Mr. Man-ners (2): Sex Changes, Melissa Etheridge, Jacko, Answers, Marrying a Cow, Manure, SOB, Wacko, Sky Blue, Parental Controls, Prince, Weatherme

Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I have a question. Do you think it’s possible for a woman who has become a man to have a child?
Want to Know

Dear Want to Know:
What kind of a dumbass question is that? A woman who has become a man can definitely have a child. Look at Melissa Etheridge. It’s also true of a man who becomes a woman. Look at Jacko. From what I’ve heard, he’s had many children. Wink. Wink.
Mr. Man-ners

Dear Mr. Man-ners:
What kind of an idiot are you? I asked you a reasonable question before and all I got was some wiseass answer. Do you have an answer?
Asking Again

Dear Asking Again:
Okay, I admit, maybe I didn’t consider your question. But I’ve forgotten what it is. So no, I don’t have an answer. Don’t bother me again!
Mr. Man-ners

Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How come two men can get married but a cowboy can’t marry his cow?
Just Curious

Dear Just Curious
Curiosity killed the cat. And if you’re curious enough to ask me in such a widely read column—you have a problem.
Mr. Man-ners

Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Who was that Just Curious reader? Why do I want to know? Well, I have a pile of manure I’m sure he’d love to meet. Ha, ha!
Not So Curious

Dear Not So Curious:
Who are you? Who? Who? Who? Who? If you’re dumb enough to answer, I’ll publish your name and let Just Curious set you lose naked in his bullpen. Leave the poor SOB alone, he’s got enough problems—do you know how much it costs to feed a cow? Plus, the cost for feminine hygiene must be piling up (pardon the pun).
Mr. Man-ners

Dear Mr. ManHers:
Are you some kind of wacko publishing all these weird people’s questions?
Anonymous

Dear Ass:
Oops, I misspelled your name, like you did mine. I must be a wacko because I gave equal time to an ass-whole (is this closer to the correct spelling?).
Mr. Man-ners

Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Why is the sky blue?
A 10 Year Old Reader

Dear A 10 Year Old Reader:
I hope there are parental controls on your newspaper, as I wouldn’t want you reading some of my advice. Oh well, maybe you’re just pretending to be 10. Why is the sky blue? I can’t answer this very well, I’ll try. The sky is blue, because it lacks the colors of yellow and red (which are all primary colors as well). Does this answer your question? If not, consult a weatherman (they can’t tell you if it’s going to rain or snow, but they can sure give you a lot of BS—blue sky—information that no adult really cares about).
Mr. Man-ners

Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How could you call me Ass? Sure, I got your name wrong. Sure, I wasn’t very nice to you. But I never called you a name. Not on purpose. And you called me two names in your column. I want you to write a retraction.
Anonymous

Dear Anonymous (formerly known as the artist Prince-Ass):
The only thing I can give you is a swift kick in your Prince-Ass. Then I can retract my foot. Is that good enough?
Mr. Man-ners

Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How could you tell my son (A 10 Year Old Reader) that weathermen are full of BS—blue sky—information that no adult cares about? He went so far as to call the news station and when he spoke to a weatherman (for his school project); he asked if the weatherman could give him some BS information? When the weatherman called back to complain to me (he had our number on caller ID) I tried to explain that it was your stupid column—but he thought I was making it all up. Now I think you owe me, my son and the weathermen of America an apology?
A Concerned Parent

Dear A Concerned Parent:
Did you read my response to your child? Why is a 10 year old reading, let alone writing, to this column? Aren’t you supervising him? As to the apology—I apologize that most weathermen don’t give accurate weather readings (I’ve used a crystal ball and gotten it right more often) and I apologize to my readership that there are people in this world who are parents (like you) who should never have been allowed to play with a loaded penis (it’s worse than a gun!). That’s the best I can do for you. Nonetheless, I am TRULY sorry for your child.
Mr. Man-ners

National Gloat Day/Week

This previous week had many things associated with it. It was Thanksgiving, which everyone knows. I kid you not; it was also Adoption Week, National Game and Puzzle Week, National Bible Week, National Farm/City Week and National Leftover Awareness Week (which makes sense since because of Thanksgiving). In addition, Friday was Black Friday. All these things occurred last week, yet all I knew about were two.

