the package stated I was getting 500 extra sheets in this pack – it said so. 

 

Just before my hair caught on fire, I thought about Ms. Crow and realized she may not be as worried about the environment as she is about spending time trying to buy toilet paper.

Too Close for Comfort

Should someone say, “Give me five,” you might be tempted to hand over some money and, you would be dubbed ‘terminally un-hip.”

 

That simple phrase means to touch hands to celebrate, greet, or congratulate.  The “five” refers to the number fingers on one’s hand, and is often called a “high five.”

 

This primitive method of shaking hands is usually reserved for people who are perpetually-hip.

 

Somewhere in the 1970’s, some baseball players touched hands, creating a gesture that would only lead to further annoyances.

 

Little kids would high five adults to the giggles of observers who thought that was cute.  High fives ran rampant about offices, bowling alleys, and sports arenas.

 

It wasn’t long before most men forgot how to shake hands, rather opting for a high five.

 

Fast forward to today – some 35 years later – and we have virtually forgotten about high fiving anyone or anything.

 

Those crude slapping gestures have somehow evolved into – drum roll, please – hugging.

 

Yes, in the event you have yet to be hugged by someone, anyone, you’re in for a treat.

 

I’m all for hugging comely, nubile women because I like humans of the female persuasion.  On the other hand, guys, not so much.

 

Still, men will walk right up to you and give you a hug.  Some guys are sneakier than that, though.  Those are the ones who approach with an outstretched hand.  Once contact is made, they use leverage to tug you against their bodies.  Bleewwchh!

 

I’ll wait while you look up “bleewwchh” in the dictionary.

 

Never being a hugger with anyone except my sainted wife, and Smokey’s 19-year old Swedish au pair, such an act puts me in a particularly awkward position with my body pressed against that of another man.

 

I see benefits in hugging members of the opposite sex; I see no benefits to me with other guys.  This is not a homophobic statement anymore than having a woman balk at hugging an offensive woman or smelly man.

 

Whatever happened to all that ‘personal space’ stuff that was the topic of all conversations with women in the 1980’s?

 

Four-feet were the appropriate distance, if I correctly recall.  Any encroachment was reason enough for a female to break out that relatively new invention, pepper spray.

 

I, too, have personal space that shouldn’t be invaded by anyone except my sainted wife and au pair Heidi. Or any comely, nubile ladies.

 

If you see me on the street, you may shake my hand or high five me.  Don’t hug me! 

Oxy-what?

Every so often we come across words that are together, but don’t necessarily go together.  I mean those ever-so-popular words such as “military intelligence,” “adult children,” “bureaucratic efficiencies,” or “jumbo shrimp.”  Those are known as oxymorons.

 

No, no, no.  You’re thinking of that stuff that gets stains out of carpets and laundry – Oxyclean.

 

Oxymorons are compressed paradoxes that are often entertaining and have crept into modern vocabulary to the point they are now commonplace.  Buffalo wings, chicken fingers, boneless ribs, dry wine, and string cheese.  Is it string or is it cheese?

 

Veggie hamburgers are impossibilities.  Hamburger is made from beef; veggies are not.  Which is it?

 

Resident alien is likely one of the best oxymorons.  If you are a resident, you are not an alien.  Amen.

 

And while you’re contemplating these examples of common-folk attempting to sound intelligent, ponder over a glass of dry wine.  I believe that would be dust.

 

A bird dog is not a bird.  A fox terrier is not a fox. An afghan hound cannot knit – usually.

 

One cannot be found missing, nor can they receive death benefits.  How many people are in a small crowd?

 

I’m not certain a product can be “new and improved.”  Pick one.

 

Perhaps someone could tell me what a quorum is for the loners club.

 

Our beloved leader often takes working vacations.  Now that’s perplexing.

 

Rap music.  Need I say more?

 

My head nearly caught fire when I heard of “synthetic natural gas.”  I beg your pardon!

 

Try making sense of civil war, near miss, and airline food.

 

Try as I might, I am still baffled by and how folks can have phone sex.  Phones don’t have genders.  But, I digress.

 

A “tin ear?”  Perhaps on the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz.

 

Try mulling these over for a while, then submit your own for future consideration in another story.  Thanks for reading!  See you next week.

 

 

Twenty Dollars Plus

It was an epiphany.  Just last evening I was trying to watch some inane television – using this medium as a sleep aid.  The hour was not too late but, that day was chock full of excitement that needed quelling.

 

Religiously, after exactly five minutes and 30 seconds, up popped a series of ads that gave me a deep look into my shallow existence.

 

Somehow, my life took a turn away from things critical to my survival and toward austerity.  This had to stop immediately.

 

First up was an advertisement for some sort of knee brace that instantly eliminated back and leg pain.  I was told the brace was absolutely necessary to help my sedentary life turn into one of dancing and field-goal kicking.  The New York Giants should get a couple of these for their special teams players.  But, I digress.

