Let Madness Reign

For normal, nine to fivers, this is the beginning of the weekend.  In this household it’s the beginning of madness associated with preparations for entertaining house guests, or leaving for a trip out-of-town.  The madness is the same.

Everything is topsy-turvy for days on end.  Planning in detail for sleeping accommodations,  menus, activities, home decor updates–and, on and on.

That’s just inside the house. The yard and patio also have to be perfect.

To keep my sanity–comic relief in the form of headlines, then highlights from my spam folder.

  • Two well-known celebrities were rescued from an elevator.  A revolving door would have been funnier.
  • A person that’s been in the headlines a lot this year, was questioned about their aloof appearance.  Perhaps fewer goofy questions from reporters might have helped?
  • There’s, yet another, new portrayal of the late Colonel Sanders.  The real Colonel, founder of KFC, rests in a cemetery plot.  Should there be any doubt, KFC, is still Kentucky Fried Chicken–the original Colonel’s secret recipe, with eleven herbs and spices.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In spite of fierce competition, there was a winner.  My spam folder took on, an even more, international flavor.  There were two entries written in Chinese characters, two in Spanish, one in Portuguese.

Jacelyn–if that is indeed the person’s real name?  It didn’t matter, anyway.  A verbal barrage, attempted to flatter; sucker me into clicking on a specific URL, took up almost an entire page.

Rarely have I seen such an extreme case of verbal diarrhea, that had no beginning, no end, and nothing in the middle.

Making Something From Nothing

Most captions on my home page are written to be compelling.  In too many cases they are much ado about nothing.

Human foibles can be awkward.  Why make more of them, than they deserve?

It happened to me, once again, last week.  At the gym, a pleasant looking lady, mistook me for someone she knew.  I responded with a generic, “Good to see you–how’ve you been?”  Didn’t know, who the heck she was, anymore than the “Cat in the Hat.”

Other, more gregarious types might have said.  “Do I know you?  I think you’re confusing me with someone else.”  Or, the more hostile, “I don’t know you–leave me alone.”

What had happened?  Was it mistaken identity?  Lack of visual acuity?  I’m a generic looking, gray haired senior–probably have several doppelgangers out there.

Whatever the case was–live and let live.  Why make something out of nothing?

 

 

 

A Week in the Life

Hicks from the sticks

Rappelled down precipices

Discussed sock monkey puppets

Rock and roll, Rubik’s cubes

Shalimar perfume, evenings in Paris

“Might I have seen you before?”

A face familiar from a distance

“No, it never happened,” She replied.

Her genes distressed at that point

At least, one of us was happy

Emotions soared to places

Everyone had been before

Simple problems turned into mountains

Such, was a week in the life of a fool

Twenty-First Century Good Fellas

“I really like you kid; in an appropriate, non-gender specific sort of way, of course,” Said Sal.

“Jimmy, you’re gonna’ go places if you follow a few ground rules.”

“What do you mean, Boss?” Asked Jimmy.

“First of all, you can’t go around cracking coconuts; like you did with Herman the German.  These are our clients; even if Herman’s Grocery doesn’t sell sustainably produced agricultural products.  Why, in the old days I woulda’ head-slapped you already.”

“Thanks Boss,”  Jimmy answered.

“Don’t thank me.  Thank Big Eddie for bailing you out.”

“Eddie, what the hell are you doing?  Are you going to sleep on me?”

“No Boss, I was meditating,”  Eddie answered.  Sal’s face was beet red.

“Do your meditating somewhere else, on your own time.”

Big  Eddie hadn’t been the same since bariatric surgery.  Last night, he ordered vegetarian lasagna at Luigi’s.  Lucky for Big Eddie, Sal didn’t know, he now practiced yoga.

“Don’t neither of you lugheads get too comfortable.  I’m not done talking.”  Sal was on a roll.  Big Eddie craved a smoothie in the worst way, but kept quiet.

“The business has changed.  Think of what we do as, Sal’s Security Services.  I want you guys to become marketing experts.  Instead of gourd cracking, you’ve got to play to people’s fears and anxieties.”