It seems that days/weeks/months are clogged up with someone celebrating something. Moreover, I'm not talking about national holidays here. Every organization/political group has designated a day for special recognition. There are almost as many special significance days as there are days in the month. For instance, in addition to the significance days already mentioned, November also has the following associated with it:
American Art Week
National Card & Letter Writing Week
French Conversation Week
National Fig Week (must have been started to celebrate Fig Newtons)
World Communication Week
National Notary Public Week (if secretaries and bosses have a day, why not notary publics?)
Red Flannel Days (Michigan—though probably anywhere where you might find a lumberjack or an ox named Blue might be capable of celebrating this holiday)
American Education Week
National Eating Disorders Week (this is obviously not a day where eating is PART of the celebration
National Chemistry Week
National Split Pea Soup Week (who would have thought anyone would want to celebrate this vile Exorcist spitted stuff?)
World Mutual Services Week (is that like mutual funds?)
National Children's Book Week
National Osteopathic Medicine Week
International Week of Science and Peace (UN) (with Sadam on trial, maybe we can celebrate it this year)
National Radiologic Technology Week (obviously it's not "Spellers Week" because shouldn't this be "Radiologist" or "Radiological"?)
Book Week (one must assume this is for the adults this time)
National Geography Awareness Week
American Education Week
National Culinary Week
National Bible Week
Operating Room Nurse Week (what about orthopedic nurses and gynecological nurses?)
National Adoption Week
National Family Week (what if you don’t have one? Oh yeah, it’s adoption week too! Or are you supposed to adopt a week, like you adopt a highway? And usually when you adopt a baby you feed it: My question is what does a week or a highway eat?)

As I’ve just proven, everyone and their mother and brother and dead aunt seem to be able to create a day of significance. That’s why I decided it was my turn. From this day forward, the Monday following Thanksgiving shall be National Gloat Day.

Why? Because I was right. I predicted it. You heard it here first. The statistics proved me out. Retailers didn’t do nearly as well as they’d hoped/expected to do this weekend. While people shopped to buy the loss leaders, they didn’t stick around to purchase the profit-enders (like my coined phrase?). Just as I predicted.

See, if the retail world had listened to me (little ole me)—they might have made a bigger profit—and made it into the black on Black Friday. The only way to sell loss leaders nowadays is to make them contingent upon purchasing a profit-ender. This would limit the people buying these items (and hopefully weed out the people who are ONLY buying the very best priced items). But they didn’t do this. Nah-nah! I was right. Gloat-Gloat-Gloat.

It gives me hope that before Christmas these same retailers will have to do some major deep discounting (one newscaster suggested 60% or more) to get the business they need. Plus, a few of these retailers need to make back all they money they will lose from the lawsuits their loss leaders caused from trampled customers.

If the retailers were smart, they would try to do this so that more customers weren’t trampled. Like, maybe, on the Internet. Hey, since it’s also Cyber Monday today, which is like Black Friday for Internet sellers, maybe they should sell some wonderful deals online. What’s the likelihood? Not very good. They didn’t take my advice before about keeping the customer happy—so I doubt they will put good deals online. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see what analysts are saying tomorrow. And if I’m right, like I was the other day, maybe this whole week can be National Gloat Week. Gloat. Gloat. Gloat.

Give Me Dignity & the Product, or Give These Retailers Death!

I’ve got a unique concept that retailers should try to keep in mind: The customer is always right. Okay, so maybe it’s not so unique. However, it seems nowadays nobody follows this line of reasoning. Take for instance my experiences on Black Friday. Nobody cared that by alienating the customers who arrived early—that these retailers might not get these customers to buy. They were in it for the instant profit. I’ve got an idea, I know it’s crazy, but what if retailers made the customer happy from the moment they walked in the store. For instance, they could serve cold drinks and coffee to every patron. Believe it or not, this is what they do in Greece. At least when I was there. Then the retailers could make the shopping experience a good one. Instead of rushing you through the store, only to find out what they advertised didn’t exist, or was in such limited quantities that it was sold out five minutes before opened, perhaps they could actually have what they advertised in the store. Or, maybe they would even have other items that were unadvertised specials that patrons could purchase. Plus, they would stock these items in such a quantity that they could fulfill the desire for them. In the rare instance where they might be out of stock, they would give and honor rain checks and then have the product in the store at the patron’s convenience (at the very same low price). Hmmm, sounds like a place I’d frequent. But maybe it’s too utopian for our current retailers.

They want a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am approach. They want people to rush in, not find what they want (because they only had three of the advertised product) then buy something 3x as expensive, thus making the retailer rich. Is this living in reality? Are people who expected to purchase a low cost item really going to spend 3x what they expected to pay for the same/similar item? I think not. Buyers are way to savvy for this. They’d rather buy it someplace else—or wait until the next big sale—because they know there will be a next big sale.

