Thank A Vet

Smokey the Cat was feral when he tracked us down.  Underweight and a social misfit, he quickly adapted to life at easternshorefishandgame.com.  Everyone here enjoys his company as he enjoys theirs.

 

He is smart and he shows his learned talents opening doors, notifying you of  dwindling food in his dish, and announcing visitors.

 

He is pretty much amenable to everything anyone does to him with two exceptions: He doesn’t like having his claws clipped, and he dislikes being picked up by the scruff of his neck.

 

The problem lies in that in order to clip his nails, one has to grasp him by the nape of his neck.  If you grab him by the nape of his neck he will go berserk.  BERSERK!

 

To keep him from catching his claws on the carpet with every step, he needs to have them trimmed – a painless exercise for nearly every cat – semi-annually.

 

I schlepped Smokey to the vet’s office at a veterinarian chain whose name rhymes with er, it actually rhymes with nothing – Banfield Animal Hospital - for this regularly scheduled adventure only to be met by a young receptionist.

 

Smokey was checked in at which time I clearly said, in English, “Don’t touch him by the nape of his neck.”

 

This young chippie nodded and smiled indicating she understood the words coming out of my mouth.

 

It wasn’t long before she returned to the waiting room to retrieve Smokey in his cage, at which time I asked her if she remembered what I told her moments before.

 

“Don’t pick him up by his nape,” she correctly replied, again with a smile and nod.

 

It didn’t take very long before she rushed out of the Banfield examination room, panting and wearing a fearful look in her eyes.

 

“We can’t get him out of his cage; he’s growling and hissing at us!” she relayed to me.

 

I strolled into the small exam room, reached inside his cage and picked him up with no blood shed.

 

“You tried to grab him by…” was all I could say before both the veterinarian and her aide interrupted with, “The nape of his neck.”

 

Indeed the message had made its way to the powers-that-be, but the message went unheeded.

 

A few quick hisses and surly looks passed back and forth between Smokey and the vet but, all was well after a few brief minutes.

 

It should be noted that this was not the first time this scenario played out at a Banfield Hospital.  Two years ago, Smokey actually chased the vet around the exam room and was sedated to get him to comply.  That Banfield location officially banned Smokey from re-entry.

 

The moral of this story is simple: Don’t bother to speak to Banfield personnel as they don’t listen either.

Jellyfish

Jellyfish are those prehistoric creatures that invade our waterways during warm weather.  They have no sense of sight, no respiratory system, no central nervous system, and no spine.  Still, they get around enough to feed and annoy humans.

Every trip to Walmart brings tears to my eyes.  It seems as though only a few short seconds go by before I spot clearly disabled individuals leaning upon shopping cart handles to support themselves.

These poor folks of all sizes, colors, and ages sachet along with obvious medical conditions pointing to missing spines.

All these patrons push their carts with their elbows, hunched over as if ready to eat from a trough, and maneuver throughout the store with little control of their “vehicles” and sporting dazed looks.

Such pathetic scenes are real tear-jerkers for other shoppers – seeing the handicapped stress themselves out to obtain sustenance and miscellaneous goods.  The bravery of these skeletally-deprived shoppers makes me think of all those boneless chickens sold.

How tough would life be trying to exist without leg, back, and chest bones?  It’s clear all these ‘cart leaners’ are experiencing the same woes as our tasty boneless chicken dinners.

Maneuvering their carts without the use of their hands makes for a genuine challenge for them and their fellow shoppers, alike. 

“Precision” is not a word associated with directing wire baskets on wheels through limited spaces between fragile glassware and bottled food stuffs.   Quite often, these cart leaners run into roof-supporting poles and other shoppers’ carts, then feigning even seeing the injured party as if they miraculously arrived via transporter from the Starship Enterprise.

And, while we’re on the subject of controlling your shopping cart, when not pushing it, it should be neatly parked against one side of the aisle.  This simple procedure would allow other people to easily pass the often-cramped spaces inside stores maximizing the use of all valuable floor space.

I should not have to call to, and beg you, to move your cart and over-inflated ego so that I may pass.

Yesterday, I was trying to make my way through the produce department when a huge roadblock stopped me from proceeding.  A self-centered clown had his cart turned sideways in the aisle while he was examining corn-on-the-cob like a CSI investigator searching for DNA.  After two calls to get his attention failed, I pushed his cart aside getting his undivided attention.  At that point, he became belligerent to the position of attempting to make an example of me.  He failed.

We are a nation of laws that range from not being able to spit on seagulls, to murder, sometimes.  It should be the law that one must push their shopping cart with their hands – both of them.  And, walk upright while doing so.  Otherwise, those lawbreakers could be considered jellyfish.

