I suppose there is a lot to be said for the ability and willingness to work hard. I just can’t, for the life of me, think of anything to say at the present time or, for that matter, over the last 61 years of my existence, to justify that concept.
Hard work has all the attraction of the Plague, as far as I am concerned. I’d rather suck your nose when you have a head cold than work an over-time day. And you can keep the time and one-half pay, too!
Now I realize I’m stepping all over a cornerstone of our American heritage and the entire concept that has propelled our nation and our people to be whatever it is that we are today. I mean, dream what you will and then give it all you got—and then some—is the avenue we travel to reach our goals and successes, right? And all those who have traveled this path, reached great heights and attained great achievements are people to be admired—even venerated!
We even have created our own measuring stick to judge how successful these efforts are for those who choose to follow this path; how much money you make, what kind of car you drive, what kind of clothes you wear, how many bedrooms you have in your primary house—and, of course, the vacation home, cabin, or time-share—have all become accepted standards of success for our American way of thinking.
So, what do you think! Am I pushing the button a little to far to start a pro-indolence campaign?
Indolence is universally defined as “inactivity resulting from a dislike of work.”
It is a relative to the word “sloth” which has a similar meaning which is to have a “disinclination to work or exert oneself.”
Now I know that I’m not real smart. If you had taken my grade point average at Penn State University and added them individually for the 3 terms I attended, the total wouldn’t have been 1.0! I even flunk “ Gym.” So I’m an Alum-Bum—sue me!
In my lifetime, I have had three idols: Abraham Lincoln, Alfred E. Neumann, and Maynard G. Krebs.
Maynard G. Krebs, of “Dobie Gillis” fame, is my all-time “do nothing hero.” If fact, anytime anyone mentioned the word work, he would go into a hysterical frenzy and shout out W-O-R-K as if he had just been kick in the ass by a mule!
But by its definition—“a disinclination to work”—it doesn’t suggest that an indolent person is doing nothing. Even Maynard used to go down the street and watch the guys “knock down the old Endicott Building.” He did that for the 3 or 4 years the show was in production. When he was really bored, he went to the Bijou to watch a triple-feature: “ The Monster Who Devoured Cleveland,” The Son Of The Monster Who Devoured Cleveland,” and “The Son-Of-The-Son Of The Monster Who Devoured Cleveland.”
As usual, I handed this issue over to our staff of experts to examine, and suggest, a possible pro-active, indolent path for all of you to follow:
§ If you any ties to Christianity, forget it! Christians hate lazy people more than an abortionist who works for tips. Ever heard of the “Seven Deadly Sins”? You guessed it, Sloth, right up there in the winner’s circle. If you are indolent and absolutely, positively must have a religion, may I suggest becoming a “Left-Handed Tantrist.”? They can do anything they want and don’t have to confess.
§ Make certain that the use of the word is indolent-- not impotent! Lazy doesn’t mean you can’t have sex on your back.
§ Tell every workaholic you encounter to go kiss your ass! Much of America works its butt off to come up with ways to do everything—from eating to calculating—fast and simple. What’s the logic of working like hell to invent all these short cut products, and then not spend the time to enjoy them?
§ And while on the subject of short cuts—never have sex with your eyes closed. It goes, or cums—depending how you look at it—too fast!
§ If you want to make a living doing nothing, get a job with the government. It’s the only place on Earth where you can stand around and people will think you are working.
§ As difficult as it may be to believe, it is possible to survive in this life without a cell phone or computer. The Sodomites proved it.
§ An indolent person can be quite happy with his/hers sexual, self-gratification. An ambitious or driven person seeks conquest, which invites rejection. This is a definite risk of one’s self-esteem.
Lastly, I always recommend that all my thousands of readers should not pay attention to a single word that I write.
So listen to someone else:
“Hard work never killed anybody; but I figure, why take the chance.”
… Ronald Reagan
Excuse me; I have to get in my recliner.
Billy P.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
"Take My Cell Phone, Please!"
Ten years ago if I were asked to name the four most significant technological developments that have altered and shaped the course of Mankind, I would have readily replied:
§ The wheel, electricity, the computer, and rolling paper.
After the passage of ten years, I would alter my list slightly, deleting the wheel and adding the cell phone.
Cell phones have all but eliminated the time and distance of communication and even made it possible to reach your party without dialing!
I recently heard a guy making a date for Friday night while using the conveniences of a public crapper. Now that’s progress!
Well, answer one question, please?
If the cell phone is so great-- I mean, one smart phone-- how come it gets lost all the time? I need an answer and I need it now!
Man, I have left this thing in bars, cars… on planes and trains… sent it to the laundry, dropped it in the toilet! I have even trained my dog to retrieve it, replacing his trusty Frisbee as his favorite go-fetch-it- thing. (Can he get cancer doing that?)
Yesterday I might have outdone myself! I had already lost “ Wrongway” (I call it “Wrongway” because no matter which direction I go, it goes the wrong way!) twice during the week; once in a bar – it loves bars- and once in a convenience store. In fact, it has spent so much time in convenience stores that I have learned some basic greetings in Punjabi, the most common language of Pakistan.
I thought I had exhausted all the possible hiding places of this clever device and, then, in kind of a “Remember the Alamo” epiphany, I remembered the trash.
I hurriedly grabbed my wife’s cell (we’re a two phone family) and dashed toward our community’s trash dumpster- that dreaded and vile thing!
I dialed my number 954-xxx-xxxx (for security reasons and threats of violence, you understand, right?) and, in just a few seconds I heard it… music to my ears… that lovely cacophonous sound of My Tone, a mixture of Hava Nagila and the Birthday Tune all in one. Life is great!
But wait! The Ring, My Ring, emanates from the confines of the trash receptacle and I am on the outside looking in with nary a way to scale its vile walls. Chagrin!
Quick reasoning suggested a ladder would solve my problem, so I retrieved our kitchen stepladder, mounted it to its top stair and leaped into an odiferous concoction of aromas that would challenge any great Chef’s abilities to duplicate.
Dial! Dial again and again… getting closer all the time. And then, alas and alack, I have found it…resting on last night’s Chinese take-out (Egg Foo
Yung, I believe) just to the right of someone’s old clothing. Eureka!
Just at my moment of elation, I could hear a human grunt and then a rattle-- perhaps some tin cans-- and then…Smack! Right in the face, a 33 gallon-sized bag of trash-- direct hit on me!
I let out with a Yelp! (Well, it was a four- lettered word, anyway.) And my Yelp was replied to with a surprised-like scream. I guess I did look silly standing in the middle of a dumpster, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and wearing a Boston Red Sox baseball cap, clutching two cell phones. Talk about fetishes!
I did manage to placate the astonished women and calmly said:
“Sorry to stun you Miss. I was planning to come this weekend but the weather has been so nice… Well, you know what I mean.”
I don’t think that she did.
My tale of woe and wonderment would have ended here if it weren’t for that big truck!
If you want to try something difficult, try explaining to your wife why you need to be picked up at a local landfill!
Which brings up the subject of the fourth technological development that has altered the history of Mankind--rolling paper!
Well, maybe that’s how I got into this predicament in the first place.
We’ll save that for another day.
Billy Comerford
§ The wheel, electricity, the computer, and rolling paper.
After the passage of ten years, I would alter my list slightly, deleting the wheel and adding the cell phone.
Cell phones have all but eliminated the time and distance of communication and even made it possible to reach your party without dialing!
I recently heard a guy making a date for Friday night while using the conveniences of a public crapper. Now that’s progress!
Well, answer one question, please?
If the cell phone is so great-- I mean, one smart phone-- how come it gets lost all the time? I need an answer and I need it now!
Man, I have left this thing in bars, cars… on planes and trains… sent it to the laundry, dropped it in the toilet! I have even trained my dog to retrieve it, replacing his trusty Frisbee as his favorite go-fetch-it- thing. (Can he get cancer doing that?)
Yesterday I might have outdone myself! I had already lost “ Wrongway” (I call it “Wrongway” because no matter which direction I go, it goes the wrong way!) twice during the week; once in a bar – it loves bars- and once in a convenience store. In fact, it has spent so much time in convenience stores that I have learned some basic greetings in Punjabi, the most common language of Pakistan.
I thought I had exhausted all the possible hiding places of this clever device and, then, in kind of a “Remember the Alamo” epiphany, I remembered the trash.
I hurriedly grabbed my wife’s cell (we’re a two phone family) and dashed toward our community’s trash dumpster- that dreaded and vile thing!
I dialed my number 954-xxx-xxxx (for security reasons and threats of violence, you understand, right?) and, in just a few seconds I heard it… music to my ears… that lovely cacophonous sound of My Tone, a mixture of Hava Nagila and the Birthday Tune all in one. Life is great!
But wait! The Ring, My Ring, emanates from the confines of the trash receptacle and I am on the outside looking in with nary a way to scale its vile walls. Chagrin!
Quick reasoning suggested a ladder would solve my problem, so I retrieved our kitchen stepladder, mounted it to its top stair and leaped into an odiferous concoction of aromas that would challenge any great Chef’s abilities to duplicate.
Dial! Dial again and again… getting closer all the time. And then, alas and alack, I have found it…resting on last night’s Chinese take-out (Egg Foo
Yung, I believe) just to the right of someone’s old clothing. Eureka!
Just at my moment of elation, I could hear a human grunt and then a rattle-- perhaps some tin cans-- and then…Smack! Right in the face, a 33 gallon-sized bag of trash-- direct hit on me!
I let out with a Yelp! (Well, it was a four- lettered word, anyway.) And my Yelp was replied to with a surprised-like scream. I guess I did look silly standing in the middle of a dumpster, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and wearing a Boston Red Sox baseball cap, clutching two cell phones. Talk about fetishes!
I did manage to placate the astonished women and calmly said:
“Sorry to stun you Miss. I was planning to come this weekend but the weather has been so nice… Well, you know what I mean.”
I don’t think that she did.
My tale of woe and wonderment would have ended here if it weren’t for that big truck!
If you want to try something difficult, try explaining to your wife why you need to be picked up at a local landfill!
Which brings up the subject of the fourth technological development that has altered the history of Mankind--rolling paper!
Well, maybe that’s how I got into this predicament in the first place.
We’ll save that for another day.
Billy Comerford
Thursday, August 28, 2008
"Circumcised, Ostracized, Downsized"... The New Life Cycle!
When we are young, let’s say beginning our professional life, we have little or no thought as to how long our lives will be. This lack of interest applies not just to our personal existence but, especially, our professional lives; what we do to earn a living. The path to success has always been obvious; get a good education—the more the better-- get a job that offers the promise of security and opportunity, and then put in your time.
This has been a plan that has worked for countless numbers of Americans for a long, long time. All we had to do was punch the time clock and pick out the spot for our condo in Florida or Arizona.
The interesting thing about this life cycle is that we have become the instrument of our own demise and it’s all happening in hyper-speed. I’m no economic or philosophical commentator—hell, I had to GOOGLE “philosophical” just to spell it (I can’t believe it doesn’t start with a “F”). All generations have had to deal with their self- antiquating; this is that horse and buggy to automobile thing. The point is I don’t think it has ever happened so quickly and with such a demonic and gloomy prophecy. I have heard that the thinking people who live in caves in such places as Harvard, Princeton, etc., indicate that our current business with China erodes something like 2 million U.S. based jobs a year; and that’s just China ,and as it pertains to the manufacturing sector of our economy. What about the service end of business, call centers, customer support, and the like? It’s getting tough to order a pizza without Mahatma Gandhi answering the phone.
