Thought for the day: Please don't squeeze the... HEY! Where's the Charmin???
This is a common sight all over the world right now.
If poor ol' Mr. Whipple from the old Charmin television ads were still alive, wouldn't he be astounded? I mean, his very raison d'etre has disappeared. There's absolutely no reason to warn anyone not to squeeze the Charmin these days, because there's none left in the stores for anyone to squeeze... or buy.
Maybe we should blame the mysterious disappearing t.p. on those darned bears... (Or should I say bares?)
Believe me, I'm not making light of COVID-19. Like many of you, my hubby and I are both in the high risk category. But...( Or should I say butt?) as usual, I think the best way to cope with what's happening is with humor. (Surprise!)
So how about a silly little poem/song? (You can imagine me picking my guitar and singing, if you will...)
♪♫♪♫ The pandemic news is scary, And no telling what's to come. We're locked down in isolation, And some brains have gotten numb. That's the simplest explanation For this obsession oh-so-dumb. The world's kinda crumbling around them So– they crave paper to wipe their bum??? CHORUS: Buy it, buy it, and then buy some more. Stack it in the closets; pile it on the floor. Stash it in the basement; stuff it in the car. Drink up all your bourbon, and then store it in your bar. Throw out all your furniture; you can use it as your bed. Build towers to the ceiling, and then fill a backyard shed. Ignore your grumpy neighbors when they look at you and frown, Because you're gonna have the cleanest butt in town.
Like a swarm of hungry locusts, They ravage every store, Grabbing every roll in sight And then moving on for more. This worldwide troop of buttheads, Perhaps a million strong, Care only about their precious rears As they sing their hoarding song: CHORUS: Buy it, buy it, and then buy some more. Stack it in the closets; pile it on the floor. Stash it in the basement; stuff it in the car. Drink up all your bourbon, and then store it in your bar. Throw out all your furniture; you can use it as your bed. Build towers to the ceiling, and then fill a backyard shed. Ignore your grumpy neighbors when they look at you and frown, Because you're gonna have the cleanest butt in town. Fat rolls, thin rolls, packs from four to forty-eight; Soft stuff, rough stuff, and stuff that ain't too great. It really doesn't matter... it's all about the hunt. "Let no roll go unpurchased!" (A stinky selfish stunt.) Until this pandemic's over and the panic buys grow still, They'll amass more toilet paper to leave their children in a will. This behavior is atrocious; I think it's very wrong, But that happy horde of hoarders still crow their hoarding song: CHORUS: Buy it, buy it, and then buy some more. Stack it in the closets; pile it on the floor. Stash it in the basement; stuff it in the car. Drink up all your bourbon, and then store it in your bar. Throw out all your furniture; you can use it as your bed. Build towers to the ceiling, and then fill a backyard shed. Ignore your grumpy neighbors when they look at you and frown, Because you're gonna have the cleanest butt in town... ♪♫ The cleeeeeanest buuutt in toooooown.... ♫♪
Okay, was that silly enough for you? No? Good, because I've got some cartoons for ya, too.
(Dime bags of t.p....)
our heroes... always eager to help
Don't forget! It's more important than EVER to WASH YOUR HANDS!!! But...
Until next time, hunker down and take care of yourselves. And keep smiling.
P.S. On Wednesday, I took advantage of the early morning hour of shopping set aside just for us old farts at our local grocery store, and I thought I'd do you guys a solid by sharing a valuable public service announcement with you:
Thought for the day: If it weren't for electricity, we'd all be watching television by candlelight. [George Gobel]
[image courtesy of morguefile]
And if it weren't for telephones, I reckon we'd all be sending smoke signals.
To tell the truth, I had no idea what I was gonna write about for today's post. Oh, I had a few nebulous ideas, but nothing that stirred much enthusiasm in me.
Then Monday happened, and serendipity struck.
When I went to my ophthamologist last week, she prescribed another eyedrop to add to my daily regimen, and told me to come back in a month to have the pressure remeasured.The staff kindly made a return appointment for me, and I went on my merry way.
That afternoon, Smarticus' next surgery was scheduled, and you guessed it... it fell on the same day as that aforementioned appointment.