Wanted: Fresh Ideas

Growing up in the Dark Ages, we had little in the way of television entertainment.  I recall watching Mickey Mouse, The Lone Ranger, The Roy Rogers Show, and Lassie as educational TV on the three channels we received.

 

That was before the United States consisted of fifty states, and everyone in the country was overly-sensitive to every word exiting the mouths of others.

 

At the time, these shows were the greatest venues to aid with our developing imaginations.  For example, after helping Roy Rogers follow the bad guys across the western landscape, I would pretend – equally well – that I was assisting him.  Riding my stick horse and drawing my six-shooter, I would corner those bad guys and relish in the moment before heading off to a plate of Mom’s meatloaf.

 

It seems as though many of today’s writers are my age and having flash-backs to the days of black and white television.  Yes, television was strictly black and white until the 1960’s.

 

These writers have been taking small screen programs and turning them into cinema productions for some years now.  Superman is an excellent example, as is Batman.

 

But, let’s not forget the ‘newer’ shows that have been re-done into movies.  Starsky and Hutch, The A-Team, Get Smart, and Dark Shadows, are among the resurrected programs that were questionable during their initial TV run.  No need to remake these shows into movies for more humiliation.

 

Enter The Lone Ranger.  The Lone Ranger was a personal friend of mine – he and Tonto, that is.  These guys and I rode countless miles of trails in search of the dirt bags needing capturing.  I’d like to feel that both of these fellows would be in dire trouble if not for my riding and shooting skills.  Still, in their new movie, there was little interest in this duo and no mention of me.

 

Losses for this film are estimated to near $190,000,000.  That’s a whole bunch of money for those of you keeping track.

 

I’m not sure how much money the other movie remakes took in, or even why they were made in the first place.  Perhaps those old writers felt a new generation should revel in the adventures and antics of characters of days-gone-by.

 

Perhaps those writers could not conjure up a new, unique idea in the form of a storyline.  In any case, these TV shows had a shelf life that expired before their venue became color, and clearly don’t translate well into digital age adventures – big name stars, or not.

 

So what is next for a rewritten television show geared for a new generation?

 

Lassie.  For youngsters in the my little cyber world, Lassie was a Collie who was smarter than Timmy, his master.  Timmy and the surrounding townspeople were always acting the klutz by becoming involved in any number of misadventures.  A falling windmill traps farmer Brown, a chicken starts a fire in the barn, Aunt Sue tumbles into a well, and Lassie alerts Timmy to their dire situations.

 

Barking and gesturing with his nose – Lassie was a girl actually played by a boy dog – Timmy would eventually catch on to Lassie’s alerting him about some unfortunate event.  Sometimes Timmy would be able to handle the matter with Lassie, other times they required the extra help of Timmy’s Dad.  Always, though, the outcome was heroic.

 

This type of family-oriented entertainment is not conducive to a digital-accustomed audience that relishes movies such as Avatar.  So guys, save your time and money and don’t make Lassie into a movie.

Baloney

Since I have a pretty good memory, I’d like to take this opportunity to point out a few things that many Obama administration folks said that everyone else forgot.

 

A quick visit to the White House website unveils a sentence, “President Obama is committed to making this the most open and participatory administration in history.”  Unfortunately, the famed historian Michael Beschloss – don’t feel bad; I never heard of him either – claims he is the smartest man to ever become President and, Obama’s IQ is so high, it is off the charts.

 

We wouldn’t really know because Obama refuses to release his college transcripts.  The rest of his record speaks for itself.

 

The Affordable Healthcare Act, aka. Obamacare, will save so much money, it will pay for itself.  Yeah, right.  Not even in its infancy, Obamacare is becoming a genuine liability for the Democrats.  Nancy Pelosi smugly said her bunch of henchmen would need “to pass the bill to find out what’s in it.”  Sens. Mitch McConnell, and Jeff Sessions, Republican turncoats, felt Senator Pelosi’s statement had merit.

 

Not only is Obamacare an albatross around the neck of America, it is a very costly albatross.  So much so, that Obama has postponed the costly penalty phase for large employers that don’t provide healthcare for its employees.  Remember this SNAFU when the mid-term elections occur for Democratic and turncoat politicians.  Since we now know “what’s in it,” we can kill Obamacare and fire arrogant Nancy Pelosi.

 

While George W. Bush served his two terms as president, we heard nothing but slander coming from the Left.  “He’s so stupid,” and “What an embarrassment to America he is,” were just two ugly, inaccurate statements used as fact against President Bush.