Now I’m not smart enough to know if all of this is good or bad. And, frankly My Dear, I don’t give a damn. If everything goes well I’ll be dead within 25 years and you can all figure it out without me. My kicks are derived from observing the people and the super-structure that orchestrates all of the resulting scenarios. We have armed industry with the silver bullet they have needed to shrink their work force or, at a minimum, farm out its function to someone who can do it cheaper. And they expect, or a least attempt, to do all this and still wear their white hats—they want to be the good guys while they neuter your children!
This scenario is playing havoc--maybe for the first time-- with the fortunes of highly educated and skillful professionals. I’m talking about the guy who did all the right things to insure that his professional life, and the retirement that would follow, would be successful; but finds that after 10 or 15 years of loyal service that he is facing the door. Corporate America has even created a new language to dance around what used to be a simple, “You’re fired”! “ Downsized,” I love that term. My sister was “Rightsized.” When she asked her soon-to-be ex-boss what he meant by that, he replied that he was taking a course of action that was “right for the company,” then he fired her.
An executive for AT&T recently explained that all company employees should realized that “we are all contingent workers.” Contingent is a fancy way of asking “what have you done for me lately”? It means you are disposable and doesn’t, not for one minute, consider your contributions over a period of time. And, these large corporations expect—hell, demand-- absolute loyalty; let’s sing the company song attitudes from the individuals they employ. They make these demands while, at the same time, penciling in your name right next to the delete key on their computers.
Much like my sister’s boss, industry is making what I consider bizarre attempts at changing the English language. I suppose they do this to deflect any wild and crazy thoughts that they might be dirty bastards! At AT&T, after announcing plans to reduce its work force by 40,000, an executive from HR explained, “no one was being fired or laid off.” AT&T was simply carrying out something called its “forced management program” and that those who would find themselves without jobs simply were “unassigned.” This guy added that traditional jobs should now be considered “projects” and “ fields of work.” In this way a person might be “jobless, but not workless.” I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP, PEOPLE!!
I thought that as a public service and life-long student of the English language I might lend a hand to these executives with the hope that I might make their jobs a little bit easier. With that in mind, I offer revised definitions of often used business words that can be found in any popular dictionary.
§ Pension- a boarding house; “Do you have a pension?” “Yes, I do. But it only has 1 bedroom and no place to pee because I did not make enough money at my job.”
§ Job- A person of the Old Testament or a person who believes in the Old Testament; “Do you have a Job?” “No, I now follow the New Testament.”
§ Loyalty- The second album from the Hip Hop Group, SCREWBALL, produced by Ayatollah & Godfather Dan.
§ Salary-An allowance of sea salt given to Roman soldiers as wages; “My salary isn’t worth a grain of salt.”
§ Retirement- A car that has dropped out of a race because of mechanical failure or accident; Need I say more?
§ Office- A monastic duty to pray 7 times a day; Seems like a good idea if you have a job with a Fortune 500 Company.
§ WAGE- A radio station in Leesburg, Virginia.
§ Worker- A sterile member of a colony of social insects that forages for food and cares for the larvae; except for the larvae, in most cases, doesn’t this sound familiar?
§ Boss- A circular, rounded projection or protuberance; Sound like “Dick Head” to you?
§ And lastly, HAPPINESS- SOMETHING ABOUT A MYTHOLOGICAL EMOTION OR FEELING ABOUT JUST BEING HAPPY!
As the Pig would say:
“THAT’S ALL FOLKS!”
Billy P.
This has been a plan that has worked for countless numbers of Americans for a long, long time. All we had to do was punch the time clock and pick out the spot for our condo in Florida or Arizona.
The interesting thing about this life cycle is that we have become the instrument of our own demise and it’s all happening in hyper-speed. I’m no economic or philosophical commentator—hell, I had to GOOGLE “philosophical” just to spell it (I can’t believe it doesn’t start with a “F”). All generations have had to deal with their self- antiquating; this is that horse and buggy to automobile thing. The point is I don’t think it has ever happened so quickly and with such a demonic and gloomy prophecy. I have heard that the thinking people who live in caves in such places as Harvard, Princeton, etc., indicate that our current business with China erodes something like 2 million U.S. based jobs a year; and that’s just China ,and as it pertains to the manufacturing sector of our economy. What about the service end of business, call centers, customer support, and the like? It’s getting tough to order a pizza without Mahatma Gandhi answering the phone.
Now I’m not smart enough to know if all of this is good or bad. And, frankly My Dear, I don’t give a damn. If everything goes well I’ll be dead within 25 years and you can all figure it out without me. My kicks are derived from observing the people and the super-structure that orchestrates all of the resulting scenarios. We have armed industry with the silver bullet they have needed to shrink their work force or, at a minimum, farm out its function to someone who can do it cheaper. And they expect, or a least attempt, to do all this and still wear their white hats—they want to be the good guys while they neuter your children!
This scenario is playing havoc--maybe for the first time-- with the fortunes of highly educated and skillful professionals. I’m talking about the guy who did all the right things to insure that his professional life, and the retirement that would follow, would be successful; but finds that after 10 or 15 years of loyal service that he is facing the door. Corporate America has even created a new language to dance around what used to be a simple, “You’re fired”! “ Downsized,” I love that term. My sister was “Rightsized.” When she asked her soon-to-be ex-boss what he meant by that, he replied that he was taking a course of action that was “right for the company,” then he fired her.
An executive for AT&T recently explained that all company employees should realized that “we are all contingent workers.” Contingent is a fancy way of asking “what have you done for me lately”? It means you are disposable and doesn’t, not for one minute, consider your contributions over a period of time. And, these large corporations expect—hell, demand-- absolute loyalty; let’s sing the company song attitudes from the individuals they employ. They make these demands while, at the same time, penciling in your name right next to the delete key on their computers.
Much like my sister’s boss, industry is making what I consider bizarre attempts at changing the English language. I suppose they do this to deflect any wild and crazy thoughts that they might be dirty bastards! At AT&T, after announcing plans to reduce its work force by 40,000, an executive from HR explained, “no one was being fired or laid off.” AT&T was simply carrying out something called its “forced management program” and that those who would find themselves without jobs simply were “unassigned.” This guy added that traditional jobs should now be considered “projects” and “ fields of work.” In this way a person might be “jobless, but not workless.” I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP, PEOPLE!!
I thought that as a public service and life-long student of the English language I might lend a hand to these executives with the hope that I might make their jobs a little bit easier. With that in mind, I offer revised definitions of often used business words that can be found in any popular dictionary.
§ Pension- a boarding house; “Do you have a pension?” “Yes, I do. But it only has 1 bedroom and no place to pee because I did not make enough money at my job.”
§ Job- A person of the Old Testament or a person who believes in the Old Testament; “Do you have a Job?” “No, I now follow the New Testament.”
§ Loyalty- The second album from the Hip Hop Group, SCREWBALL, produced by Ayatollah & Godfather Dan.
§ Salary-An allowance of sea salt given to Roman soldiers as wages; “My salary isn’t worth a grain of salt.”
§ Retirement- A car that has dropped out of a race because of mechanical failure or accident; Need I say more?
§ Office- A monastic duty to pray 7 times a day; Seems like a good idea if you have a job with a Fortune 500 Company.
§ WAGE- A radio station in Leesburg, Virginia.
§ Worker- A sterile member of a colony of social insects that forages for food and cares for the larvae; except for the larvae, in most cases, doesn’t this sound familiar?
§ Boss- A circular, rounded projection or protuberance; Sound like “Dick Head” to you?
§ And lastly, HAPPINESS- SOMETHING ABOUT A MYTHOLOGICAL EMOTION OR FEELING ABOUT JUST BEING HAPPY!
As the Pig would say:
“THAT’S ALL FOLKS!”
Billy P.
Monday, August 25, 2008
"Menopause," The Horror Movie The Japanese Were Afraid To Make!
Unlike a lot of men, I love women—I mean, I really love women. I think I even understand them. With that bold statement in mind, I think most women, if they could be given a choice—and armed with the knowledge about this pestilence called “Menopause”-- just might decide to choose a gender change at the point of their delivery. I would rather have permanent boils on my butt than have to deal with the changes and symptoms that accompany this “change of life” because it ain’t no way to change nothin’!
Just take a look at symptoms that read like a bad, bill-of-fare at the local greasy spoon:
Hot flashes and night sweats
Forgetfulness
Moodiness
Changes in urination
Weight gain and shift
Headaches
Palpitations, Joint Pain, Skin and Hair Loss, and a partridge in a pear tree!
I’ll have mine with dry toast, please!
And this isn’t “The Doctor Is In. Com”, so I’m leaving the private part stuff out of the article.
As much empathy as I have for women who all must face this dreaded time, I have matching empathy for those men who must endure this strange ride with their special partners. No one ever told me about this when I started to peep up dresses in elementary school. If I had known, I might be working the night shift at the “Birdcage” with Nathan Lane!
Let’s face it—if it’s supposed to be a “women-thing”, how come they call it “menopause”? Why not “womenopause” and just leave us guys to watching football games and scratching our butts during commercials?
After some time of having to deal with this situation, we have compiled a preventative “do-list” for those of my gender who are currently enduring a confusing time.
As always, our group of “staff “experts has created our list.
Wear at least 6 condoms to bed at night. Menopause is not contagious—this is just a reminder that it is more difficult to cut through rubber than skin!
If you kiss your wife, make certain that you have, at least, 3 reasons for doing so. She is not going to believe the first 2.
Never give the wife the name of your first love even if you were 5 years old when the feelings immersed your soul. Everything you try to be “sociable” she is going to remind you that, “Yeah, you may be kissing me, but you’re thinking of that Bitch!”
Maintain an adequate supply of prescription drugs—Valium, Zanax, Loritabs, or any painkiller will do—you will need them for yourself!
You will receive many questions that are actually accusations. I suggest that your initial response to these questions be a lie—save the truth for the last. You will always have to give in—no matter what—so why not end with the real thing?
Consume only light, low-fat foods and take daily enemas. I’m not sure this will help, but you will be more agile when the first attempt on your life is made.
When possible, walk thru all public places where women can be observed, with your eyes closed. This may seem impossible, but you will be surprised how adept you are at it especially if you’re dealing with a prolonged “pause.”
Try moving to an Arabic nation where killing your wife is “Okay”—as long as you have a good reason for doing so.
Consider a sex change. Oprah always looking for a good story.
And lastly, don’t read this article and, if you already have, deny it! After all, I’ve told my wife that I’m spending this afternoon looking at our wedding pictures. Let’s work together and keep our stories straight. You know, for the good of Mankind!!
Billy P.
Just take a look at symptoms that read like a bad, bill-of-fare at the local greasy spoon:
Hot flashes and night sweats
Forgetfulness
Moodiness
Changes in urination
Weight gain and shift
Headaches
Palpitations, Joint Pain, Skin and Hair Loss, and a partridge in a pear tree!