No problem, right? I simply went online and canceled the appointment, and figured I'd make a call to the (ugh!) appointment center on Monday to reschedule.
OY! Big problem! First, after dutifully entering all the required information into the automated system, the robo-voice told me all lines were busy, and there'd be a wait of anywhere between 56 minutes and an hour and 23 minutes... (Where do they come up with arbitrary numbers???) so did I want someone to call me back. To sweeten the offer, I was assured that I "wouldn't lose my place in line." A no-brainer, right? So I left the required information, and about two hours later, give or take, I got that promised call-back. Cool, huh?
Nope. Not cool. An automated voice once again informed me that all lines were busy, but the next available assistant would take my call. (Why, why, WHY did they call me back, if they were only going to put me on HOLD again?) Silly naive me thought it'd only be a short wait. After all, I was next in line, right?
I gave up after waiting for more than an hour, and I've gotta tell ya, it gave me enormous pleasure to slam my phone receiver back into its cradle. (One of the pleasures of owning a landline. Also... I have NEVER accidentally dropped my phone into the toilet or run it through the washing machine. Just saying...)
Then I took the phone off the hook. Phooey on 'em! I had stuff to do, dammit!
And I was MAD! SOOOOO mad, I wanted to punch the wall and scream. So natch, I did what any other perfectly normal weird irate writer would do... I wrote a silly poem that evening:
'Tis a sad and tragic story, But one that must be told, About a most unlucky fella Whose call was put on hold. A recorded voice informed him There'd be a slight delay, 'But your call is quite important, So please don't go away.' Then began an endless loop Of an irritating tune, Plus timely saccharine assurances That someone would answer soon. 'I'm sure this won't take long,' The foolish man did say. 'I'll simply sit and wait my turn... Why not? I've got all day.' Minutes passed, and then passed hours, As life went on around him. Yet still he sat, phone pressed to ear, For his determination bound him. The longer he waited, The more he had to stay. His call'd be answered any sec, So he mustn't go away. With zero sleep and little food, He clutched his phone for days. He began to hum that damnable tune, And his puffy eyes looked crazed. Then finally, on day twenty-two or three, The music stopped; he held his breath, And he heard a woman say: 'Thank you for your patience. I'm so glad that you could stay. Now won't you kindly tell me What I can do for you today?' 'Your mattress stinks; I'll not return To your crummy store Sweet Slumber. I demand my money back!' 'So sorry, sir. Wrong number!"
***********
On Tuesday, I played it smart. I called the dreaded appointment center first thing in the morning. So first thing, in fact, after dutifully entering all the required information into the automated system, I was informed that the place didn't open until 8 AM. (The slackers!) There was a happy ending, though. I called on the stroke of eight, and by golly, I was first in line, and the task was accomplished in a matter of minutes. From now on, I will ALWAYS make that call at 8 AM. Burn me once, shame on you. Burn me twice, shame on me.
So are automated telephone systems and being put on hold the banes of your existence, too? Oh, and let's not forget those delightful robo-calls. (I guess there weren't enough people being duped via email, eh?) If none of those things make it to the top of your pet peeve list, what does? (Why not write a poem about it? HA) And, ya know, if we can't beat the system, we might as well laugh at it...
Kinda makes ya nostalgic for the good old days of telephone, doesn't it? Well, except maybe for those pesky party lines. You know... when you knew your nosy neighbor was listening to your call, because you could hear her open-mouthed breathing. Oh, but remember those really sweet helpful operators? Remember... Earnestine?
Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.
Thought for the day: In ancient times, cats were worshiped as gods; they have not forgotten this. [Terry Patchett]
Dash
It's hard to believe, but next month, it'll be six years since we rescued our kitties from the shelter. Or to be more accurate, maybe they rescued us... because those little critters sure have added lots of grins and giggles to our lives.
Dash, our calico, was just a little bit of a thing when we brought her home, and she's still kinda petite. That little princess has us wrapped right around her bunny-soft little paw.
Dot
Dot, our gray tabby, is the younger of the two, but she quickly grew to become the larger. And the more vocal, too. (She's our pushy cat.) Now I wish I'd named them something like Tinkerbell and Tankerbell to reflect the differences in their sizes. Or since Dash is the zany explorer, and Dot the more staid and gabby queen, maybe, Lucy and Ethel, to reflect their personalities.
