Category Archives: Humor

Thoughts That Fell From My Head

Claude Monet Reading a Newspaper, by Pierre Renoir, 1872.

Claude Monet Reading a Newspaper, by Pierre Renoir, 1872.

Sometimes I get a wild hair and decide to read the news. And then I think about it. Yep, there I go thinking again. Here’s a few thoughts that fell out of my head recently, after picking up a newspaper:

The sheriff’s calls section of our local rag is replete with reports of Walmart shoplifters. They’re often caught concealing merchandise under their clothes. This worries me. I wonder, just how many things have I bought have at one time been down someone’s pants?

A tiny tot recently fell into a gorilla exhibit in Cincinnatti, which resulted in the shooting of the gorilla. Some blame the mother for this zoological tragedy. And of course, parents should always keep both eyes on their young children at all times, and never, ever look away. Not even for one second. Not even to eat food, or drink water. Not even to look both ways when crossing a street. Not even to make eye contact with another adult when engaged in conversation. Those pupils must be fixed. At all times. On that damned fucking little rugrat who keeps running around acting like a stupid fool.

Athletes are threatening to boycott the summer olympics in Brazil, due to the Zika virus. I say, why not just introduce a new game? Call it the Mosquito Slapoff. He who slaps off the most mosquitoes, and receives the fewest bites, wins a gold medal. This will motivate the athletes to avoid the proboscis of this insect, and return home safe and healthy.

Donald Trump was on a campaign stop here in southern California, when he proclaimed that we have plenty of water, and there is no drought. Can’t blame him for saying that, as I’ve been known to see mirages, myself. In fact I’m currently under the impression that the Donald has plenty of hair, and no need to sport a combover.

Bernie Sanders is doing his darndest to win the state of California in our upcoming primary, June 7th. So Hillary cancelled some campaign appearances in New Jersey, in order to give the golden state more attention. I don’t think Hillary has to worry about Bernie. But hey, any excuse to get out of Jersey, right?

The Virtue of Lying

Beneath our skulls hide many mysteries that could get us into trouble. Isn’t it nice that these impenetrable skulls allow us to tell lies and get away with it? If we couldn’t tell lies, just think of the power others could hold over us.

Most scientists agree that lying is a necessary survival tool for human beans. In fact, research conducted by MIT University discovered that nine out of ten people have lied at least once in their lives.

Some people regret having told lies, but shockingly, three out of four liars derive secret pleasure from being able to deceive others. That according to a University of California, Los Angeles study.

And most philosophers have advocated in favor of bending or breaking the truth. Socrates spoke of the pleasure gods derive from observing good liars in action. And even Immanuel Kant, that paragon of truth-telling, once remarked that it’s more fun for him to lie and earn one gold piece, than tell the truth and earn ten. Yes, lying has been a hallowed, sacred practice of humankind since our evolutionary ancestors gained the power of speech.

The canards we tell, and the mendacity we engage in, keeps our imagination stirred up. It seems a lie told long enough can become a self-fulfilling prophecy, when it inspires invention. Consider the religious lies told for centuries about the existence of flying angels. The Wright Brothers were deeply religious and were trying to become angels themselves, when they invented the airplane.

Orville Wright's famous first airplane flight.

Lies inspired the Wright Brothers.

Nearly everyone agrees that lying is wholesome. Think about our political leaders. They lie all the time. And look where lying got Donald Trump. He’s a billionaire, and now he’s just one opponent away from becoming our next president. May the best liar win.

You may feel sceptical about all this foofaraw I’m making in favor of lying. But I’ve researched this thoroughly and know what I’m talking about.

Believe me, I would never lie to you.

They’re Out There

My wife and I have been watching old episodes of The Twilight Zone, on Netflix. I’ve been a big fan of this vintage sci-fi series most of my life, and have already seen just about every episode.

But the other night we were watching an episode about a man with amnesia. Funny, I couldn’t remember ever having seen this one before. I probably have, but I just can’t remember. It seemed a little familiar, but then again . .

This really bugs me.

Could it be that many years ago I spent 30 minutes of my life watching this episode, yet now those 30 minutes are gone forever from my memory? How can 30 minutes of my life vanish, just like that? As if they had never existed?

Perhaps if I search hard enough I can find those 30 minutes again. I’m sure they’re out there.

Somewhere.

Off, in a distant place . . . known only to those . . .

Who search The Twilight Zone.

View of the Twilight Zone, from the Spitzer Space Telescope.

View of the Twilight Zone, from the Spitzer Space Telescope.

