Inch-By-Inch, Step-By-Step…

She stalked my two dogs this morning.  A friendly little Manx cat wanted to make their acquaintances.  The friendship was not to be.  Maggie hated all cats, made no distinction between friendship and aggression.

Maggie, upon her arrival, convinced her brother canine, that he would be wise to follow suit.  Maggie growled, barked; disrupted the normally quiet neighborhood.  The little cat didn’t give up and followed our entourage for about a block.

An unplanned trip to the dentist lies ahead this morning.  All attempts to divert my attention, are welcomed.  Unfortunately, tooth pain has failed to squelch my appetite.  It’s made morning coffee less enjoyable–that’s unacceptable.

Do you remember, girls snipping loops from the backs of boy’s ivy league shirts; collecting them like trophies?  They called them “fruit loops.”  That could have been featured on a “Laverne and Shirley” episode?  Boys that wore shirt collars turned up were thought of as “hoods.” Of course that went along with greasy hair, “ducktail” haircuts, and “pegged” jeans.  I guess that was the predecessor of “gangsta” culture.

Weekend, Wrapped Up

The weather’s perfect.  Took Max to his favorite place this morning, just as the sun was rising.

I was saddened that, once again, some low-life vandalized the boardwalk overlook area.  Fish entrails were scattered about; big notches cut into the top rail.

On a more positive note, a dead tree near the canoe launch site, was chock-full of roosting cormorants.  Mist was still rising from the water.  I counted 28 of them.  The things one sees without a camera.

Highlight of the day was a trip to a well-known, membership wholesale store–accompanied by thousands of other shoppers, more enthusiastic than I.

The pregnant giraffe that sparked an internet frenzy, is still pregnant.

It’s not too late to fill out brackets for the NCAA playoffs.  It should be easier, now that the number of contenders has narrowed considerably.

Don’t dare mention anything about this to my spouse–her favorite programs on the sponsoring TV network have been preempted.  An unforgiveable sin of omission.

Three more Monopoly game pieces have fallen out of favor–the boot, thimble, and wheelbarrow.  The iron was previously kicked out.

Could there be any significance to the fact that most of the disfavored pieces signified manual labor?  The booted out boot represented typical working stiffs.

How did this come about?  Results of an internet vote, put up by Hasbro, current owners of the popular board game.  Growing up it was owned by Parker Brothers.

This could be an E-bay opportunity for “running-dog capitalists.”  Selling culturally banned items–specifically, banned Monopoly board pieces.

“Keep it quiet.  I may know somebody, who knows somebody, that may have… And you didn’t hear it from me.”

 

The Max Butt Slap (An Update)

Super Bowl 51 coverage will overshadow everything today.  Local favorite son, Julio Jones, is the only reason for me to favor Atlanta over the Patriots.  I wish both teams luck. 

From two years ago–a secret play called the “Max Butt Slap.” Will either of these teams employ it this year?  We’ll find out later today.

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I’m Brad Fussberger, reporting on one of the most unusual sports stories of my career.  Just when the “Deflategate” brouhaha started to fade, this reporter, learned from a reliable source; that one of the Super Bowl teams is rumored to have a strange, secret weapon this year.  Is it Pete Carroll’s Seattle Seahawk’s, or veteran Super Bowl winner, Bill Belichick’s, New England Patriots?

Like myself, when I first heard about it; some of you might think; oh well–this is just another, strange, seldom-used, triple-reverse, gadget play.  Or some crazy throwback, flying wedge defense.  Well, it’s none of those things–it’s hard-hitting football.

The maneuver is called the “Max Butt Slap.”  And it’s not at all like the celebratory hand slap to the backside.  It involves a defensive player spinning his body around; bowed at the waist, and hitting someone butt first.  It’s a move, not unlike karate, or kick boxing.  The full weight of the buttocks, aided by centrifugal force, delivered, with the force of a battering ran, against the opposing player.

“Where’d the idea come from, Brad?”  The name and play came from an Australian Blue Heeler, Named Max.  Max’s owner, who requested to remain anonymous, told me, “Since Max’s lost weight–he’s been friskier.  He’s “Butt Slapped” our other dog, Maggie, repeatedly, across the backyard.  So far, she’s not “Butt Slapped” him back.  Max has successfully “Butt Slapped” at nearby dog parks.

Right away I wondered–why couldn’t this move be used in pro football?  Nobody could have been more shocked, than I was, when one of the teams was interested.  I’ve signed a legally binding agreement not to reveal any details about which team it was.

It’s certainly going to be interesting to see how the “Max Butt Slap” plays out this Sunday in Super Bowl XLIX.  So far, the league hasn’t had anything to say.  Will one of the teams “Butt Slap” their way to victory?  With the “Puppy Bowl,” and “Butt Slap” combined–has XLIX  gone to the dogs?  If this works, then professional football, will have advanced to the rear.

 

 

One Of the Good Guys

I’m still shocked, in disbelief, that a neighbor and good friend passed away last night.  He was within a year or two of my age.

Rick and I were retired communications workers–for the same company in adjoining states.  We could fall back on telling telephone “war” stories.  Rick always lent a helping hand when needed.

Because of Rick, I have buried telephone service to my workshop.  It’s an old-fashioned landline.  How else were my antique telephones going to work?  With ringers as loud as firehouse gongs, they’d refuse to operate on wireless–the very idea.

Every good thing that will be said, Rick deserves.  He was one of the good guys.  Me and the dogs will miss him.  We couldn’t pass by Rick’s house on walks without Max putting on the brakes.  Max loved to see Rick–go back to his workshop.  I know it was an interruption.  Rick refurbished golf carts.  Rick always found the time.

 

Can You Dig It?

“You have a small mouth,” Said the dental hygienist.  My sarcastic nature went to work.

“Maybe I missed my calling?  I should have joined the circus.”  Her comment was off-the-wall–or at the very least, tactless.

“Sorry, I’m just a mouth monitor–would you look at the size of that mouth!  Now, there’s a mouth I could work with.”  She didn’t say it–was she thinking it?

A neighbor, given to spontaneous bombastic bouts of unsolicited advice, had this to say about preventing my dogs from digging holes in the backyard.

“Well, you fill the hole up with water.  Then, grab the offending dog by the nose; stick the dog’s head and snout underwater, until he squirms and gasps for air.  Repeat, if necessary, and by gosh they’ll get the message or drown.  Either way–no more holes!”

“Thanks for the information, neighbor.  I’ll get back to you on that.”  There was no way in heck, I was going to do that.

Most holes were discovered after the fact.  When it was too late to yell at the offender.  Collecting dog excrement and depositing it in the hole before filling it was semi-successful.  The worst holes were under the privacy fence.

At this point, I don’t think the dogs wanted to escape–they were just curious about neighborhood activities.  And, I can dig that.