What can I say? No matter what we call them, they are a teensy bit... spoiled.
Ever since she was big enough to get onto our king-sized bed, that's where Dash has spent almost every night. Usually somewhere on top of me. On my stomach, on my chest, on my neck, on my face. Doesn't matter, because she doesn't usually stay in one place for very long. See, she likes to... hop around. Explore. Crawl under the covers, lie still for five minutes, and then ta-DA! pop back out. Knead me with her paws, and lick me with her tongue. Lots of head-butting, purring and nose-kisses, too. My favorite is when she climbs up on the headboard and jumps down on my face...
And I... let her. Which is why she still does it. Dot, on the other hand, may occasionally join us on the bed, but when she does, she's a bit more polite about it. Just lies close to my side, and stays there most of the night.
But as anyone who has a cat well knows, what a cat always does or always likes is always changing. Their favorite place to nap is never constant, and the food they gobble one day is the same food they turn their noses up at the next. They follow a strict routine for a while, only to change it for a whole new routine. I guess they're trying to keep us on our toes.
Mostly, the cats used to leave Smarticus alone during the night, but recently, Dash has been sharing some of the love with him, too. (He calls her The Stomper.) I'm used to her waking me up before the butt crack of dawn every day, but recently, after she woke me up, she pranced over to Smarticus to say hello to him, too. She only went over to him a couple times before concentrating her efforts on me, but nonetheless, what popped into my sleepy head as she bounced back and forth between the two of us was, Hello, muddah! Hello, faddah! (Which is totally ridiculous, because our cats have always called us Mama and Papa...with the accents on the second syllables.)
Anyhow, that old Allan Sherman song bugged me for the rest of the day, so natch, I did what any weird cat-owner writer would do... I wrote a parody of the song. Of course.
And here it is:
Hello Muddah, hello Faddah. Here I am now, right beside ya. Time to open up your eyes now; Get your butt out of that bed and fix me chow now.
I tried bouncing on your belly; You're so fat, it feels like jelly. You were so still, thought you were dead; So I did CPR by jumping on your head. Come on, Muddah, time is ticking, And your face I now am licking. I must meow loudly in your ear, Because if you don't get up soon, I'll starve, I fear.
With my claws, your cheek I'm gripping, And my nose on you is dripping. Come on, let's play and have some fun; In only three more hours, we'll see the rising sun. Please get up, oh muddah, faddah, please get up, don't be a bother. Starting your day's such an endeavor; sometimes it takes me forever. Please get up, I promise I will be your friend and love you 'til the bitter end, So why this cruel wait to get food upon my plate?
Hurry, hurry, dearest muddah, One foot down, and then the other. I will lead you to the kitchen; It is almost five o'clock, so quit yer bitchin'.
Wait a sec! What's that you're pouring? Same as yesterday? How boring! Pardon my French; it smells like crap... It's time for me to join dear Faddah for a nap.
(Gotta love 'em!)
It occurred to me that the Allan Sherman song was out in the early sixties, so some of you may not remember it. Heck, some of you weren't even born yet! (sigh)
So here it is, in all its silly glory:
Okay, ready to hear the results of last week's giveaway for the nifty-neato package of Shakespearean Insult Bandages? (Insert drum roll here.) The winner is the lovely Pixel Peeper, who left this gem: The advantage of intelligence is that you can easily play dumb. The opposite is a bit more difficult. [Kurt Tucholsky] Dontcha love it? Clever... but not offensive. So, Ms. B, if you would be so kind, email me your mailing address, and I'll get your little care package off in the mail. (If you don't still have my address, you can use that handy-dandy email me badge in the sidebar.)
Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.
Cats are the ultimate narcissists. You can tell this because of all the time they spend on personal grooming. A dog's idea of personal grooming is to roll on a dead fish. [James Gorman]
Thought for the day: Running a cemetery is just like being President: you got a lot of people under you, and nobody's listening. [Bill Clinton]
Oakland Cemetery, Atlanta, GA {Wikipedia]
It isn't my fault. Really. It isn't. I neeeeever would have thought about writing such a weird post as this one is gonna be if it hadn't been for that darned article in the newspaper. Then again, maybe I would have. It has been said that I do occasionally suffer from bouts of sick inappropriate humor.