 

They were available for the modest sum of $20, plus shipping and handling.  But wait!  For only the cost of shipping and handling, I could get a second brace.  Shipping and handling amounted to eight bucks, each.  So, for $36, I could get a knee brace for each knee, rather than limping because I only had one.

 

Then we slid into an ad for an electric callous trimmer.  Evidently there is some crisis in the fashion world that dictates women have callous-free tootsies.  Women’s feet are shown with elephant-like skin being magically transformed into baby-bottom soft appendages.  The secret is the 2500 RPM motor that spins the cutting disk.

 

These products have been around for years and could be found in the kitchen gadget department as a cheese grater.  These, too could be bought for another twenty plus eight dollars.

 

Not being done with all the hype, I was introduced to a spice organizer shelf system.  Oddly enough, just last week, I was saying, to Smokey the cat, “I wish I had a spice organizer shelf system.  I wonder why nobody makes one.”

 

Evidently they do.  Smokey and I were glued to the TV to get the details.  It seems as though these shelves are made from durable polystyrene that resist rust, and support barbells.  This is great because I was also thinking of storing my barbells in my spice cabinet.  All this for only the amazing amount of $20, plus shipping and handling.  Smokey had his checkbook handy.

 

But wait, there’s more!

 

Back to programming but, in another 5 ½ minutes, I was treated to more sales pitches.  After all these years, I failed to realize I needed an organically green frying pan.  This pan was guaranteed to prevent anything from sticking to it.

 

That was all well and good, but how did they get the organic coating stick to the pan?  That was perplexing.

 

This $20 frying pan seemed like the ticket to trouble-free cooking for years to come, providing there were no questions asked.

 

In this world of television hawking, I came across fixes for nearly everything, and some things I didn’t realize needed fixes.

 

Brownie pans that cut brownies while they’re baking, special pans to create taco shell bowls, devices that prepare the perfect hard-boiled egg, and special cloths that were reverse-engineered from debris found at the Roswell crash site, guaranteed to soak up the Pacific ocean in seconds.

 

This was a clear bonanza of must-haves and helped me create my Christmas shopping list for this year.

 

America is such a great place.

Not Guilty!

It wasn’t long ago when my sainted wife and I were stopped by a local law enforcement representative.  I won’t tell you who it was but, it rhymes with Maryland State Valise.  The State Valise trooper told me the speed limit was 55 MPH.  I was traveling well above that, at which point he explained the number on the sign represented the maximum amount rather than the minimum.  I stood corrected.

 

Fast-forward to yesterday when my sainted wife and I were watching a COPS marathon.  Nearly every show contained a traffic stop that involved the stopee jumping and running from the vehicle.

Along the way, these upstanding citizens of the community, who clearly fled because they “were scared,” tossed copious amounts of crack cocaine and various drug paraphernalia in an effort to have no evidence on them when they were duly nabbed by the constabulary.

 

Invariably, once caught, these perps would deny knowing anything about that contraband, even though their pharmaceutical littering was captured on videotape.

 

Some even had drugs tucked neatly into the pants they were wearing and explained that away by saying not only did they not realize the drugs were stuffed in the pockets, the pants were not theirs – the britches were simply borrowed from someone unknown.

 

Of course these candidates for canonization were innocent until proven guilty in a court of law.  But I digress.

 

During one the many commercials breaks a conversation ensued about when the appropriate time to flee from the authorities was appropriate.

 

This is a good time to explain that neither of us imbibes in illegal narcotics, legal marijuana, or even listen to Lady Gaga.  Our biggest offense is tipping a glass, or two, of wine or spirits in the form of Crown Royal.  That’s a hint for readers wishing to express their sincerest gratitude for these amusing stories.

 

Finding ourselves perplexed, we tried to conjure up a scenario for taking flight to avoid apprehension by the law.

 

Since we don’t drink and drive, carry illegal goods, tote concealed weapons, smuggle undocumented aliens, or beat up our fiancés inside elevators, there was little in the way of a foot chase for us in which to become engaged. 

 

Baffled, we arrived at this scenario:

While traveling on the highway designed for speeds of 70 MPH, we are stopped for exceeding the speed limit of 55 MPH.  As soon as the Maryland State Valise pull over, my sainted wife bolts from the car.

 

Immediately, a chase is on.  Although a humdrum one since my sainted wife has been collecting Social Security for some years, it is a chase, nonetheless.

 

She is sprinting at a blistering pace of two- to three-miles-per-hour, with the police huffing and puffing behind, akin to blue-tick hounds in pursuit of a fleeing raccoon.

 

Enroute to a safe haven, she tosses split-sized bottles of chardonnay and pinot grigio as she makes her Mercury-like escape.

 

Meanwhile, I dutifully complain to the backup trooper that I was stopped because of profiling, all-the-while repeating the sentence, “I didn’t do nothing!  I didn’t do nothing!”

 

Eventually, we both find ourselves standing in front of a judge with our public defender.  Our excuse for resisting arrest?  We were scared and, it wasn’t our wine.