Clinquant Clunker

Clunker1

He was an old guy. I myself was a young man, still in my thirties, and not unwilling to take advantage of the senescent.

“It may look like a clunker, but it runs great,” he claimed. “It has a lot of good miles left on it.”

It was a 1961 Dodge something-or-other. One of those big trucks with no apparent model name. It was a two-ton flatbed. Just perfect for what I needed. And here’s the best part. The engine was tricked out with gold plating. Gilded in gold, I tell ya! But how well would this clinquant clunker run?

“Mind if I start it up?”

The starter engaging and spinning the flywheel played a sweet melody for about five seconds. And then came a powerful rumble and vibration of bolts, like a pyroclastic conflagration. This demon was a firebreather.

As it purred and rattled away like a kitten on a calculator, my brain added up some depressingly-high figures. “S-so, so how much do you want for it?” my voice atremble, in harmony with the running engine.

“Can’t take a penny less than $600.” the old man furrowed his brow.

“$600! $600! That’s all he wants for it!” I pleaded as I danced around my wife, begging for her blessing.

“Okay, okay, I know I can trust you. You’re a lot smarter than me when it comes to business, so it’s probably a very good deal. Go ahead and buy it.” she sighed.

I paid the money and drove this beauty for the first time. The accelerator was gently responsive, and the brake pedal was soft as a downy pillow. It floated uphill like a cloud, and coasted like a cool breeze downhill. Halfway through the 20-mile journey home I stopped and showed it off to a man who knows a lot about old trucks. He liked it so much, he helped me drive it home and park it in the front yard.

“What, you paid $600 for THAT?!” my wife guffawed. “I can’t ever trust you again with a business deal. You’re never going to live this down!” she laughed.

Learning comes automatically in life. Except when we refuse to learn. When our fantasies diverge from reality, we can refuse to acknowledge the way things really are. But when we swallow our pride, set aside our prejudices, or otherwise dispense of our fantasies, our eyes can open up to the beautiful lessons life has to teach us.

This truck was nowhere near anything I needed. I needed a small car for commuting, not a two-ton behemoth. And the engine was not plated in gold. That was rust. The sweet melody at startup was actually the heavy metal tune of a screaming starter motor and grinding gears. The powerful rumble and vibration might have been a loose engine mount. But the engine really did breathe fire. Straight out the carburetor.

The rattling inside was caused by loose rockers, or tappets that needed adjusting. The gently responsive accelerator was a flat spot caused by a clogged carburetor jet. The brake pedal was not soft as a downy pillow. It was more like a wet sponge. But the truck did float uphill like a cloud. Literally. There was a cloud of steam spewing from the radiator. And I was glad I could catch a cool breeze while coasting downhill, because that helped bring the temperature gauge down.

The man I stopped and showed this truck off to was a tow-truck driver. He accompanied me home, with me in the passenger seat beside him, and my truck up on the flatbed behind his cab.

It took me two months to derust the radiator, repair the engine, and make the brakes safe to use. Then I put an ad in the paper. A few guys showed up, stared at it, then shook their heads and walked away without making an offer.

Then one day some hillbilly dude dropped by and looked this old clunker over, and his hands began to shake. A quiver in his voice indicated to me that he had not completely seen my two-ton bucket of rust when he glanced at it. His fantasy kept obstructing his line of sight. But he wasn’t completely blind. He only offered $300. I took it.

Lesson learned. For me, at least.

Happy Privacy Birthday To Me

April31

Tomorrow, April 31st, is my birthday. I would have waited until tomorrow to announce this, but I haven’t been able to find April 31st on most calendars. Actually, it’s my privacy birthday, not my real birthday.

There’s so much identity theft going on these days, I think the business of stealing identity has become a significant part of our gross national product. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. But when people ask me for my birthdate, I often tell them April 31st. I’m trying to protect my identity from being stolen.

Wonk that I am, I memorized which months have 31 days, and which have only 30, way back in elementary school. So it surprises me how many people fall for this ruse. I even have an in-law who sends me a birthday card every year around the end of April.

How old will I be? Plentynine.

I take great measures to protect my privacy, so I’m gobsmacked when I learn about others who aren’t so careful. Celebrities are the worst. The reason why you can find so many nude pictures of celebrities on the internet these days, is because they store their naughty photos on the “cloud” and then secure their cloud accounts with flimsy passwords. Passwords such as 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9, or the very clever p-a-s-s-w-o-r-d.