 

Enter Vice President Joe Biden.  Uncle Joe is best described as an imbecile in a nice suit.  It seems as though no one in late night comedy or the press can hear the words exiting Uncle Joe’s yap.  They are usually the words that would come from someone high on weed – a stoner.  Yet, this example of someone who needs medication is always placed above President Bush, Sarah Palin, and former VP Dan Quayle, who famously misspelled “potato.”

 

Cindy Sheehan, kook-at-large, relentlessly protested at the White House when George Bush was president.  She felt the need to spotlight the fact President Bush involved us in a war in Iraq.  After his term was up, she then bought land near his home in Texas to continue the protest.  Maybe this crazy dolt doesn’t know President Obama got us involved in a war in Afghanistan.  Maybe?

 

Fast and Furious, a poorly designed and executed plan to sell weapons to Mexican drug lords, and then blame this illegal action on legitimate American gun owners, needs questions answered from the top law enforcement officer, Eric Holder.  AG Holder, the hapless head of the Department of Justice, could use some personal jail time to jog his memory for contempt of Congress he exhibited during hearings on this matter.

 

And Michelle Obama, the First Lady, just mentioned that she considers the White House “a prison.”  Far be it from me to tell Mrs. Obama what to do but, I suggest if she is so uncomfortable in “the people’s house,” she rent a place in which she would be less painful.  Nigeria, perhaps.

Gustave Albin Whitehead

It seems as though we, as a people, have been lied to, again.  This is not the first time, nor will it be the last but, this is what I call a doozie.

 

Back when dinosaurs roamed the planet and I was in school, I was told that there were nine planets, to include Pluto.  It was quite a disappointment to me that all that memorization of the planets – MVEMJSUNP – and their order, was for nothing.  It goes: My Very Elegant Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas, or Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto.

 

Yes, Pluto was included but, not any longer.  Some dweeb decided that Pluto is too small to be a planet so it was removed, although it is still there and still orbiting the Sun.  The bottom line: I was lied to.

 

Enter Gustave Albin Whitehead.  Mr. Whitehead was born in 1874 in Germany, and immigrated to the United States.  It seems as though Mr. Whitehead, who died in relative obscurity in 1927, is now at the center of some controversy.

 

Upon riding my chariot to school, I learned that Wilber and Orville Wright, otherwise known as the Wright Brothers, were the first people who flew a controlled aircraft.  Their flying machine was flown off the dunes at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, some of the tallest sand dunes in the eastern United States.

 

This historical flight occurred in 1903 and was widely celebrated around the country as “a first in flight.”  I know this because the North Carolina license plate motto reads: “First in Flight.”

 

But, once again, I was lied to.  Ohio was the home to the Wright Brothers’ bicycle shop where their flying machine was built.  In fact, Ohio’s license plate motto is “Birthplace of Aviation.”  I know; I read it.

 

Although technically correct, both North Carolina and Ohio can make those claims with impunity.  Unfortunately, the long-deceased Mr. Whitehead was the subject of a newspaper article that claims he piloted his flying machine several times in 1901 and 1902.

 

If you’re still reading and keeping score, Mr. Whitehead actually beat the Wilbur and Orville by two years.  This means that Connecticut, where Mr. Whitehead’s flight took place, wants to be known as “The Bestest First Flight Before North Carolina or That Other Place.”

 

Too bad Mr. Whitehead’s witnesses didn’t take any photos. 

 

Lucky for all of us, I have a new acronym to remember this controversy.  It goes like this:

WWABIFBTWBAIC.  Whitehead Was Actually Bestest In Flight Before The Wright Brothers, And In Connecticut.  Simple, isn’t it?

 

Being lied to is actually fun.

I’m Behind the Rope

Today I celebrate two milestones: I have officially been on a diet for 50 years, and my New Year’s resolution to lose weight has been over for six-months, now.

 

Although I am a spitting image of Tom Selleck, I would really like to weigh less than Tom.

Each year begins with one of those pesky resolutions that are touted by svelte TV newscasters.  Prancing about with tights and a headband, they egg their audience on about devising a resolution of some sort.  It usually involves quitting smoking or losing copious amount of weight, though.  Their personal goals are to lose an astounding 5.8 grams.  My goal is to rid myself of the equivalence of a Steinway piano.

Feeling especially guilty because I feel as though they are talking directly to me, I usually turn the television off and retreat to the kitchen for a snack.  But then, I eventually get that culpable feeling back and make a concerted effort to actually shed some pounds.

