Like a Turd in a Punch Bowl, It Just Doesn’t Figure

I have cleared my desk. Pens and pencils pierce the sheet rock walls. What remains of my Hemmingway 2000 typewriter, circa 1948 rests in pieces on the floor. Mangled chunks of keyboard, motherboard and any other board which resided in my desktop are strewn around the room.

Having done this for one and one reason only, I had hoped we could bypass the waves of technology and simply talk.….You know, I say something, then you say something…… And before you know it, a conversation breaks out.

Okay I’ll start.

I had a hankering (hankering is southern US slang for wanting to do particular thing) to tell you about Floyd. I became good friends with Floyd somewhere around my 20th year when he came to live with us.

Having limited space we were forced to bunk together. This would not have been such a bad arrangement, had Floyd paid closer attention to his hygiene. In fact he just plain stunk. The smell was tolerable during the day. We would frolic through the fields, play hide and seek and just about everything else best buddies would do together.

Then came the night and It was Katie bar the door.

It got to where I could stand it no longer. I demanded that he bathe every day. This stench had to stop. At first he tried to stonewall me, but he knew down deep that I was right and bathe as he might, the stench was there to stay.

Did I mention that Floyd was a ferret…… I didn’t?…… I just assumed with thc picture and all…… Oh well.

Now if you’re considering ferret ownership and choose to purchase a male, make sure it has been castrated and the anal glands removed.

If purchasing a female and all you need worry with are the anal glands.

If you’re wondering why removing the anal glands is necessary, it helps the animal smell better.

But do you know what?…….It doesn’t work!

These creatures are curious, delightful, friendly and make wonderful pets, but the fact remains, that with or without their naughty bits, they still smell like a rectum.

Other animals have anal glands that are closely related to the ferret. Skunks, minks, otters to name a few. Thank goodness that ferrets are not able to express theirs like a skunk.

Even man’s best friend is equipped with a pair. So if you see your dog scooting its butt across the carpet, its anal glands are impacted and time for a trip to the veterinarian. If Rover ever starts leaking that juice you’ll rename your ferret rosebud.

I had Floyd for several years until he escaped and ran into a dog, who evidently wasn’t put off by his smell.

I still think back fondly, of a stinky little fuzz ball who would pull entire plates of food under the couch

Okay, now it’s your turn. So speak up, don’t be shy.

Beer Googles…..No Thanks, I Have My Own…..But a Pair of Ear-Plugs Would Certainly Do the Trick

If you take the time to think about today, as opposed to yesteryear, in the context of your own life, you’ll notice quite a bit of growth. At least “growth” is what we hope to see and certainly that of a positive nature.

Some people grow very little, comparatively, because they were mature as children through puberty and into adulthood. Not that they never made a mistake–it’s just that their mistakes were more like, “Oh no, my library book is overdue,” or “I’m ten minutes past curfew.”

That being the right hand meant there was plenty of room for a multitude of left hands. If you were a left hand, it didn’t matter if you were a mature child or mature through puberty. Once you hit young adulthood, your mistakes included words like: bail, full coverage and “what do you mean you’re two weeks late?”

I was somewhere in the middle. Had a good childhood, made it through puberty, but when I reached young adulthood, I embraced an unequaled love for the great outdoors.

For instance: I was especially fond of drinking beer on the back porch. The front porch was as equally enjoyable; as was the tailgate of my truck, the woods, sitting on the well top eating crabs, and just about any place my rear end would fit was a good place to sozzle down the suds.

Several years earlier, I learned of a whole new world–the wonderful world of fishing. Wait a minute… Why not combine the two? Now I was literally beside myself with joy. One of me was drinking and the other fishing. The next major discovery was of a place where the water contained salt, larger fish, and things called waves. These were special places; places that required extended travel and room rentals for overnight stays.

What a revelation! This meant I could actually take my suds swilling, rod reeling, show on the road, and take it I did.

Now, during this time that I like to refer to as “fermentation enlightenment,” another beast was rearing its rather attractive head. This particular beast arrived on the scene with its name forever sewn into its tighty whitey waistband–that name, “rock ‘n roll.”

You see I had started playing guitar at age 11, and to the best of my figuring why not incorporate this, “rock ‘n roll” into the fold. So what do you know, now I have a reason to guzzle that golden beverage on the inside.

First, you get together with friends who are of a similar mind but play different instruments. Once you have begged, borrowed and pilfered your way through musicians of the same caliber, you will eventually hit that magic number. This magic number I am referring to is the amount of bodies needed to play all the necessary instruments which enables you to refer to yourself as a “band.”

Now you can begin that long journey down the road to rock stardom. I learned early on that there were two paths to achieve this goal. Dedicate yourself to the craft, work hard, practice hard, live rock ‘n roll and maybe one day, you’ll make it; or pound down enough of the golden beverage so that you’re oblivious to the way you sound, which in turn means you’ll never make it, but you really don’t care.

Guess which one I chose… You got it… Bottoms up!

That’s just the way it goes. Sometimes in life even though we strive for mediocrity, we’re unable to reach that lofty goal.

Thankfully, somewhere along the line (before my liver packed up and moved into a retirement home) the golden beverage transformed into ionized water and green tea.

Writing is my passion, but on a cool clear night, if I listen closely I can still hear my Les Paul whine as my fingers sizzle down the ebony fret board…….Nah, it’s just the neighbor’s cat.

I’m so Hungry I could Eat a …..