Then they act so embarrassed about their sex videos being displayed for the world to see. I’d be more embarrassed about having a password that was just begging to be hacked. I’d be proud of the sex videos.

I protect my identity so well that even I have become confused about me. Who am I, really? These days this is more than just a metaphysical question. Sometimes I have to check my birth certificate, which I keep locked away in a safe deposit box. It gets a little awkward at the bank, when they ask me to identify myself before they’ll let me access that little plastic box. “That is the question, isn’t it?” I’ll sheepishly stammer.

I avoid giving my real name, birthdate, and other identifying information out, especially over the internet. For all anyone who follows this blog knows, I’m President Barack Obama. But really, I’m Elvis Presley.

I hope you don’t feel disappointed at not knowing who the real me is. Me and my ego would love to tell you. But sadly, you’ll probably never get to find out.

Whoever the heck you are.

Gender Neutral

MorningGlories

I read that men and women become more like each other as they age. I don’t believe this. But I brought the subject up with my wife over a cup of tea.

“Nonsense,” my wife grunted, jerking her arm and accidentally spilling hot green liquid on her new Levis. “Goddamnit, I just bought these!”

“Well they need a few washings anyway,” I reassured, “so they’ll start feeling as soft and comfortable as one of your old shirts.”

“Are those new shorts?” she asked.

“Yes, and I love them! They’re very loose and allow cool breezes to get up inside them. Keeps me dry.”

My wife rubbed a hair on her chin and mused, “Come to think of it, my grandmother acted a little masculine. I remember how she used to wolf-whistle at construction workers.”

“Hmm, now I remember how my grandma could drink any man under the table at her favorite bar.”

“What was her drink?”

“Bud . . . she was a Bud lady.” I softly murmured, as I slowly stroked my thighs while admiring my wife’s broad chest and strong arms.

She put her hand on mine and drew closer. “You’re looking kind of sexy today,” she grinned.

I pulled my hand from hers and put a pouting moue on my face. “Not until you apologize for what you said to me yesterday.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry I said you look fat in those clothes.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I wiped away a tear. “I think you were right. I really do.”

“No, no you’re very handsome!” she reassured. “Anyway, I’m feeling tired.”

“And I have a headache,” I said.

We finished our tea and went our respective ways. She lounged in front of the TV set, watching women’s basketball while munching on a bag of potato chips.

I got busy pulling weeds out of the flower garden. Which wasn’t a good idea. I should not have been wearing my new white shorts for such a dirty activity.

Watch Words for Women

My great-aunt Edna, from our family album.

My great-aunt Edna, from our family album.

Only about one out of every ten prisoners in the U.S.A. is a woman. It seems men are the biggest mischief makers in our country. Or maybe we’re just the least sneaky of the genders, as we clumsily traipse down the primrose path.

But this percentage is changing. A growing number of women are ending up in the calaboose. And I hate to keep knocking on my own gender, but one of the biggest causes of women being arrested, is men.

When a woman gets mixed up with the wrong man, she runs the risk of ending up at the Graybar Hotel for an extended stay. Women need to wise up and pay attention to the warning signs that bad boys give off, if they want to avoid becoming complicit in their high crimes and misdemeanors.

I’m a man, but I’ve never been to jail, myself. However I’m no stranger to the hormonal influence that gravitates the male gender toward trouble. Trouble is very tempting for men. We live, eat, and breathe trouble. But I’ve figured out how to keep it away from my doorstep. Rather than rob banks or get into bar fights, I’ve settled for the adventure of watching NFL football.

Just the same, I know how a man thinks. So ladies, I’d like to give you some advice on what to look out for in your trouble-seeking man. You can avoid the lure of the crooked path by watching out for certain words your man may say to you. Such as the following:

1) “I need you to hide something for me.”
2) “Come along and watch. I’m not going to kill him, I’m just going to scare him.”
3) “After all I’ve done for you, you can’t do this one little thing for me?”
4) “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. I learned this from my cellmate.”
5) “You don’t have to know anything. Just loan me your gun.”
6) “We’ll be in and out of that bank in seconds flat. Piece of cake.”
7) “Me and my buddies from jail are getting together. Wanna come?”
8) “It’ll only be in your closet for a few days.”
9) “I need a ride to Mexico. Now. Don’t ask why.”
10) “Trust me. I won’t let the cops arrest you.”

Ladies, if you ever hear any of these words, kick your man’s butt out of the house immediately. Then call 9-1-1 and turn his sorry ass in. And that’s how to stay out of jail.

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