Being cold and damp in early January, I found a need to exercise indoors.  Chasing Smokey the Cat around the house with a broom doesn’t necessarily qualify as genuine exercise so, I purchased a stationary bicycle.

As a Lorenzo Jones-type of inventor, it wasn’t long before I found myself re-purposing this motionless mode of transportation into something more practical – a multifaceted hanger for my exercise clothes.

Realizing that exercise was not enough, I turned to eating ‘lite’ foods.  After some time, I began eating less lite.  Alas, disappointing results were realized.  This means I actually gained three-pounds.

But, as time passed, ads began showing their ugly little heads in print, on radio, and via billboards.  “Lose weight with ease.  Get that swimsuit body now!” proclaimed the media hoopla.

Yes, it would soon be time for all us fat guys to wish we could doff our shirts to expose our pasty-white chests to the sun.  Sadly, this activity is subject to incarceration in 18 states and all of Canada.

Close scrutiny to these advertisements made me realize that I was going about this all wrong.  It seems as though there are pills available to “melt pounds away.”  At only $19.95 per bottle, I can take these miracle pills that allow me to eat bacon-wrapped doughnuts and lose weight while doing so.

The good news is that I also found a magic powder of some sort that can be sprinkled on ice cream and other health foods, and make my extra ‘baggage’ disappear.  Pictures of women, who were every bit as large as both me and Tom, fill the ads showing remarkable results of their diligence in dispensing this scientific dust to their meals.

All this hoopla gives me motivation and hope that I will someday be able to hide behind a piece of rope.

Just in case, I had bags of potato chips and dip on-hand, in the likely event these products worked so well that I found myself starving to death while eating.

The bottom line is, this business with the New Year’s resolutions is traditionally a lost cause for many people, making me feel somewhat better about my failed efforts.  Yet, there’s always next year to try again. 

Nonetheless, this 50^th anniversary of dieting is going to find me celebrating with an extraordinary meal consisting of a leaf-lettuce salad with a vinaigrette lite dressing, and a glass of lo-cal water.  For dessert, I’ll watch the Food Network for an hour.

BOOM!

This past year I failed to receive a calendar from my local Chinese restaurant because economic times are bad and those “perks” are the first things to go.  But, I was counting on the media to help me along, and they did not disappoint.

 

 

In the week leading up to Independence Day – the Fourth of July, for all you socialists – local television news is peppered with stories about the danger of fireworks.

 

 

Fireworks have long-been a symbol of July 4^th celebrations and represent “the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air,” mentioned in the Star Spangled Banner.

 

 

When I was a little kid, the neighborhood juvenile delinquents magically came up with firecrackers and Roman candles, often set off in a public-style display.

 

 

I don’t ever remember anyone getting hurt during those displays and looked forward to the next one with anxiousness.

 

 

But those local TV scare stories are all the same.  Take an old flannel shirt and pair of britches, stuff them with newspapers, and top them with a watermelon.  An M-80, an eighth stick of dynamite, is taped to the watermelon “head,” then ignited.

 

 

BOOM!  And shards of melon are spewed about, evidently trying to drive home the point of how dangerous taping an M-80 to produce is.

 
 

In the unlikely event this second-hand-store scarecrow is supposed to represent a human being, it is equally unlikely that someone would duct tape an eighth stick of dynamite to their cranium.  They get what they deserve if they do, according to Charles Darwin.

 
 

Some folks may recall those things called ‘snakes.’  They are small, black pellets formed from compressed charcoal that are lighted and expand to awe five-year olds, grandmothers, and anyone with a 57 IQ.  It seems as though snakes are legal in most places possibly because they are so lame.

 

 

Still, I’m not quite certain why backyard fireworks are illegal everywhere I live.  The big news here is that sparklers – those little silvery sticks coated with magnesium, titanium, and an oxidizer, whose temperatures reach roughly 2000°F, are making a comeback in some jurisdictions.

 

 

At the same time, places such as South Carolina and Florida have more fireworks stores than tattoo parlors.  One particular shop in South Carolina sells just what I need for my backyard display, and I frequent it often.  Particularly great are those aerial bombs that produce spiders, mums, and tinsel-like showers.  In other words, the good stuff.

 

 

While we’re talking about South Carolina and Florida, let’s ask ourselves why aerial bombs are legal there, but not on the Eastern Shore.  Perhaps Eastern Shore politicians think their constituents are too stupid to safely light a fuse, but smart enough to vote for them for re-election.

 

 

Let’s prove these sycophants wrong.  Let us use fireworks at our own risk.  Politicians: If you don’t like that idea, find a new job.  Next year, bring on the good stuff!