I’ll have mine with dry toast, please!
And this isn’t “The Doctor Is In. Com”, so I’m leaving the private part stuff out of the article.
As much empathy as I have for women who all must face this dreaded time, I have matching empathy for those men who must endure this strange ride with their special partners. No one ever told me about this when I started to peep up dresses in elementary school. If I had known, I might be working the night shift at the “Birdcage” with Nathan Lane!
Let’s face it—if it’s supposed to be a “women-thing”, how come they call it “menopause”? Why not “womenopause” and just leave us guys to watching football games and scratching our butts during commercials?
After some time of having to deal with this situation, we have compiled a preventative “do-list” for those of my gender who are currently enduring a confusing time.
As always, our group of “staff “experts has created our list.
Wear at least 6 condoms to bed at night. Menopause is not contagious—this is just a reminder that it is more difficult to cut through rubber than skin!
If you kiss your wife, make certain that you have, at least, 3 reasons for doing so. She is not going to believe the first 2.
Never give the wife the name of your first love even if you were 5 years old when the feelings immersed your soul. Everything you try to be “sociable” she is going to remind you that, “Yeah, you may be kissing me, but you’re thinking of that Bitch!”
Maintain an adequate supply of prescription drugs—Valium, Zanax, Loritabs, or any painkiller will do—you will need them for yourself!
You will receive many questions that are actually accusations. I suggest that your initial response to these questions be a lie—save the truth for the last. You will always have to give in—no matter what—so why not end with the real thing?
Consume only light, low-fat foods and take daily enemas. I’m not sure this will help, but you will be more agile when the first attempt on your life is made.
When possible, walk thru all public places where women can be observed, with your eyes closed. This may seem impossible, but you will be surprised how adept you are at it especially if you’re dealing with a prolonged “pause.”
Try moving to an Arabic nation where killing your wife is “Okay”—as long as you have a good reason for doing so.
Consider a sex change. Oprah always looking for a good story.
And lastly, don’t read this article and, if you already have, deny it! After all, I’ve told my wife that I’m spending this afternoon looking at our wedding pictures. Let’s work together and keep our stories straight. You know, for the good of Mankind!!
Billy P.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
"Georgia Invaded By Russians!"
Just when you thought the Cold War had melted its last tray of ice-cubes, the Russkis get crazy and invade my beloved Georgia. I spent 35 years of my life in Georgia, learned to love the people and call the land “my home”. This sudden betrayal by the Russians will set our relationship back hundreds of years, not to mention jeopardize the upcoming Bull Dawgs football season, which had promised to be one of our greatest ever. Wo is me!
If the bullies had to come down off their steppes and start a fight, why couldn’t they wait until the Bowl games were over, or, better yet, invade some other state—like South Florida. There’s a place we can all do without.
Now this may seem to be a shocking suggestion to many of you. I mean, what can be wrong with South Florida with its beaches, ocean, and balmy, wonderful weather?
My response to that question is that there is nothing wrong with all of those assets. It’s the rest of the state that gives me a problem--the people, especially the OLD PEOPLE who usually migrate from the North. They call them Snowbirds, but that doesn’t capture the essence of what these folks are all about. There is no bird in existence as mean as these creatures.
Now I realize this statement is contrary to our generally presumed adulation of the Senior Citizen. Just give me a second to explain; after all, I am a card-carrying member of AARP myself.
ELDERLY folks, like your grandmother, realize that there is a starting and finishing point in life: our birth and our death. Everything in the middle is called “ageing” and most ELDERLY folks do this very well and gracefully.
OLD PEOPLE are of the same species-- at least I think so-- except they are probably dead. They just don’t know it!
Rather than let their age represent an accumulation of a life well-spent, OLD PEOPLE are, more or less, condemned to the years they have spent on this earth and like to draw the rest of the world into their daily misery. They are mean, petulant, quick to anger and often complain more than a tennis player in a match during a thunderstorm with a near-sighted line judge. The long and short of it all is that they confirm a thought I have had for most of my life; that is, if you are a jerk when you are thirty you will probably be a jerk when you are one-hundred and thirty!
I used to hang around a lot of supermarkets when I lived in SoFlo, as I like to call it. Supermarkets are a good place to research the habits and behavior of OLD PEOPLE. This is where you get to see their very best, worst! One day while observing their activities, I entered the dairy section, which is, usually, a pacific area of a market, let’s say compared to a Deli section. (“ Thin, you call this sliced thin?”) Or, how about: (“Ten dollars for a pound of Boar’s Head? Did I say I wanted the whole cow?”) A women-- I would guess somewhere between eighty and ninety years of age, in the loudest of all voices-- was totally berating a man.
“You people are crazy,” she screamed in an accent only her mother would recognize. “Why would anyone put blue screw tops on milk. Who drinks milk with blue screw tops? They should be white, like in the old country, and the bottle should be real glass.”
The man stood calmly with his arms folded.
She continued her tirade for what seemed like an eternity and paused only to remind this poor guy that if it weren’t for the recent death of her beloved husband, she would return to New York in a minute’s time.
When she finally finished, the guy stood quietly for a few seconds and then spoke in the calmest of voices:
“Are you finished, Mame?”
“I could say a lot more, but who is paying attention,” she added somewhat prophetically.
He gave a knowing look and said: “ The next time you have a comment about store policy you might want to be certain that the person at whom you’re screaming is an employee.”
He was just a customer
The OLD PERSON just shrugged, said nothing, and acted as if he deserved it anyway!
After many experiences like this I became hardened to the SoFlo way of life. It gave me a laugh when I announced to my friends that my wife was again transferred and we had chosen Georgia as our option.
“Man, haven’t you heard about the crime in Georgia? A friend asked.
“Man, haven’t you heard about the crime in SoFlo ?” I retorted
Just a couple of highlights about the good life by the sea:
§ In South Florida OLD PEOPLE are enamored with cosmetic surgery. Plastic surgeons are to Miami like BBQ joints to Georgia. These folks give liposuction to their pets.
§ I knew one OLDIE who was pulled so tight that her liver spots were on the back of her head; made her look like an old pair of argyle socks.
§ In Florida OLDIES always have the right-of-way, even if it means driving through your living room.
§ Crashing your car through convenience stores is so common that some of the chains are providing their cashiers with an extra dot on their heads… for good luck, of course!
§ Haiti doesn’t have to worry about feeding their people anymore; they have all moved to SoFlo and are working as caretakers for OLDIES. Like most immigrants, they are doing work that we wouldn’t touch. I can still hear their refrain: “No, Mr. Kravitz…No ‘Doo-Doo’ until you’re out of the wheel chair.” Mr. Kravitz, of course, can’t hear.
§ Pedestrians are also known as road kill in the land down under. You would stand a better chance of surviving a three month cruise on the Hindenburg with a group of chain- smokers than walking to school in the morning.
§ Stopping at red lights in Florida is optional especially if you’re from Jamaica or Central America. I don’t think these people like the color red.
§ This is the only state in the union where the traditional southern salutation “have a nice day” receives a response of “what’s in it for you?"
Why anyone in his or her right mind would want to live there is beyond me! After two years of counting guys at the beach with knee-high black, stretch socks, I found myself quietly wishing for a hurricane of monumental proportions that might wash away the entire area so we could start anew.
I am just happy that Walt Disney didn’t put Mickey further south than Orlando.
I would miss the rides.
Billy P
If the bullies had to come down off their steppes and start a fight, why couldn’t they wait until the Bowl games were over, or, better yet, invade some other state—like South Florida. There’s a place we can all do without.
Now this may seem to be a shocking suggestion to many of you. I mean, what can be wrong with South Florida with its beaches, ocean, and balmy, wonderful weather?
My response to that question is that there is nothing wrong with all of those assets. It’s the rest of the state that gives me a problem--the people, especially the OLD PEOPLE who usually migrate from the North. They call them Snowbirds, but that doesn’t capture the essence of what these folks are all about. There is no bird in existence as mean as these creatures.
Now I realize this statement is contrary to our generally presumed adulation of the Senior Citizen. Just give me a second to explain; after all, I am a card-carrying member of AARP myself.
ELDERLY folks, like your grandmother, realize that there is a starting and finishing point in life: our birth and our death. Everything in the middle is called “ageing” and most ELDERLY folks do this very well and gracefully.
OLD PEOPLE are of the same species-- at least I think so-- except they are probably dead. They just don’t know it!
Rather than let their age represent an accumulation of a life well-spent, OLD PEOPLE are, more or less, condemned to the years they have spent on this earth and like to draw the rest of the world into their daily misery. They are mean, petulant, quick to anger and often complain more than a tennis player in a match during a thunderstorm with a near-sighted line judge. The long and short of it all is that they confirm a thought I have had for most of my life; that is, if you are a jerk when you are thirty you will probably be a jerk when you are one-hundred and thirty!
I used to hang around a lot of supermarkets when I lived in SoFlo, as I like to call it. Supermarkets are a good place to research the habits and behavior of OLD PEOPLE. This is where you get to see their very best, worst! One day while observing their activities, I entered the dairy section, which is, usually, a pacific area of a market, let’s say compared to a Deli section. (“ Thin, you call this sliced thin?”) Or, how about: (“Ten dollars for a pound of Boar’s Head? Did I say I wanted the whole cow?”) A women-- I would guess somewhere between eighty and ninety years of age, in the loudest of all voices-- was totally berating a man.
“You people are crazy,” she screamed in an accent only her mother would recognize. “Why would anyone put blue screw tops on milk. Who drinks milk with blue screw tops? They should be white, like in the old country, and the bottle should be real glass.”
The man stood calmly with his arms folded.
She continued her tirade for what seemed like an eternity and paused only to remind this poor guy that if it weren’t for the recent death of her beloved husband, she would return to New York in a minute’s time.
When she finally finished, the guy stood quietly for a few seconds and then spoke in the calmest of voices:
“Are you finished, Mame?”
“I could say a lot more, but who is paying attention,” she added somewhat prophetically.
He gave a knowing look and said: “ The next time you have a comment about store policy you might want to be certain that the person at whom you’re screaming is an employee.”
He was just a customer
The OLD PERSON just shrugged, said nothing, and acted as if he deserved it anyway!
After many experiences like this I became hardened to the SoFlo way of life. It gave me a laugh when I announced to my friends that my wife was again transferred and we had chosen Georgia as our option.
“Man, haven’t you heard about the crime in Georgia? A friend asked.
“Man, haven’t you heard about the crime in SoFlo ?” I retorted
Just a couple of highlights about the good life by the sea:
§ In South Florida OLD PEOPLE are enamored with cosmetic surgery. Plastic surgeons are to Miami like BBQ joints to Georgia. These folks give liposuction to their pets.
§ I knew one OLDIE who was pulled so tight that her liver spots were on the back of her head; made her look like an old pair of argyle socks.
§ In Florida OLDIES always have the right-of-way, even if it means driving through your living room.
§ Crashing your car through convenience stores is so common that some of the chains are providing their cashiers with an extra dot on their heads… for good luck, of course!