Anyhow, the article. It was a little bitty filler piece about this year's Atlanta Regional Commission's Developments of Excellence Award, which for the last fifteen years has been presented annually to the location deemed tops in the metro area for livability and sustainability, and for serving as a regional model for future growth. Sounds nice, right? Well, would you believe in this, its sixteenth year, the award was presented to... a cemetery? (Oooh, dontcha know, that had to have ticked off some of those big shot fancy pants developers.)
[Wikipedia]
Now, don't get me wrong. Oakland Cemetery is a very nice cemetery, as far as cemeteries go. Lots of historical figures and famous people buried there... like famed golfer Bobby Jones, and author Margaret Mitchell (Marsh). Lots of really neat statues and such, too. And it's OLD... It was founded in 1850, so there are some really interesting old markers.
But does any of that equate to livability??? I mean, it's not like people are exactly dying to move into the place.
Oh shut up. You know what I mean. (hehe)
early 1900 postcard [wikimedia commons]
It isn't like people send postcards from the cemetery and tell everyone, Miss you. Wish you were here...
or Please stop by, and have a nice stiff drink with me. (Or maybe a tall cold one?)
Then again, maybe some people, some people with a sick inappropriate sense of humor would do something that over the top...
Somebody really really cool like Bob McCully, Pittsburgh's long-time wagster, satirical writer, producer, and top of the crop ad man. The Christmas cards he created every year always featured his unique brand of dark humor, but his family and friends never expected anything like the one they got from the 88-year-old in 2011. Because, you see, he was already dead. He died that August, and most dead men don't send greetings from the grave. But he wasn't like most men; he wanted to get one more laugh.
Thanks to a co-conspirator relative, four hundred people received one last memorable Christmas card from McCully that pictured him on the front, sitting in an office, talking on a telephone, along with the words, Hello, please don't call. I recently moved to a quiet neighborhood. And on the inside, it shows the gates to the Allegheny cemetery, his tombstone, and the words, My new place doesn't have a phone, and our gates close after dark. What a guy.
[Night of the Living Dead- wikipedia]
Okay, so maybe that doesn't tickle your funny bone. Personally, I'd love to pull off something like that, but I can understand how the idea of reaching out from the grave might not be everybody's idea of fun. On the other hand, a lot of people who might not appreciate this kinda humor are fascinated by zombies. Whew. Not me. All that brain-eating is too hard for me to swallow. Maybe if they sipped tea and ate cucumber sandwiches or something, I'd feel a little better about them. And I think they should pick up after themselves, too. All those body parts left lying around is totally unacceptable. I'll bet their mamas taught them better than that.
[wikipedia]
So, if not the walking dead, how about the sitting, standing, motorcycling, or kayaking dead?
Yep, that seems to be the new trend. Instead of being laid out in a coffin, some people are opting to be... posed, so they can make their grand exit doing something they love. A lady in New Orleans was staged sitting at a table with a can of Busch beer in one hand and a menthol cigarette in the other. A Puerto Rican boxer stood in a boxing stance... wearing his boxing gloves, trunks, and hooded robe. There are lots more examples; there are even quite a few images to be found online, if you're curious. I chose not to post any of those pictures. (See? I have some class.)
But I will post this video...
Kinda made me wonder how I might like to be posed. Reading a book? Sitting at the computer? Singing a song and dancing the fandango? Nah. How about taking a nap? In a coffin...
Actually, I don't want a coffin, either. Like many others have chosen, I'm going with cremation. We've prepaid, and cheap frugal person that I am, since I'm a universal donor, I'm kinda hoping Smarticus might even get a rebate.
But ya know what would reeeeally be cool? There's a company in Alabama called Holy Smoke, and you know what they do? Mix cremains with gunpowder and then use it to pack shotgun shells or rifle cartridges. Then, Smarticus could take me to the shooting range with him one last time. Talk about going out with a bang...
Okay, I'll stop now. I hope I haven't offended anyone. Like everyone else, I've lost many dear friends and family members over the years, and of course, I grieve for them. It's hard to let go of the people we love, and we miss them terribly. Being without them leaves an empty spot in our lives that nothing or no one else can fill. But I don't think death should be a taboo subject or free from humor. Nor is it something I fear.