 

“Good enough for me,” says the judge.  “You two are free to go.”

How Much?

Way back when, in 1952, Patti Page sang a song entitled, “My Jealous Eyes.”  The good news is that when you tired of that song, you could turn to the flip side of your ‘45’ to listen to, “(How Much For) That Doggie in the Window?”

 

A ‘45’ is a 45-RPM disc that was originally made of wax, and later of vinyl, eventually being dubbed a “record.”  Kids would go to a record store to buy their favorite record and listen to it on a hi-fi.  But, I digress.

 

For nearly three-minutes, we heard Ms. Page whine about getting a dog from a pet store to keep her boyfriend company in her absence.

 

Most notably is that she never gets the actual price of that dog.  This is a splendid example of why commerce is dying today.

 

Practically every business in the world has a website that touts their wares to anyone and everyone that visits.

 

Websites need the businesses to “rent” a domain name, which costs money.  Once established, they need someone to design and create the graphics of the site.  Often, professionals – with the business’ input – add photos, names, contact numbers, addresses, product lists, corporate information, that makes their product appealing to the masses.  Once again, an important thing to include is the price.

 

Too often, though, businesses omit the price because they want your contact information so that can badger you at a later date.

 

On paper, that strategy sounds great but, these companies never get my info because I don’t want to have to dicker with a salesperson three weeks from now, before I simply hang-up on them.  Suddenly, these clever marketers went from sale to no-sale in just a few seconds, with no chance of my returning to waste more time.

 

Try getting an idea how much new windows will cost.  Window manufacturers will show you frames made from wood, vinyl, or even aluminum, with varying numbers of glass panes, some with tinting, and a few with special gas sandwiched in between.

 

There is a basic cost to assemble these parts at which they must be sold in order for the seller to make a profit, and any extras will merely add to that cost.

 

Rather than simply giving that price, they will note that after a form is completed, a sales representative will call with “more information.”

 

These smarmy strategies can be found on vehicle websites, carpet and flooring sites, and those websites that want to install new bathrooms and kitchens.

 

I’m an adult and realize a new vehicle price is not the price for which I will buy that car or truck.  Added thereon will taxes, license plates, registration, and perhaps a “delivery fee,” whatever that is.  That truck had to be delivered somewhere; I don’t really know if I paid a “delivery fee” on my zucchini and cauliflower in the market. 

 

Besides, did they ship my new truck one-at-a-time or with seven others on a hauler?  Remember that each one is being charged that “delivery fee.”

 

I also expect that any carpeting I buy will cost me money for padding and installation, thereby adding to the advertised price.  I don’t need or expect some telephone clown to try to up-sell me on tack strips.

 

In any case, if you have a company and a website, simply add prices of your products or services if you’d like to sell anything so I don’t have to ask about that doggy in the window.

Random Thoughts II

Do those pokey left-lane drivers realize the “Slower traffic keep left,” signs means them?

 

Why is Brett Favre’s name not spelled F-A-R-V-E, the way he pronounces it?

 

When did the Dallas Cowboys become “America’s Team?”

 

There were no police shootings of blacks in Ferguson, Missouri, yesterday.

 

There were 11 shootings of blacks by blacks in Chicago last week.  No riots or demonstrations occurred.

 

Where is all the puffed rice on The Eastern Shore?

 

It should be illegal to sell stereo speakers in odd numbers.

 

Why don’t guys who mow lawns for a living own calendars?

 

Does anyone grow tomatoes in Accomack County?  I can only find ones grown in China.

 

Speaking of China, why does our fish come from there?  We live on a peninsula, for Gods’ sake!

 

Crabs should not cost $90 per bushel.

 

FYI, I leave the toilet seat up in case Hillary Clinton stops by.

 

I’ll wager that Michael Bloomberg is a stupid as he sounds.

 

Why does the Fiat 500E cost $22,000?  It’s only worth $7,000.

 

Does President Barack Hussein Obama still have a golf handicap?  If so, he should quit.

 

Whatever happened to Steely Dan?

 

I applaud Dan Snyder for keeping the Washington Redskins’ name intact.

 

Hardee’s makes the best burgers.  Five Guys are second.

 

Eric Holder sounds like a first-class douchebag.  But, I mean that in the nicest sense.

 

What I listened to as ‘rock and roll’ are now ‘oldies.’

 

Why do the stupidest people think they are smart?

 

Is everyone happy that the LA Clippers have a new owner?

 

The U.S. Navy is spineless to knuckle under to an offended atheist group and remove bibles from base hotels.  How will they be able to fight foreign enemies if they can’t handle these whiners?

 

People in Wales are pressing for a waiting period for knives.  Evidently they are the weapons-of-choice in lieu of outlawed guns.  Who would have guessed that?

 

Why is everyone suddenly on SSI?

 

Is the ebola virus contagious or not?  Please make up your mind and give us an honest answer.

 

I wish RoboCop was real.

 

Come back for more words of wisdom next week.