§ Haiti doesn’t have to worry about feeding their people anymore; they have all moved to SoFlo and are working as caretakers for OLDIES. Like most immigrants, they are doing work that we wouldn’t touch. I can still hear their refrain: “No, Mr. Kravitz…No ‘Doo-Doo’ until you’re out of the wheel chair.” Mr. Kravitz, of course, can’t hear.
§ Pedestrians are also known as road kill in the land down under. You would stand a better chance of surviving a three month cruise on the Hindenburg with a group of chain- smokers than walking to school in the morning.
§ Stopping at red lights in Florida is optional especially if you’re from Jamaica or Central America. I don’t think these people like the color red.
§ This is the only state in the union where the traditional southern salutation “have a nice day” receives a response of “what’s in it for you?"
Why anyone in his or her right mind would want to live there is beyond me! After two years of counting guys at the beach with knee-high black, stretch socks, I found myself quietly wishing for a hurricane of monumental proportions that might wash away the entire area so we could start anew.
I am just happy that Walt Disney didn’t put Mickey further south than Orlando.
I would miss the rides.
Billy P
Friday, August 22, 2008
"That's The Catch!"
The book “Catch 22” will forever be one of my favorite toms. The phrase, ‘Catch 22”, is used so frequently that it has even entered our dictionaries and is described broadly as a “ situation in which a desired outcome is impossible to obtain because of a set of inherently illogical conditions or rules.”
Every now and then I like to invite my friends to tell me about their “Catch” situations. But I always go first.
A cashier at Blockbuster recently advised me that I had a late charge for a movie. I realized that this was a mistake, but I went ahead and paid the fee, anyway, just to be done with it. When I arrived home, the morning mail included a notice from Blockbuster advising me that I would have to pay a full retail price for this same movie as “it had not been returned.” I returned immediately to the store with my receipt for payment and the notice to make my case, when the cashier interrupted:
“I’m sorry, Sir, you did not pay a late charge for this movie… Blockbuster no longer charges late fees.”
At this point I’m a bit confused considering I’m holding a receipt in my hand that I received from this same guy thirty minutes earlier.
“You were assessed a restocking fee,” he continued.
“What, pray tell, is a restocking fee?” I asked.
“A restocking fee is assessed to cover the cost of restocking an item that has been returned past its due date.”
“So allow me to understand all of this,” I persisted. “In my right hand I have a notice that states that I didn’t return your movie and in my left hand I have a receipt for the charges to restock the same movie that I didn’t return, correct?”
Get ready for this, he replied, “Yes, that’s correct.”
I’m a nice guy but I have to write this guy off as “un-fixably stupid.”
One of my friends replied to this story with his “Catch”. He is on the verge of filing for business and personal bankruptcy. He thought he would call his major creditors who are mortgage companies and give the “heads-up” on his situation and, perhaps, negotiate some debt relief. His overture was promptly rejected on the grounds that he could not be given a debt relief plan because his credit standing was too good!
It seems that you have to be broke before you go broke!
All of this reminds me of my first employer, Bernie Greenbaum. Bernie owned a local grocery store and spoke Yiddish better than he did English. He also had a temper and loved to tell his customers to go shop elsewhere if they thought the prices was too high or the bread wasn’t fresh enough. He would always end his farewell salutations for deposed customers with the same heavily accented: “And fur yu, even if ve gotit--- ve dun’t gotit!”
Now I know what he means!
Short Bits:
§ Has anyone noticed the number of celebrity chefs appearing on T.V. who are of English or Australian heritage? When is the last time you got hungry for any of their food? As for me, I prefer my marsupials with mayonnaise! Anyone who has studied history knows that the British tried to, and in fact did, rule most of the world not because they were imperialists—as some would claim—they were just hungry, for crying out loud! You try living off of Kidney Pie, chap! Hell, let’s invade a country and get something to eat!
§ Who in the world is Billy Mays and how did he become “Spokesperson” for just about everything being sold on T.V.? Remember: “Hi, I’m Billy Mays and I’m here to tell you about the magic of OXY- CLEAN.” And the voice—the guy must have worked with Brahma bulls in a rodeo and knows the secret of making them buck. He’s applying the same technique to himself to get his voice so high and screechy. Either that or he’s drinking OXY-CLEAN!
§ There’s a company in Florida that sells, get ready for this, “Safe Sex Cards”. The idea, I suppose, is to assure your partner that everything is cool—not to mention clean! I just can’t imagine where you swipe the card.
§ I recently purchased a MP-3 player for my wife. Two weeks elapsed from the time of purchase until the day I gave it to her (it was a gift for an occasion). Upon opening the device, I soon realized that it didn’t function properly because of a faulty connecting cable. I immediately, the same day, returned the product with the intent of exchanging it… I didn’t want my money returned, I wanted a product that worked. The customer service agent, and later the store manager, initially refused to do so. Their statement was that for a product that cost less than $100, I should have purchased the product performance policy that all the stores try to sell us nowadays. Am I loosing my mind or is there something that stinks about having—call it what the store will-- an “insurance policy” to guarantee that the brand new product I’m buying in good faith is supposed to be brand new and works? What happened to the American concept of “Good Faith In Purchases”? Let the Chinamen guarantee it—they built it! Is that asking too much?
Well now I’m all fired up and it seems like time to pour a couple of cold ones. I think I’ll drink American beer-- they guarantee satisfaction!
Billy P.
Every now and then I like to invite my friends to tell me about their “Catch” situations. But I always go first.
A cashier at Blockbuster recently advised me that I had a late charge for a movie. I realized that this was a mistake, but I went ahead and paid the fee, anyway, just to be done with it. When I arrived home, the morning mail included a notice from Blockbuster advising me that I would have to pay a full retail price for this same movie as “it had not been returned.” I returned immediately to the store with my receipt for payment and the notice to make my case, when the cashier interrupted:
“I’m sorry, Sir, you did not pay a late charge for this movie… Blockbuster no longer charges late fees.”
At this point I’m a bit confused considering I’m holding a receipt in my hand that I received from this same guy thirty minutes earlier.
“You were assessed a restocking fee,” he continued.
“What, pray tell, is a restocking fee?” I asked.
“A restocking fee is assessed to cover the cost of restocking an item that has been returned past its due date.”
“So allow me to understand all of this,” I persisted. “In my right hand I have a notice that states that I didn’t return your movie and in my left hand I have a receipt for the charges to restock the same movie that I didn’t return, correct?”
Get ready for this, he replied, “Yes, that’s correct.”
I’m a nice guy but I have to write this guy off as “un-fixably stupid.”
One of my friends replied to this story with his “Catch”. He is on the verge of filing for business and personal bankruptcy. He thought he would call his major creditors who are mortgage companies and give the “heads-up” on his situation and, perhaps, negotiate some debt relief. His overture was promptly rejected on the grounds that he could not be given a debt relief plan because his credit standing was too good!
It seems that you have to be broke before you go broke!
All of this reminds me of my first employer, Bernie Greenbaum. Bernie owned a local grocery store and spoke Yiddish better than he did English. He also had a temper and loved to tell his customers to go shop elsewhere if they thought the prices was too high or the bread wasn’t fresh enough. He would always end his farewell salutations for deposed customers with the same heavily accented: “And fur yu, even if ve gotit--- ve dun’t gotit!”
Now I know what he means!
Short Bits:
§ Has anyone noticed the number of celebrity chefs appearing on T.V. who are of English or Australian heritage? When is the last time you got hungry for any of their food? As for me, I prefer my marsupials with mayonnaise! Anyone who has studied history knows that the British tried to, and in fact did, rule most of the world not because they were imperialists—as some would claim—they were just hungry, for crying out loud! You try living off of Kidney Pie, chap! Hell, let’s invade a country and get something to eat!
§ Who in the world is Billy Mays and how did he become “Spokesperson” for just about everything being sold on T.V.? Remember: “Hi, I’m Billy Mays and I’m here to tell you about the magic of OXY- CLEAN.” And the voice—the guy must have worked with Brahma bulls in a rodeo and knows the secret of making them buck. He’s applying the same technique to himself to get his voice so high and screechy. Either that or he’s drinking OXY-CLEAN!
§ There’s a company in Florida that sells, get ready for this, “Safe Sex Cards”. The idea, I suppose, is to assure your partner that everything is cool—not to mention clean! I just can’t imagine where you swipe the card.
§ I recently purchased a MP-3 player for my wife. Two weeks elapsed from the time of purchase until the day I gave it to her (it was a gift for an occasion). Upon opening the device, I soon realized that it didn’t function properly because of a faulty connecting cable. I immediately, the same day, returned the product with the intent of exchanging it… I didn’t want my money returned, I wanted a product that worked. The customer service agent, and later the store manager, initially refused to do so. Their statement was that for a product that cost less than $100, I should have purchased the product performance policy that all the stores try to sell us nowadays. Am I loosing my mind or is there something that stinks about having—call it what the store will-- an “insurance policy” to guarantee that the brand new product I’m buying in good faith is supposed to be brand new and works? What happened to the American concept of “Good Faith In Purchases”? Let the Chinamen guarantee it—they built it! Is that asking too much?
Well now I’m all fired up and it seems like time to pour a couple of cold ones. I think I’ll drink American beer-- they guarantee satisfaction!
Billy P.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
"The Times, They Are A Changing."
Like so many persons of my generation- whatever generation that is- I sometimes feel consumed like an undersized donut by the rapid- fire advances of technology and the times that pass with it.
I mean you are talking to a kid who tried to drink out of a bidet the first time he saw one (beady, for those of us who don’t speak French); a plausible idea when you think about it – the water does flow upward!
Thank God porcelain is so hard. If I hadn’t chipped my tooth I might have been successful at quenching my thirst!
I am not very old, at least, by my reckoning. And yet, the house in which I was raised had four changes of heating source during in its lifetime: coal, electric, oil, and gas.
There were horse troughs in my neighborhood because the streets were so narrow that horses were used to deliver produce and dairy products. (Did you know that a horse could eat and poop at the same time?)
For crying out loud, the worst accident my family ever endured was when my father, who was driving our car, crashed into a run-away horse that had sprinted into our path. Yuck-- not a nice picture! And this, people, was in the middle of Philadelphia! Not even close to Texas!
For most of us who have lived more that two or three decades the changes that have occurred in science or social mores is simply mind – boggling. I thought I would make a list for myself just to keep track of my dementia.
Women now have breasts. In the 50’s if they had them you seldom saw them, never touched them and confessed to all of the above if you were a Catholic and were worried about your place in Heaven. I spent a lot of time saying Hail Mary’s after Playboy hit the shelves.
I don’t want to stay on the subject of sex – actually, I would but that’s another Hail Mary – but parts of our anatomy were cleverly disguised by code words. A man’s major organ, for example, might be called a member. I never quite understood that one:
“John was given our highest award at the Club and all the members stood up and applauded."
Athletes used to get in shape by consuming copious quantities of beer. Now they shoot up with muscle enhancing drugs! Wow, where’s the professionalism?
Family T.V. shows usually featured a father who would frequently threaten his kids with corporal punishment. Remember the Beaver? I wanted to hit this kid myself and I was a kid!
In today’s affairs, you are more likely to see a kid file charges against his parents because they took his Internet privileges away.