Nothing to fear. Rabindranath Tagore put it so very beautifully: Death is not extinguishing the light; it is only putting out the lamp because the dawn has come.
I plan on burning the lamp as long as possible, but always remember: there's joy in the morning.
Elisabeth Kubler-Ross said, I've told my children that when I die, to release balloons in the sky to celebrate that I graduated. To me, death is a graduation.
Sounds good to me. As long as we don't have to wear one of those stupid tasseled mortarboards.
Well, next Thursday is Thanksgiving. To all of you fine folks in the U.S., I wish you a very Happy Thanksgiving. To all of you fine folks outside of the U.S., I wish you a very happy Thursday. Not sure if I'll be posting next Friday or not. If not, don't worry about me. It'll just mean I'm still digesting.
Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.
For those of you who've been with me for the past few Thanksgivings, you didn't think you were gonna get away without having to read my stupid poem again, didja? (Sorry... no such luck, although I did make a teensy update. HAPPY THANKSGIVING, y'all!)
There once was a turkey named Jake, Said, "How much must we poor turkeys take? When Thanksgiving comes 'round, We must go underground; Why can't all those people eat STEAK?!" Now, turkeys may not be so pretty,
Can't fly, and aren't very witty,
But with a leader like Jake,
A chance they might take,
So a bunch of them left for the city.
Jake led a big march on D.C.
(The IN place for protests, you see)
"We don't want any fights.
But we, too, should have rights,
For this is the land of the free!"
Boehner came out on the green
With the most turkeys I've ever seen, (Outside of Congress)
Thought for the day: You know you're getting old when the candles cost more than the cake.
Those of you who live in the southeastern United States may have noticed a bright glow in the sky on Wednesday. Sorry about that. It was my husband's birthday. Even though we had the fire department waiting on stand-by, the candles still got a little out of control again this year. My bad. I really shouldn't have tried to save time by lighting all those darned things with a blow torch.
Oh well. I'll try to do better next year.
Yeah, so we're both getting older. Big deal. Age is just a number, right? (Especially when it's his number going up, and not mine.) To tell the truth, we don't make a big deal out of birthdays anymore. No candles at all. (Too dangerous!) And no big parties, for sure.
We prefer smaller gatherings these days. Like maybe just Smarticus, me and a few dozen of our favorite juicy friends. (That's plenty spicy enough for us, even if our pals do end up getting steamed.)
Our cat Dash got stranded atop the fridge when our friends were splashing around in the sink, which reminded me of a post I did back in June of 2011: Tale of an Ungrateful Kitty. So I'm gonna run it again, as soon as I share a short Tom Rush video about the joys of getting older:
Youth is the gift of nature, but age is a work of art. [Stanislaw Jerry Lec]
{Too bad my work of art is being painted by Picasso...}
You don't stop laughing because you grow older. You grow older because you stop laughing. [Maurice Chevalier]
I'm happy to report that my inner child is still ageless. [Jane Broughton]
You can't help getting older, but you don't have to get old. [George Burns]
***********************
And now... for that rerun...
Thought for the day: An invisible man married an invisible woman. Their kids were nothing to look at, either.
I've been poking fun at the English language lately, so I thought about writing a short Ogden Nash-type poem using words ending in ough to make fun of the fact that those words have so many different pronunciations.
Well, as they say, the best-laid plans of mice and men ...
I did write a poem, but it isn't Ogden Nash short. (or Ogden Nash clever) Has some ough words in it, but I ended up having more fun telling the tale than fulfilling the original premise. So, here it is, a silly little poem. It's based on a true story, and although I got away with batting my eyelashes back then, I was young, lithe, and lovely at the time. I'm afraid if I tried to pull that stunt now, Smarticus would haul me off to the eye doctor.
A Silly Little Poem
'Twas one in the morning, I vow,
When I heard a cat meow from a bough.
High up in a tree,
He seemed helpless to me.
Begged I, "Please get him down now."
With a frown, my man gave a cough,
Said, "No need to get the cat off.
He made his way up;
He can make his way down."
And I batted my eyes, sure enough.