Some days the words slide out of your brain like oil across a greasy slab of ice. Today ain’t one of those days. I find myself distracted, staring out the window at our neighbor’s cocker spaniel. This little pooch spends as much time at our house as he does at his own. Of course, this special dog is so friendly it’s a pleasure to have him around.

Interaction with this captivating canine brings to memory a blog I posted several weeks ago, about my pal Wilbur. The story chronicled the friendship and high jinx between a boy and his alligator.

As I sat, memories of pets I had owned began to fly through the window of my brain, not unlike Dorothy’s visions in the Wizard of Oz as she spun round the interior of a tornado.

I finally reached the abyss which houses all things animal. Knowing that any resistance was useless, I closed my eyes and plunged into the dark recesses of my mind.

Note: To find vegetable and/or mineral, search: http\www.lynn\brain\vegetable\ mineral\cobwebs-detour sign.ug

Once I hit bottom, I was a young man again, old enough to drive, but too young to have developed a sense for the value of a dollar. What does one do in such a case as this?

I cannot speak for others, but this enterprising young lad slapped good money on the counter for a brand-new boa constrictor and what would become said constrictor’s first home cooked meal.

Imagine my excitement when I arrived home and began rearranging one corner of my room dedicated solely for my, as yet, unnamed pet.

An aquarium provided the general living quarters, blue gravel carpeted the floor and a piece of slate, suitable for hiding under or sunning oneself, with an all-inclusive light bulb mounted on the ceiling.

I set the scaly little beast into his new abode. Eureka! I had created a showplace including one happy little reptile of the slithering variety. I gave him a day to get used to his surroundings and then began to tackle the necessities this creature would need to survive. After all, a pet owner must be responsible and responsibility was job one as far as I was concerned.

Due to the miracle of the written word, it is now 24 hours later.

And now for that first home cooked meal… I’ll have to admit that the last statement isn’t totally accurate. It’s true that we were at home and that a meal was forthcoming; but to say “cooked” is a bit of a stretch. It’s more like rare… Okay, it’s raw and maybe even alive. I’m having a hard time determining the “alive” part. It won’t stay still long enough for me to catch it.

All right, I confess. I’m about to feed a living creature (a little white mouse) to a ravenous beast, probably among the most hated in the world–the deadly boa constrictor.

I remove the top and drop the poor little defenseless mammal in. I sit and await the carnage. The primeval battle of “hunter” versus “hunted,” which plays itself out thousands of time each day, is now unfolding before my very eyes.

At first, the prey stands very still, sensing something’s not right. The hunter, waiting, partially hidden beneath the slate, his forked tongue dancing left to right tasting the air. Then movement. Slow and cautious to begin with, turning to fast-paced whimsy as the mouse frolics around the aquarium.

He danced around the snake, over the snake, on the snake and in what I saw as the ultimate act of defiance, he bit the snake.

Needless to say I removed the mouse and a day or two later the deadly boa constrictor morphed into the dead boa constrictor.

I wonder why they literally go belly up? It’s probably a sign to remind people (such as myself at the time) who feel they have nothing better to do with their money than to purchase silly items, start a savings account.

When all was said and done at least the mouse had a nice place to live.

Somebody’s Gonna Pay for This Hangnail and it Ain’t Gonna be Me!

Each week I pause from my usual writing and take time to pen a blog. It’s a nice respite and gives me a chance to vent in a humorous way. It’s nearly impossible not to repeat subjects, if for no other reason than the volume of blogs I write.

Occasionally, a repetitive subject will slip through the cracks and make its way into another blog, usually and thankfully in a different format.

And then again, some folks make repetition easy. They spread their fodder thick, leaving a trail of fuel for anyone to pick up and run with.

So is the case with this week’s post.

As with most professions, the majority of participants are upstanding in their fields and deal with their clientele in a respectable and ethical manner.

And then, just when I thought it was safe to enter society again, the meat wagon chasers are back out in force. I think what gets me is there is obviously no shame, in their eyes, as to which direction their vocation happens to take them. As long as that rectangular piece of paper with the picture of a dead president is involved, most anything is fair game.

Did you realize that now there is the potential for cancer if you overuse talcum powder? Who knew that this innocent box of slick, white, comfort could cause such calamity? I’m certainly not an expert on such matters, but I did wear a constant coat of the fine powder on my bottom as a baby and my son, wanting to follow in the footsteps of his father, did the same.

During the summer months, after a day’s work and a shower, what’s better than a few shakes of the plastic bottle; not to mention the chafing relief to be had from this miracle powder?

What’s the next deadly product heading down the pike?  Denture cream.

It seems as though an overuse of denture cream has been linked to neurological problems due to the zinc used in some products… I don’t know. Never had a lot of experience with such items, but I find myself having to ask a question.

Do we have to sue for everything?

Most products, whether prescription or over-the-counter, carry with them warnings. I guess I’ll answer my own question. Greed, just plain greed. It all goes back to the dead presidents I mentioned earlier. Of course, the gut-wagon feeders attempting to drum up business don’t help the overall situation.

What I really want to know is how did, Hamilton and Franklin get mixed in with a club almost exclusively meant for deceased commanders and chiefs? Although I’ll have to admit that Franklin has become one of my favorite pieces of paper.
Once again I’m gonna wrap this thing up. I’ll start by admitting that I’m loaded with more faults than I could possibly count, given a lifetime to do so.

But (never start a sentence with but), I work for one who has no equal and a retirement plan that’s out of this world.

Did I mention he has lots of openings?

And (never start a sentence with and), boy do I sleep good at night.