Mary Tyler Moore caused a big stir when she chose to set a fashion trend by wearing Capri pants on the Dick Van Dyke show. Nowadays, on T.V., clothing is optional!
I’m still trying to figure out how we jumped from a Princess Phone to a Blackberry? I must have missed a commercial.
All in all, I love the changes although, I must admit, I sometimes feel like I’m being spun around in a game of Pin-The- Tail On- The- Donkey and we’re using a dozen real donkeys as the targets.
Well, if you don’t go with the times, time will pass you by-- and, with that in mind, I’m late for my next lesson in human sexuality at TITSANDASS. Com (don’t forget all those cute www. things).
Billy P.
.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
"That's The Catch!"
If we, indeed, have a generation called BabyBoomers, we must be on a Boom to Doom cycle. I read recently that, although Boomers represent literally trillions of dollars in equity and whatever that would equate to in spend-able income, the giant advertising and marketing agencies largely overlook us. Actually, more money is spent on something called the “demographics of the 18-30 age- bracket” than on capturing our purchasing potential.
That strikes me as interesting. I can’t mention in numbers how many families I know with children, who are still trying to get the shits out of their house. No kidding, anyone have a 24 year-old still trying to get mommy’s milk? Hell, I have one friend who returned to his parents at the age of 35. I think he preferred it there as opposed to living with his wife; his mother let him stay up later.
I was a good kid in a bad neighborhood; got “A’s” in school (when they still had “A’s”), didn’t get arrested too often, never got caught smoking pot—hell, I was perfect! When I got out of the Army I had the opportunity, thanks to the State of Pennsylvania, to coast for a few months on Unemployment Compensation. It was the State’s way of saying “ Thank You” for giving up 3 years of my life, and a good idea at that! Well, anyway, I stayed with my parents for less than 1 month. One morning my father pulled me aside and handed to me a copy of the local newspaper prominently featuring the “ Want Ads.”
“If I were you,” he advised, “I’d go out and get one of these jobs.” (He had taken the time to circle several “ help-wanted” notices.)
It finally dawned on me, and I queried, “ Dad, you’re not throwing me out of our house, are you?”
“ Oh, no,” he replied. “ I’m throwing you out of my house.”
Well, the point was understood; I took a job and left all that free money on the table because- no kiddin’- he would have thrown my ass on the streets, discharge papers and all!
So, we have all this money—trillions, wasn’t it—and our kids are still peeing in our toilets and waiting for mom to iron their shirts?
We sure outsmarted them, didn’t we?
§ I heard some report on T.V. that other than Osama, the bin-Laden family is straight and has many ties to the U.S., especially in investments like the Stock Market. This report (and I’m sorry I can’t remember its origin) mentioned that their investments were far-reaching and even included stock in the Disney Company. No wonder we can’t find the Bastard. No one has checked the Magic Kingdom!
§ I just finished spending about a billion dollars with a Periodontist. Actually, he talked me into a tooth implant that cost 4 grand. Ironically, the very next day I had an appointment with my Internist to discuss the results of my recent blood test. Well, based on the results of everything he had looked at, his advise was that I limit or eliminate meat from my diet and consume more fiber. So, for $4,000 I got a tooth that I can only use on Metamucil. Go figure!
Billy P.
That strikes me as interesting. I can’t mention in numbers how many families I know with children, who are still trying to get the shits out of their house. No kidding, anyone have a 24 year-old still trying to get mommy’s milk? Hell, I have one friend who returned to his parents at the age of 35. I think he preferred it there as opposed to living with his wife; his mother let him stay up later.
I was a good kid in a bad neighborhood; got “A’s” in school (when they still had “A’s”), didn’t get arrested too often, never got caught smoking pot—hell, I was perfect! When I got out of the Army I had the opportunity, thanks to the State of Pennsylvania, to coast for a few months on Unemployment Compensation. It was the State’s way of saying “ Thank You” for giving up 3 years of my life, and a good idea at that! Well, anyway, I stayed with my parents for less than 1 month. One morning my father pulled me aside and handed to me a copy of the local newspaper prominently featuring the “ Want Ads.”
“If I were you,” he advised, “I’d go out and get one of these jobs.” (He had taken the time to circle several “ help-wanted” notices.)
It finally dawned on me, and I queried, “ Dad, you’re not throwing me out of our house, are you?”
“ Oh, no,” he replied. “ I’m throwing you out of my house.”
Well, the point was understood; I took a job and left all that free money on the table because- no kiddin’- he would have thrown my ass on the streets, discharge papers and all!
So, we have all this money—trillions, wasn’t it—and our kids are still peeing in our toilets and waiting for mom to iron their shirts?
We sure outsmarted them, didn’t we?
§ I heard some report on T.V. that other than Osama, the bin-Laden family is straight and has many ties to the U.S., especially in investments like the Stock Market. This report (and I’m sorry I can’t remember its origin) mentioned that their investments were far-reaching and even included stock in the Disney Company. No wonder we can’t find the Bastard. No one has checked the Magic Kingdom!
§ I just finished spending about a billion dollars with a Periodontist. Actually, he talked me into a tooth implant that cost 4 grand. Ironically, the very next day I had an appointment with my Internist to discuss the results of my recent blood test. Well, based on the results of everything he had looked at, his advise was that I limit or eliminate meat from my diet and consume more fiber. So, for $4,000 I got a tooth that I can only use on Metamucil. Go figure!
Billy P.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
"If It's Just A Credit Crunch...How Come My Butt Hurts?"
Economists, politicians, and anyone else enamored with the money business- interest rates, national productivity, available inventory of durable goods (whatever the Hell that means!) each find their own fascination as to how to detect a weakening economy; is it the shrinking equity of the stock market, lack of consumer spending, or, have the Japanese stopped buying all of Hawaii?
Please, give me a panic button!
And, of course, we had that fellow Greenspan. The dude spent half of each day soaking himself in a tub digesting statistical data which, supposedly, gave him the evidence and inspiration he needed to make suggestions, or innuendos, raise or lower interest rates, and do whatever else a guy does with his job title.
He should have spent more time using a skin moisturizer and less time soaking his prune –like ass given the state of my checking account.
I confess that I have only a High School diploma (and, from a dubious High School, at that) but – I have a better idea about understanding this thing and it’s really simple!
The state of the economy has nothing whatsoever to do with all those funny up and down graphs the experts are always pointing to on the Telly.
If you need to know what is going on with our current and future economic situation, simply go to a local bar.
The first thing you will want to do is to look for men who are wearing white T-shirts and white trousers. These folks are called painters. If they have no paint on their clothing they are referred to as: Unemployed Painters!
Now comes the fun part:
Take the total seating capacity of the establishment (remember to use bars only – this theory will not work at Burger King); now, get a quick count of the number of painters without paint on their uniforms, take that number and make a fraction of it in terms of the seating capacity. For example, if the seating capacity is 100 and the total of paint-less painters is 5, the percentage is 5 per cent. This number equates to 5 per cent unemployment in the building trades nationally. Note: painters who have some paint on their clothing only count as half a point.
Now this technique works for most occupations: salesmen, plumbers, ditch diggers, etc. It will not work for government workers – who never get laid off, even when they are not needed to begin with!
It also doesn’t work with dentists who generate their own demand by yanking a tooth or finding gingivitis every time they have a cash flow problem.
If you have any questions, call me at the local bar.
I’m starting my own job title: Writers Who Don’t Get Paid For Writing!
Billy P.
Please, give me a panic button!
And, of course, we had that fellow Greenspan. The dude spent half of each day soaking himself in a tub digesting statistical data which, supposedly, gave him the evidence and inspiration he needed to make suggestions, or innuendos, raise or lower interest rates, and do whatever else a guy does with his job title.
He should have spent more time using a skin moisturizer and less time soaking his prune –like ass given the state of my checking account.
I confess that I have only a High School diploma (and, from a dubious High School, at that) but – I have a better idea about understanding this thing and it’s really simple!
The state of the economy has nothing whatsoever to do with all those funny up and down graphs the experts are always pointing to on the Telly.
If you need to know what is going on with our current and future economic situation, simply go to a local bar.
The first thing you will want to do is to look for men who are wearing white T-shirts and white trousers. These folks are called painters. If they have no paint on their clothing they are referred to as: Unemployed Painters!
Now comes the fun part:
Take the total seating capacity of the establishment (remember to use bars only – this theory will not work at Burger King); now, get a quick count of the number of painters without paint on their uniforms, take that number and make a fraction of it in terms of the seating capacity. For example, if the seating capacity is 100 and the total of paint-less painters is 5, the percentage is 5 per cent. This number equates to 5 per cent unemployment in the building trades nationally. Note: painters who have some paint on their clothing only count as half a point.
Now this technique works for most occupations: salesmen, plumbers, ditch diggers, etc. It will not work for government workers – who never get laid off, even when they are not needed to begin with!
It also doesn’t work with dentists who generate their own demand by yanking a tooth or finding gingivitis every time they have a cash flow problem.
If you have any questions, call me at the local bar.
I’m starting my own job title: Writers Who Don’t Get Paid For Writing!
Billy P.
Monday, August 18, 2008
"Computer Love Or How I Pressed The Wrong Button And Deleted My Heart!"
Love has always presented itself in unpredictable ways and, usually, with unpredictable faces. But I don’t think many of us would have dreamed that the magical connection would ever have been something called a “search engine” whose loving touch wouldn’t be cupid’s arrow, but the “Go” button on your keyboard. Simple as all that!
I’m married now—happily, I should add—my wife proof- reads my scribbling! There was a time when my friends would compliment me. “Billy P.” they would say, “you always find the most attractive women.” I would always respond with a similar factual statement: “You should have seen the 50 or so that I asked out before I got someone to say, ‘Yes’.” And that was the truth. I always looked at dating like a wine making process. You have to step on a lot of grapes before you get wine. In the falling- in- love business, you have to get your heart stepped on before you get the final product—and, hopefully, it’s just your heart!
A friend of mine recently decided to give that eHarmony deal a try. After filling out their 6 million-word profile, the one that supplies the “29 Dimensions” to true compatibility, she started to receive replies. Out of the first ten responses, 3 were from psychiatrists! Is that too funny, or what?
I’m not doing much productive these days, so I’m thinking about getting into the “fix-you-up” business with a business plan that combines harmony’s Christian zeal with my old friend Louie the Pimp’s business concepts that didn’t have much of a religious affiliation, but were certainly time tested. Help me with my questionnaire, please.
Our staff of experts prepared the following questions. They have been carefully crafted to appeal to and be useful for all sexes, sexual orientations, and political aspirants. Transgender applicants should disregard as you already have reached a mature understanding of dealing with both sexes.
I’m married now—happily, I should add—my wife proof- reads my scribbling! There was a time when my friends would compliment me. “Billy P.” they would say, “you always find the most attractive women.” I would always respond with a similar factual statement: “You should have seen the 50 or so that I asked out before I got someone to say, ‘Yes’.” And that was the truth. I always looked at dating like a wine making process. You have to step on a lot of grapes before you get wine. In the falling- in- love business, you have to get your heart stepped on before you get the final product—and, hopefully, it’s just your heart!