'Twas sleeting and icy, so rough,
But my sweetie, so tender, so tough,
Climbed up on our ladder,
But that didn't matter;
To the cat, it wasn't enough.
The cat pulled back out of reach;
My man yelled, "Son of a beech!"
He stretched a bit more
To the kitty so poor,
And the cat gave a God-awful screech.
'Twas dark, so I couldn't quite see,
But the cat came tearing past me.
He'd run down my sweetie
And clawed off some meatie,
So I figured in trouble I'd be.
"No more!" my man roared to me.
"Next time, we leave the cats be.
We don't need no damned ladder;
It just doesn't matter.
Have you ever
Seen bones
In a tree?"
Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.
Me? I think I'll just ...
hang around
[The crab photo was taken by yours truly. Wikipedia provided the flames, and the catty pics come to us courtesy of Morguefile.]
Thought for the day: My fear of flying starts as soon as I buckle myself in. Then the guy up front mumbles a few unintelligible words, and before I know it, I'm thrust into the back of my seat by acceleration that seems way too fast. The rest of the trip is an endless nightmare of turbulence and near misses... and then the cabbie drops me off at the airport. [Dennis Miller]
Hey, hey, hey! Do you know what day it is? Do ya, do ya, do ya? Okay, so it isn't Wednesday, but it is time for the kick-off of the Dream Destination Blog-Hop, sponsored by those lovely ladies Julie and Lexa. Today's the day millions thousandshundreds a whole bunch of clever bloggers will be writing about their (duh!) dream destination. (Weren't you paying attention?) Talking about destination, don't forget to make one (or both) of their blogs your destination, so you can enter their big Rafflecopter Giveaway. LOTS of terrific prizes!
Anyhow, my entry is a little different, but what did you expect? Coloring inside the lines isn't nearly as much fun as smearing color all over the page.
But FIRST, (psst! psst!) how's about a little secret? Today isn't just the day Julie and Lexa are launching a new blog hop. Oh no, no, no. Their new books are also being launched today! Check 'em out: The Ghosts of Aquinnah by Julie Flander , and Soul Cutter by Lexa Cain . Please join me in wishing both ladies much success.
All packed up, but where should I go?
And now, without further ado, I present to you (ta-DA!)
my poem Picking a dream destination
Took a heap of contemplation.
Shall I go north, south, east, or west?
Which one place would be the best?
For beauty and wildlife of great wonder,
What land better than the one Down Under?
Bright flowers, koalas, and kangaroos,
And a duck-billed platypus, I'd like to choose.
Plus, while I'm there, know what I'd do?
Visit with a blogger pal or two.
Then, again...
I'd love to see the Northern Lights,
One of Earth's most amazing sights...
A surreal sky of shifting hues,
Of reds, and greens, and electric blues.
So perhaps, it's best when I go forth,
To set my compass for way up north.
Then, again...
There's Glasgow, London, and Paris, too;
Most any place in Europe would do.
What history, culture, and oh... the food!
(If I can't speak their language, will they think me rude?)
Or maybe Africa to see a jungle beast,
Or perhaps the mysteries of the far far east?
Then, again...
How foolish to run to far-off Tibet
When there's places here I haven't seen yet.
Mount Rushmore, Grand Canyon, and Niagara Falls...
Such beauty to see... and Old Faithful calls!
New England, California, Utah, and Maine,
Buttes, mountains, deserts, glaciers, and plain.
Then, again...
After giving the matter consideration,
What matters isn't destination,
For the dream doesn't spring from a special place;
It's more about a special face.
Whether we travel far away,
Or in our town we choose to stay,
What matters (although he's sometimes a farticus),
Is being wherever with my guy Smarticus.
DISCLAIMER: In the unlikely event that my hubby Smarticus happens to read this post, be it known that in no way was that poem intended as an underhanded attempt to coerce him into buying me that spiffy Albert Einstein bobble-headed Chia pet for Christmas.
So, where's your dream destination? Huh, huh, huh?
Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.
There's nothing American tourists like more than the things they can get at home. [Stephen Colbert]
Here's a list of participants, if you wanta hop on over to their blogs to find out which destinations are making them dreamy-eyed today. The list looks like I scrubbed it with Clorox, but the links still seem to work.