“It’s like being a bartender–saying things like, ‘How ya’ doin’ Pal?’ ‘That’s a tough break–I’m here for you.’ Listen to people–be sensitive to their needs.”

“They serve salty snacks at bars.  And how about salty, movie theatre popcorn?  Do You two knuckleheads have any idea why they do that?  Sorry, that was insensitive of me.  Do you two gentlemen have any idea why they do that?”

“So they can sell more drinks, Boss.”  That’s right Jimmy.  Keep thinking that way and I’m going to keep you around.  Think of people’s fears as salty snacks.  We will quench their needs for security, just like those 64 ounce, refreshing, cold drinks.”

“Big Eddie you’re looking good.  You dropped some weight, got those double chins tightened up.” “Thanks Boss,”  Answered Eddie.  “I’ve still got a ways to go.”

“Jimmy, stop wearing that stupid baseball cap turned around backwards.  At least, wear nice slacks and sports shirts.  We’re professionals–we want people to like us.  Next week, you’re both going to anger management and sensitivity training.”

Jimmy and Eddie looked as if they’d been shot.  Sal fractured many bones over the years–none of them sensitive.

Sal, alleged, but never convicted, wise guy, became Sal, mentor, philosopher, proprietor of Sal’s Twenty-First Century Security Services.  Jimmy and Eddie looked spiffy in their new, dark green, embroidered uniform shirts.  Eddie sighed, contemplated going home after work to play with his new boxer puppy.

 

 

The Name Thing

Last name first

First name last

This is going

Downhill fast

Cutting corners

This here’s

Chicken house

Flap Jack–over

Can’t have

What you want

Stop complaining

Try doing this

For a living

Clowns with bulbous noses

Squirts from fake roses

Mister–you’re too old for Twister

I wonder why day–tell a lie day

Anything deep fried

Mighty egos clashed

Nobody knew why

It’s the name thing

 

You’re Not Going to Believe This–Art & Annie’s Amazing Encounter

“Mr. Reynolds, is that you?”

An aging Burt Reynolds hunched over a glass of bourbon at a bar somewhere in South Florida.

“Obviously it is–who wants to know?”

“I’m Art Williams, this is my wife Annie.”

“She didn’t believe it was you,” Art smirked.

“See honey, it is Burt Reynolds.  I was right.”

“You were right, Mr. Williams.  Sorry Annie.  Do I win a prize or something?”

Burt reluctantly shook their hands.  The bartender watched, amazed.  Some people had a lot of nerve.

“It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Sir.  Same here,” Annie echoed.

“Could we buy you a drink or something?”

“No, that’s OK.  Burt answered.  My doctors tell me I’m not supposed to drink.  Sometimes a drink just feels right.”

“What are you two up to?  Are you from one of those tabloids?”

“No we’re from Ohio, just cruising through on the way to Miami.  A friend told us you were from the West Palm area.”

“Is he a lawyer?  Do I owe him money?  I wasn’t expecting company.”

“No, Fred’s a mechanic.  Sorry to bother you, Mr. Reynolds,” Annie apologized.

“For what it’s worth, I loved your role in ‘Evening Shade.'”

“Thanks Annie.   You must be among the two-dozen people that still remember the series.  There were some good people on that show.”

“I’m originally from Poplar Bluff.  One of the characters was named after the owner of a local furniture store,” Annie continued.

“Was the show anything like the real Poplar Bluff?  Burt asked.

“In several ways–it was,” Annie answered.  “Poplar Bluff has a lot of old Victorian homes.  High school football was a big deal.”

“The mentally challenged character, that rode around in the red wagon, reminded me of someone I knew.”

“Mitch delivered papers and ran errands for everybody–except he used a bicycle.  Everybody looked out for him.”

“Honey, we better run and leave Mr. Reynolds alone, Annie said.  It’s been nice meeting you, Sir,” Art said.

Burt hastily scribbled an autograph on a cocktail napkin, waved goodbye to the happy Midwesterners.

“Good luck and be safe–your friend, Burt Reynolds,” It said and would be treasured forever.