A friend of mine recently decided to give that eHarmony deal a try. After filling out their 6 million-word profile, the one that supplies the “29 Dimensions” to true compatibility, she started to receive replies. Out of the first ten responses, 3 were from psychiatrists! Is that too funny, or what?
I’m not doing much productive these days, so I’m thinking about getting into the “fix-you-up” business with a business plan that combines harmony’s Christian zeal with my old friend Louie the Pimp’s business concepts that didn’t have much of a religious affiliation, but were certainly time tested. Help me with my questionnaire, please.
Our staff of experts prepared the following questions. They have been carefully crafted to appeal to and be useful for all sexes, sexual orientations, and political aspirants. Transgender applicants should disregard as you already have reached a mature understanding of dealing with both sexes.
- Do you spend much time starring at yourself in the shower; if so, do you hear little voices that make lurid suggestions about ways to use your washrag?
- Can you swallow a raw oyster while imagining a sexual encounter between FDR and his wife, Eleanor?
- Who does Neil Clark Warren, the President of eHarmony, most resemble: your grandfather, my grandfather, or his grandfather? Please select a minimum of 2 responses.
- Explain the similarities of the "29 Dimensions of Compatibility", the "Eight-Fold Path", and the "Kama-Sutra"?
- Describe, in detail, the perfect date in this weakening economy. All responses must exclude any involvement of physical, conversational, or imaginable sexual conduct.
- When did you last attend a Barry Manilow concert, and did you participate in the "wave"?
- You have arranged an encounter with 3 persons whose pictures you have never seen. Upon arrival, you realize that the first person has no legs and is distinguished only by a protruding cleft-lip; the second, has 2 baling hooks in place of hands and speaks Spanish; the third person is burned to such a degree that its sex and native language are indistinguishable. How fast can you exit the building if the door behind you has been permanently locked?
- What do Adolph Eichmann, Mark Phelps, and the Dali Lama have in common?
- If you had $500 would you be willing to send it to me and my friend Louie as payment for a guaranteed good-time date?
- Lastly, if the answer to the above questions is yes, can you make that payment in cash?
I think that I will stick to the old-fashion ways of meeting people. All this chemistry stuff confuses me. And, besides, the only recipe I can follow is for Jello, and I'm not too fond of that either.
Billy P.
"Over-Qualified, Under-Qualified, Disqualified!"
The question of experience and qualifications, as it applies to employment, has taken a new turn in this wild and wacky culture of ours and is being highlighted by the current squabbling for the office of President.
My permanent stand as it concerns political elections is neutral. The last President who stirred my passions was Abraham Lincoln—so that should set my feelings in stone.
If you want to side with John McCain, the only thing Obama is qualified to do is be a good partner in a game of horse (that’s a basketball game of skill involving shooting the ball--just in case you were born on a horse farm in West Chester, New York). McCain certainly has a point. After all, it was just a few years ago that Obama was a Junior Senator in the legislature of a state whose name no one can pronounce. (Is it, Il-A-Noy, Il-A-Noise, or Il-La-Nwa?)
Obama, on the other hand has some factual garbage to throw in McCann’s direction. If experience counts for so much—and the Bush Administration had some of best money can buy with the likes of Cheney, Rumsfeld, etc.-- how come the country is so screwed up? We are about a “gazillion dollars” in debt, we are fighting a couple of wars with professed uncertainty about our purpose for doing so, inflation is going crazy—and unemployment is making its move—and the once mighty U.S. Dollar might compete with Zimbabwe’s if it depreciates anymore. Let’s hear it for experience!
We Doomers have known about these challenges for a long time ago. This is the generation, despite are historical successes in making money and acquiring wealth, that also is getting it right up the “you know what” in our quest to continue to enjoy our prosperity. Just take a look at all the history:
§ Sure, many of us have done well professionally, but whatever happened to job security. We have contributed to our own antiguity, especially if we have participated in the computer industry and aided its development. We are the carriage makers of our generation. What happened to the “We Are Family” experience that all the big corporations used to propagandize and market as part of your job and benefits? You’ll have to play the Sly and the Family Stones tune and light one up if want to regain that feeling. Just go ask some house painter who used to fly for Delta or some mid-level executive who spent 15 years with the AT&T family and is now working for Radio Shack as a clerk.
My permanent stand as it concerns political elections is neutral. The last President who stirred my passions was Abraham Lincoln—so that should set my feelings in stone.
If you want to side with John McCain, the only thing Obama is qualified to do is be a good partner in a game of horse (that’s a basketball game of skill involving shooting the ball--just in case you were born on a horse farm in West Chester, New York). McCain certainly has a point. After all, it was just a few years ago that Obama was a Junior Senator in the legislature of a state whose name no one can pronounce. (Is it, Il-A-Noy, Il-A-Noise, or Il-La-Nwa?)
Obama, on the other hand has some factual garbage to throw in McCann’s direction. If experience counts for so much—and the Bush Administration had some of best money can buy with the likes of Cheney, Rumsfeld, etc.-- how come the country is so screwed up? We are about a “gazillion dollars” in debt, we are fighting a couple of wars with professed uncertainty about our purpose for doing so, inflation is going crazy—and unemployment is making its move—and the once mighty U.S. Dollar might compete with Zimbabwe’s if it depreciates anymore. Let’s hear it for experience!
We Doomers have known about these challenges for a long time ago. This is the generation, despite are historical successes in making money and acquiring wealth, that also is getting it right up the “you know what” in our quest to continue to enjoy our prosperity. Just take a look at all the history:
§ Sure, many of us have done well professionally, but whatever happened to job security. We have contributed to our own antiguity, especially if we have participated in the computer industry and aided its development. We are the carriage makers of our generation. What happened to the “We Are Family” experience that all the big corporations used to propagandize and market as part of your job and benefits? You’ll have to play the Sly and the Family Stones tune and light one up if want to regain that feeling. Just go ask some house painter who used to fly for Delta or some mid-level executive who spent 15 years with the AT&T family and is now working for Radio Shack as a clerk.
§ And what about that money that was put away for something called retirement? Do we have any left considering the state of the stock market, falling interest rates, loss in the housing equity market, and that’s assuming we haven’t been defrauded by the “keepers of the gate”—Enron, anyone?
§ Many of us are being pushed aside—for the good of the company—before we reach the age of 50;entirely, too young—practically and emotionally—to lay down and get ready to die. Hell, science is keeping us alive longer which even makes it harder. What a bitch!
§ Not all of us have been college graduates and climbed the ladder. Sometimes we all forget that a large percentage of our population is born and dies in the same house. What about those guys?
§ If we are the “Success Generation”, the Boomers, why all the divorces—unsuccessful marriages and freaked out kids? Prosperity breeds, what? Support groups for everyone?
A friend has been irregularly employed for 3 years. He speaks Spanish. He has experience in several businesses as a leader and owner. He has managed people, made forecasts, and even has taken part in strategic business planning.
He recently has been rejected, several times, in applications to work in commercial kitchens as a cook’s helper. The pay would have been $9 per hour if he had been accepted. He was over-qualified for that position—under qualified for others, and disqualified from all!
McCain might have a problem if he has ever read a history book. Once upon a time there was a man whose highest public office and experience had been as a representative in the State Legislature of Illinois and as a one-term congressman in the U.S. House of Representatives. He had no military experience whatsoever, but, nevertheless, educated himself in such matters and became one of our most active Presidents as a Commander-In-Chief. He also accomplished a few other noteworthy achievements.
His name was Abraham Lincoln!
Billy P
Sunday, August 17, 2008
"It's Never Too Late To Waste The Rest Of Your Life, Part Two!"
I once knew a fella named Big Fat. He was appropriately called by that moniker because, as you might guess, he was big and fat.
Big Fat had enjoyed quite a lot of success in his life. He had owned several restaurants in Georgia and prospered quite well in that undertaking. But after the passing of some years, as is often the case, things began to change and Big Fat’s fortunes finally began heading in the opposite direction of his ambitions. Simply stated—he went broke! When the smoke had cleared, the only things remaining were his odious debts and his wife and kids who were even less desirable. So, Big Fat did what many of us would like to do faced with such a situation—he packed his bags and ran. Boy, did he run—all the way to Costa Rica where he had heard the whiskey was cheap and the women were cheaper.
Now, a man still has to make a living doing something. With that in mind Big Fat opened another restaurant—or, at least, kind of a restaurant. It was located in some seedy section of San Jose, had four tables and almost as many seats and featured, shall we say, a limited menu. On a visit to San Jose, I stopped by his place for a quick “hello.” After imbibing a dozen drinks or so, I decided it was time to have a bite to eat. With this in mind, I asked Big Fat what was the bill of fare. He said nothing and just pointed to a chalk- board that hung un- noticeably above the bar. It read: “MENU, HAM & CHESSE SANDWICH.” “Well, if that’s all you have,” I said, “I guess I’ll have a ham and cheese sandwich.”
“Can’t,” Big Fat replied.
“ Why not?” I asked.
“ We’re out of ham.”
“Well, how ‘bout a plain-old cheese sandwich?”
Just as I asked the question, I could hear Big Fat blaring out his response:
“ We’re out of bread, too.”
So, I graciously settled for a piece a cheese and, of course, a couple dozen more drinks and finally got the courage to ask a simple question.
“Big Fat,” I began, in the best business-like voice cheap whiskey can provide, “How in Hell’s name do you expect to make a living in this cruddy place, in the middle of no place-ville Central America-- where no one speaks your language—and you don’t speak theirs-- how in the Hell do you expect to make it selling cheese one slice at a time?”
“Billy P,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly-like way as if to give counsel, “It’s never too late to waste the rest of your life!”
And so it is. Perhaps, spending the time and effort pounding out these memories, I just might prove his point.
That’s The Catch…
Has anyone noticed that the ASPCA has gone into competition with the adoption agency for CATHOLIC CHARITIES? They each show these gut- wrenching photos, of dogs or children and you can adopt either one. For $18 bucks you get a dog. For $22 you get a kid. Either one comes with photos that promise to tear your heart out (those big, sad eyes). I can’t afford both so I took the dog. They are $4 cheaper- don’t eat as much, have shorter life expectancy, and, unlike kids, always feel bad after they pee on your carpet.
Billy P
Big Fat had enjoyed quite a lot of success in his life. He had owned several restaurants in Georgia and prospered quite well in that undertaking. But after the passing of some years, as is often the case, things began to change and Big Fat’s fortunes finally began heading in the opposite direction of his ambitions. Simply stated—he went broke! When the smoke had cleared, the only things remaining were his odious debts and his wife and kids who were even less desirable. So, Big Fat did what many of us would like to do faced with such a situation—he packed his bags and ran. Boy, did he run—all the way to Costa Rica where he had heard the whiskey was cheap and the women were cheaper.
Now, a man still has to make a living doing something. With that in mind Big Fat opened another restaurant—or, at least, kind of a restaurant. It was located in some seedy section of San Jose, had four tables and almost as many seats and featured, shall we say, a limited menu. On a visit to San Jose, I stopped by his place for a quick “hello.” After imbibing a dozen drinks or so, I decided it was time to have a bite to eat. With this in mind, I asked Big Fat what was the bill of fare. He said nothing and just pointed to a chalk- board that hung un- noticeably above the bar. It read: “MENU, HAM & CHESSE SANDWICH.” “Well, if that’s all you have,” I said, “I guess I’ll have a ham and cheese sandwich.”
“Can’t,” Big Fat replied.
“ Why not?” I asked.
“ We’re out of ham.”
“Well, how ‘bout a plain-old cheese sandwich?”
Just as I asked the question, I could hear Big Fat blaring out his response:
“ We’re out of bread, too.”
So, I graciously settled for a piece a cheese and, of course, a couple dozen more drinks and finally got the courage to ask a simple question.
“Big Fat,” I began, in the best business-like voice cheap whiskey can provide, “How in Hell’s name do you expect to make a living in this cruddy place, in the middle of no place-ville Central America-- where no one speaks your language—and you don’t speak theirs-- how in the Hell do you expect to make it selling cheese one slice at a time?”
“Billy P,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly-like way as if to give counsel, “It’s never too late to waste the rest of your life!”
And so it is. Perhaps, spending the time and effort pounding out these memories, I just might prove his point.
That’s The Catch…
Has anyone noticed that the ASPCA has gone into competition with the adoption agency for CATHOLIC CHARITIES? They each show these gut- wrenching photos, of dogs or children and you can adopt either one. For $18 bucks you get a dog. For $22 you get a kid. Either one comes with photos that promise to tear your heart out (those big, sad eyes). I can’t afford both so I took the dog. They are $4 cheaper- don’t eat as much, have shorter life expectancy, and, unlike kids, always feel bad after they pee on your carpet.
Billy P
Saturday, August 16, 2008
"What's Butch Really Up To?"
When I was a young kind in the 50’s I don’t remember if we really had a word that would be the equivalent of gay, queer, or fagot! It was only in the 60’ s-70 that those words became offensively popularized. Today, most homosexual men don’t have a problem addressing themselves with any of the aforementioned terms. We Doomers seem to be living through another cycle—this one language—and I kind of enjoy it; I’d rather use language and laugh than provoke.
I remember that I used to get regularly pissed at a guy name Raymond Powers. He was a good-looking kid, always impeccably dressed, who sang in a boys’ soprano voice. Sound familiar? In any event, everywhere Raymond went, the girls would follow. Not being a very smart kid, it took me forever to figure out that the girls liked Raymond because he did everything they did. He even jumped rope, for God sakes! The problem I had was that I lacked a really good, rotten word to call him. I think I settled for “creep” and then asked him for a few pointers about the rope thing—Banana Split was my favorite!
Of course, unless you’ve broken all the mirrors in your house and city, you probably have noticed that the times, in addition, to your waistline have changed. But this thing that Raymond had—whatever you choose to call it—seems to be spreading, even to our best friends!
I am worried that my neighbor’s dog is gay and he might influence the behavior of the younger pups around him. This animal, which believe it or not, is called “Butch”, can regularly be seen grooming himself not just in the middle of the parking lot, but in the middle of his you-know-what! He seems to prefer the afternoon hours in the shade of an old tree. After watching this behavior for a while, I am beginning to wonder if Butch’s true motivation is cleanliness, as I’m sure he would profess if he could articulate. In any event, he takes an awful long time doing what we humans accomplish is just a few seconds with a washrag and bar of soap. In fact, just when I think he has finished, he gives me a knowing “Well, why not look,” licks his chops and dives back in for seconds. I sometimes anticipate that he really wants to light a cigarette after he has finished. Obviously, in doggy- world, mothers must check more than hands before dinner.
So, I thought I would take my problem to my friends Harry and Patrick. Harry and Patrick are two of the best friends my wife and I have. They have been a couple for over 20 years, so you might guess that they know something about the subject that was troubling me.
I told them about Butch and Patrick assured me that Butch was performing a totally natural act, and that he wasn’t a Homo—just a doggie! He also said that I shouldn’t really worry about the other dogs because it wasn’t SOMETHING they would unless, of course, they had the inclination.
This, of course, is also reassuring information for all the former and current gymnasts out there who can stretch, bend and contort themselves in positions the Kama Sutra would envy. If you get the urge, don’t worry: You’re not gay, you’re a dog! This information will especially comfort their families. There is always room for another “ Spay” in the family, but another Gay—well, that would spoil the litter!
Billy P.
I remember that I used to get regularly pissed at a guy name Raymond Powers. He was a good-looking kid, always impeccably dressed, who sang in a boys’ soprano voice. Sound familiar? In any event, everywhere Raymond went, the girls would follow. Not being a very smart kid, it took me forever to figure out that the girls liked Raymond because he did everything they did. He even jumped rope, for God sakes! The problem I had was that I lacked a really good, rotten word to call him. I think I settled for “creep” and then asked him for a few pointers about the rope thing—Banana Split was my favorite!
Of course, unless you’ve broken all the mirrors in your house and city, you probably have noticed that the times, in addition, to your waistline have changed. But this thing that Raymond had—whatever you choose to call it—seems to be spreading, even to our best friends!
I am worried that my neighbor’s dog is gay and he might influence the behavior of the younger pups around him. This animal, which believe it or not, is called “Butch”, can regularly be seen grooming himself not just in the middle of the parking lot, but in the middle of his you-know-what! He seems to prefer the afternoon hours in the shade of an old tree. After watching this behavior for a while, I am beginning to wonder if Butch’s true motivation is cleanliness, as I’m sure he would profess if he could articulate. In any event, he takes an awful long time doing what we humans accomplish is just a few seconds with a washrag and bar of soap. In fact, just when I think he has finished, he gives me a knowing “Well, why not look,” licks his chops and dives back in for seconds. I sometimes anticipate that he really wants to light a cigarette after he has finished. Obviously, in doggy- world, mothers must check more than hands before dinner.
So, I thought I would take my problem to my friends Harry and Patrick. Harry and Patrick are two of the best friends my wife and I have. They have been a couple for over 20 years, so you might guess that they know something about the subject that was troubling me.
I told them about Butch and Patrick assured me that Butch was performing a totally natural act, and that he wasn’t a Homo—just a doggie! He also said that I shouldn’t really worry about the other dogs because it wasn’t SOMETHING they would unless, of course, they had the inclination.
This, of course, is also reassuring information for all the former and current gymnasts out there who can stretch, bend and contort themselves in positions the Kama Sutra would envy. If you get the urge, don’t worry: You’re not gay, you’re a dog! This information will especially comfort their families. There is always room for another “ Spay” in the family, but another Gay—well, that would spoil the litter!
Billy P.
Friday, August 15, 2008
"World Piece, Or How To Have Your Cake And Eat It Too!"
I can’t help but notice that we have begun this thing called “The Olympics.”
Now I’m not real smart, but weren’t these the same guys who were lobbing mortar shells at our guys in some place called Korea? And weren’t they the same folks who supplied arms to any faction anywhere in the world to militarily counter any presence of U.S. influence? (Remember Vietnam?)
I pride myself in being a pretty decent student of History—heck, I can even name all the Presidents, except for the last one. Yeah, I’ve read all the hard- bound books in the library—the ones with all the dust—that are about political thought from Karl Marx to Barry Goldwater. In fact, I think I’ve finally gathered enough information in my head to start drawing some of my own conclusions.
Just examine the facts. During the 50 years-plus—or let’s say from Harry Truman to about the present-day, all we have done is joust with these folks with the possibility of world destruction as the payoff. We have been, directly and indirectly, involved in two wars with this culture. We have bullied each other over more subjects than historians have toes. And now—boom—it is all melting away like the wicked witch of the Far East!
And who or what deserves the credit? Truman or Eisenhower for sending the troops to where ever to confront aggression? Or how about Johnson, who said if we didn’t stop them in Vietnam we would be going at it hand-to-hand in the gay district of San Francisco? I don’t think so…Nope, not at all!
Their Chairman, from the Politburo, and our Chairman, from Wal*Mart, got together to work it all out. And you know the silly thing was all about—MONEY! All that squabbling for all those years, and it was just a little old-fashioned, “What can you do for me” and “What can I do for you” business sense that peed on all the fireworks. And should anyone be surprised? Has anyone really had a serious altercation with a person of Chinese descent? Overwhelmingly, this is a culture of amiability, civility, and great industry. No Chinaman has ever broken into your house or stole your car!
And a few people might notice that we have applied this “Money Can Buy Me Love” policy in other situations. Examine the history of the American Indian (Sorry, I can’t buy the “Native American” thing). Okay, no one in their right mind who would look at American History would make a judgment that the Indians were treated fairly by early American political census. But don’t blame me! My ancestors were crushing grapes with their feet in Italy when all this crap went down! But, how do we “rectify” the issues of our forefathers—even if they aren’t our forefathers—we give the Indians money; or, at least, the wherewithal to make money—gaming concessions! Like it or not, it seems to work. Now, the only way an American Indian will get mad at you is if you are caught counting cards at the Blackjack table.
And for all of you conservatives who have some crazy idea that Ronald Reagan won the Cold War, all I have to say is Phooey!! The Cold War melted in its place because communism doesn’t work! There is simply no profit in being a “Commie.” As soon as the “Russkis” and their counterparts in Germany and other allied nations realized this, Karl Marx and his buddies were tossed into the trash and now have a value only realized by the history channel and some pretty cool Tee Shirt concessions. Isn’t the world’s largest McDonalds in Moscow?
Maybe, we might want to think about these events when we choose our next enemies. Iran seems to be a leading candidate at present time. Do the people of Iran hate us, and do we hate them? Or, just maybe, their guys—the ones in power—don’t get along with our guys, and vice-versa.
We might be able to solve this thing with just a little bit of free trade. I’m willing to give them some beer in exchange for some of the virgins they seem to bountifully possess.
We all have our own ideas about how to obtain world peace; my idea simply involves cutting everyone in on a piece of the action.
Billy P.
Now I’m not real smart, but weren’t these the same guys who were lobbing mortar shells at our guys in some place called Korea? And weren’t they the same folks who supplied arms to any faction anywhere in the world to militarily counter any presence of U.S. influence? (Remember Vietnam?)
I pride myself in being a pretty decent student of History—heck, I can even name all the Presidents, except for the last one. Yeah, I’ve read all the hard- bound books in the library—the ones with all the dust—that are about political thought from Karl Marx to Barry Goldwater. In fact, I think I’ve finally gathered enough information in my head to start drawing some of my own conclusions.
Just examine the facts. During the 50 years-plus—or let’s say from Harry Truman to about the present-day, all we have done is joust with these folks with the possibility of world destruction as the payoff. We have been, directly and indirectly, involved in two wars with this culture. We have bullied each other over more subjects than historians have toes. And now—boom—it is all melting away like the wicked witch of the Far East!
And who or what deserves the credit? Truman or Eisenhower for sending the troops to where ever to confront aggression? Or how about Johnson, who said if we didn’t stop them in Vietnam we would be going at it hand-to-hand in the gay district of San Francisco? I don’t think so…Nope, not at all!
Their Chairman, from the Politburo, and our Chairman, from Wal*Mart, got together to work it all out. And you know the silly thing was all about—MONEY! All that squabbling for all those years, and it was just a little old-fashioned, “What can you do for me” and “What can I do for you” business sense that peed on all the fireworks. And should anyone be surprised? Has anyone really had a serious altercation with a person of Chinese descent? Overwhelmingly, this is a culture of amiability, civility, and great industry. No Chinaman has ever broken into your house or stole your car!
And a few people might notice that we have applied this “Money Can Buy Me Love” policy in other situations. Examine the history of the American Indian (Sorry, I can’t buy the “Native American” thing). Okay, no one in their right mind who would look at American History would make a judgment that the Indians were treated fairly by early American political census. But don’t blame me! My ancestors were crushing grapes with their feet in Italy when all this crap went down! But, how do we “rectify” the issues of our forefathers—even if they aren’t our forefathers—we give the Indians money; or, at least, the wherewithal to make money—gaming concessions! Like it or not, it seems to work. Now, the only way an American Indian will get mad at you is if you are caught counting cards at the Blackjack table.
And for all of you conservatives who have some crazy idea that Ronald Reagan won the Cold War, all I have to say is Phooey!! The Cold War melted in its place because communism doesn’t work! There is simply no profit in being a “Commie.” As soon as the “Russkis” and their counterparts in Germany and other allied nations realized this, Karl Marx and his buddies were tossed into the trash and now have a value only realized by the history channel and some pretty cool Tee Shirt concessions. Isn’t the world’s largest McDonalds in Moscow?
Maybe, we might want to think about these events when we choose our next enemies. Iran seems to be a leading candidate at present time. Do the people of Iran hate us, and do we hate them? Or, just maybe, their guys—the ones in power—don’t get along with our guys, and vice-versa.
We might be able to solve this thing with just a little bit of free trade. I’m willing to give them some beer in exchange for some of the virgins they seem to bountifully possess.
We all have our own ideas about how to obtain world peace; my idea simply involves cutting everyone in on a piece of the action.
Billy P.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
You Can't Judge A Book By It's Cover
I come from a long line of liars.
My father set the example for his generation. When I was a young boy, I asked him how tall he was. He responded that he was 6 feet in height and that made me very proud to know that my father walked among giants. It wasn’t for some years—during which time I had, not only gotten older, but taller, that I realized he probably miscalculated. I grew to be just less than 5 feet 9 inches tall and couldn’t help notice that I could see the top of my father’s baldhead. Not to be out- done by this sudden change of events he simply explained “ you shrink as you get older.” Well, at least he was no politician. He stuck with his original story right to the bitter end.
And then there was 2-Toed Jimmy Skeen. Jimmy was an affable, roly-poly guy who was my uncle. He was so named “2 Toed” because he only had a big toe on either of his feet. He was quite a marksman who liked to hunt and claimed that he cut the rest of his toes off so that he could sit in trees and steady the barrel of his rifle using his 2, big toes. Made sense to me then and still does now. In reality, the toes went down with his ship somewhere in the Pacific.
Another family legend was “Twice-Dead Joe.” According to ancestral lore, Joe, who was a prodigious eater, dropped dead after consuming 2 pounds of spaghetti. Let’s forget about the real story, my father—the 6- foot tall guy—claimed that Joe blew up—I guess like a balloon—after ingesting this startling amount of food. But things got even worst for old Joe! Anyone who is Catholic and has traveled to Philadelphia knows that there are many majestic churches in this city. Many of those churches feature grand stairways that are outside the church and seem to climb into the Heavens. (This probably is the effect that is sought.) Well, Joe was buried in the wintertime after a particularly bad storm that left much of the ground covered with ice. It seems the pallbearers, 2 of whom were my father and my uncle, “2-Toed”—men who didn’t mind having a “wee- taste of God’s nectar” on such days and many others-- managed to loose their footing and, therefore, control of old Joe’s coffin. As the story goes, the coffin slid down the church steps directly into the path of an oncoming hearse, which was pulling to the sidewalk to provide Joe with more suitable transportation; and you can guess the outcome—Kaboom! Hence, “Twice- Dead Joe.” My father said that the best part was watching all the women who fainted and rolled down the stairs seemingly following Joe to the street. “Looked like the dance- around on the Lawrence Welk Show,” he would claim.
My namesake, Uncle Bill, once announced that his father, or my grandfather, had suddenly died. The family hurriedly gathered, put on our best mourning clothes, and rushed to their house where the body supposedly was. There was just one surprise, however. When we all entered the house there, seated in his favorite chair and clutching a quart bottle of Schmidt’s’ beer, was my grandfather. My Uncle Bill’s only response to this dramatic change of events was that he was misunderstood. It seems he thought the old man was dying, not dead. Bill didn’t know much about conjugating verbs.
We can’t let the supposed deceased off the hook, Grandfather Dave, that is. When he reached his 70’s he announced that our last name wasn’t “Comerford” but was “Comiskey.” Before anyone got a chance to pursue this sudden change of events, the old man died leaving all who carry the name with a rather large cloud over our existence: Just who the Hell are we?
This familial background has left me no alternative but to consider a career as a politician or writer. Or, better yet, how about a writer for a politician!
Now I’m really excited, no lie!
BillyP.
My father set the example for his generation. When I was a young boy, I asked him how tall he was. He responded that he was 6 feet in height and that made me very proud to know that my father walked among giants. It wasn’t for some years—during which time I had, not only gotten older, but taller, that I realized he probably miscalculated. I grew to be just less than 5 feet 9 inches tall and couldn’t help notice that I could see the top of my father’s baldhead. Not to be out- done by this sudden change of events he simply explained “ you shrink as you get older.” Well, at least he was no politician. He stuck with his original story right to the bitter end.
And then there was 2-Toed Jimmy Skeen. Jimmy was an affable, roly-poly guy who was my uncle. He was so named “2 Toed” because he only had a big toe on either of his feet. He was quite a marksman who liked to hunt and claimed that he cut the rest of his toes off so that he could sit in trees and steady the barrel of his rifle using his 2, big toes. Made sense to me then and still does now. In reality, the toes went down with his ship somewhere in the Pacific.
Another family legend was “Twice-Dead Joe.” According to ancestral lore, Joe, who was a prodigious eater, dropped dead after consuming 2 pounds of spaghetti. Let’s forget about the real story, my father—the 6- foot tall guy—claimed that Joe blew up—I guess like a balloon—after ingesting this startling amount of food. But things got even worst for old Joe! Anyone who is Catholic and has traveled to Philadelphia knows that there are many majestic churches in this city. Many of those churches feature grand stairways that are outside the church and seem to climb into the Heavens. (This probably is the effect that is sought.) Well, Joe was buried in the wintertime after a particularly bad storm that left much of the ground covered with ice. It seems the pallbearers, 2 of whom were my father and my uncle, “2-Toed”—men who didn’t mind having a “wee- taste of God’s nectar” on such days and many others-- managed to loose their footing and, therefore, control of old Joe’s coffin. As the story goes, the coffin slid down the church steps directly into the path of an oncoming hearse, which was pulling to the sidewalk to provide Joe with more suitable transportation; and you can guess the outcome—Kaboom! Hence, “Twice- Dead Joe.” My father said that the best part was watching all the women who fainted and rolled down the stairs seemingly following Joe to the street. “Looked like the dance- around on the Lawrence Welk Show,” he would claim.
My namesake, Uncle Bill, once announced that his father, or my grandfather, had suddenly died. The family hurriedly gathered, put on our best mourning clothes, and rushed to their house where the body supposedly was. There was just one surprise, however. When we all entered the house there, seated in his favorite chair and clutching a quart bottle of Schmidt’s’ beer, was my grandfather. My Uncle Bill’s only response to this dramatic change of events was that he was misunderstood. It seems he thought the old man was dying, not dead. Bill didn’t know much about conjugating verbs.
We can’t let the supposed deceased off the hook, Grandfather Dave, that is. When he reached his 70’s he announced that our last name wasn’t “Comerford” but was “Comiskey.” Before anyone got a chance to pursue this sudden change of events, the old man died leaving all who carry the name with a rather large cloud over our existence: Just who the Hell are we?
This familial background has left me no alternative but to consider a career as a politician or writer. Or, better yet, how about a writer for a politician!
Now I’m really excited, no lie!
BillyP.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
BabyDoomers...
"It's Never Too Late To Waste The Rest Of Your Life."
Prefacing whatever meanderings should follow, I confess to the fact that after the Real War—WW 11—both my mother and father were horny—at least for one night. The one night statement is a sure thing, as would evidence the scribing of this history. Of course, my sisters—there are two of them—might feel a little bit left- out and wonder what the inspiration for their birth might have been considering the immaculate conception had already been used as an excuse or source of motivation.
When I studied the “ Who, Where, What and When” of journalism many years ago, I was taught to address the purpose of the written matter right up front; or simply put, what do you want to say? Of course, my teachers, who should all be taking the long, dirt- nap by now, never heard of the word “site”. They would be distressed if they read a introduction: “ The purpose of this site is to “ Yada, Yada.” A site in the 60’s was a place where nuclear weapons were launched—not ideas! And, hell, Jerry Seinfeld hadn’t even had his Bar Mitzvah.
I guess the official line is that a Baby Boomer is a person who was conceived, or ill conceived—if you know some of the people I’ve known—within the years following that universal calamity or that other universal calamity, the Korean War. Although, I have just read that, officially—and who decides that—the years to qualify as a “BB” are 1945—1964. That makes three wars, assuming you want to include that Vietnam thing. If you’re noticing some correlation connecting birth and war, welcome to my mind probe. Sex is always preferable to being shot at, I suppose. (Unless you’re an Eskimo.) So if you are somewhere between 44 and 63 you’re in—part of the club! The rest of you—go croak in your own era!
We certainly have been witnesses to some incredible changes in our lifetime. Forget about the computer and that funny chip that makes it go. What about energy? You know, the house where I spent my formidable years had four energy sources in the 16 years I lived there; coal, electric, oil, and gas. That’s pretty freaking amazing? An automatic transmission in a car used to be an accessory and is now considered standard. Hugh Hefner was considered a pornographer. He is now discussed with reverence in college business courses. And while on the subject of sex, we used to take lessons from the older kid on the block who had a deck of dirty playing cards to illustrate the new language we were learning. Now Junior just has to know how to surf the web and double click to get his jollies.
Well, I don’t intend to anoint myself as the official chronicler of our generation. I don’t really care that much about what happened, is happening or is going to happen. When someone asks me, “What are you doing?” my standard response is “ Waiting to die, how ‘bout you?” I’m not a cynical person, but life has a natural distorted appearance for me; kind of like looking at myself in those funny mirrors at a carnival. Maybe, it was too much masturbation with those playing cards.
So, I’ll post up everyday. If you decide to follow my mumblings, great! If you don’t, I hope your wife gives birth to a child when your 63. If you have any questions, call me. If I have any questions, I’ll call you. Considering we don’t have each other’s number, let’s call it a draw and call someone else!
Billy P
About The Author…
Billy P. was born in 1947. Shortly thereafter, and knowing that he would imminently receive his draft- notice, he joined the United States Army. In the immediate months following his discharge, he was fired from the first four jobs he had taken. This suggested that a life-long pursuit of underachievement might be a worthwhile undertaking.
He currently operates a river tour service in Bangladesh. His favorite color is pink.
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