And at a utopian retail operation, these big sales would happen all the time. And the customer would surely be a king and a queen. If someone, anyone, were to open such a retail operation, I’m sure it would be a huge success (if the prices were reasonable). They already spend mega dollars advertising their specials; why not spend the money on getting the sales in the store. The word of mouth would be phenomenal. People would frequent this type of store just to be treated reasonably (and to have sales people who didn’t have acne and couldn’t count to ten). What a concept. I think I could make a million dollars opening a store like this.

Who am I kidding? Nobody wants respect or decent treatment. They want the best prices. They don’t mind if they’re trampled in a Wal-Mart (what better way to sue the store?)—they don’t mind if they get into fistfights over a great deal (what better way to sue the store?).

All this for a few dollar savings. I say, give me dignity, give me the product, or give these stores death! But I’m only one person.

Mr. Man-ners (1): God, Sex, Bible Thumper, Lesbian, Problems, A Man, Cracker Jacks, Crying, Pussy Whipped

Dear Mr. Man-ners:
I have a question I’m hoping you can answer. My husband wants to have sex—in an unsavory way. I don’t want to have him stick that thing anywhere but where God intended it—that is, back in his underpants. And I don’t think he should stick it anywhere else—or even where the Bible says it should go—because we already have two kids. That’s enough. Still, he insists upon asking. “Can I do this? Can I do that?” And then he begs—I want to do this to you and that. Always promising “You will like it.” Well, I know I won’t like it. How do I avoid having sex anymore?
One in a Million

Dear One in a Million:
I’d say to give your man excuses like you’re having your womanly time. Or that you have a headache, but I’m sure you already used all these excuses up by now. Plus, well, though I’m no Bible thumper (just like you're not a husband thumper), I agree that a man should be able to have sex with his wife. If you’re really sure you don’t want him to “stick that thing anywhere” perhaps you're a lesbian. And if sex is just not your cup of tea (do you like it black or with cream?), well ,you’re only option is to get thee to a nunnery.
Mr. Man-ners

Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Didn’t you get it before? The reason I signed my name as "One in a Million" is that I’m not the only woman who feels this way. I have many girlfriends who feel the same way. And no, we are not part of some covert lesbian society. What a sick mind you have.
One in a Million

Dear One in a Million:
Okay, so maybe you’re not part of some covert lesbian society. But are you a part of some overt lesbian outreach group? Perhaps not. Perhaps you and your girlfriends are nuns. Ain’t got nun that was good enough yet. That’s what I have to say. Next!
Mr. Man-ners

Dear Mr. Man-ners:
How could you respond that way to One in a Million? She had a real problem. She was obviously going through menopause. Whenever she saw a man, she paused. If you get my drift.
One of the Men

Dear One of the Men:
That was just plain stupid. If she paused when she saw men, she wouldn’t be so quick to want to keep them fully clothed. Maybe she was going through naked menopause. But that’s another story.
Mr. Man-ners

Dear Mr. Man-ners:
Shame on you. Shame. Shame. Shame. One in a Million might have a real problem. And I’m not talking about lesbianism or her faith in God. She might be frigid. This problem can be treated with drugs and therapy. You’re supposed to help people, not make fun of them.
Disappointed in You

Dear Disappointed in You:
I’m disappointed in you, too. What would you have me do? Tell her to seek drug therapy? I’m no pusher.
Mr. Man-ners

Dear Mr. Man-ners:
You’re just another man. You don’t understand women? The only head you think with is the one below the belt. How did you get this job? Did you win it in a poker game? One in a Million

Dear One in a Million:
I got the job in a Cracker Jacks box. I was soooo lucky. So lucky, in fact, that I have to deal with women like you. All you want is for me to agree with your lame reasoning behind not having sex with your husband. Now if you’d said he beat you or cheated on you, well I might have had a different answer. Well probably not, especially if you wouldn’t give him any sex. I say “Give him sex, or give him the liberty to find sex wherever he wants.”
Mr. Man-ners

Dear Mr. Man-ners:
This is One in a Millions husband here. You made my wife cry. While I must admit, it’s frustrating not to get what I want—well I still don’t think you should offer mean advice.
One of the Men who Loves One in a Million

Dear One of the Men:
You are certainly not one of the men in my book. How many men actually love your wife (not too many is she's penis-shy)? And what does love have to do with sex? Your wife has you whipped. And it’s with something other than her sexual parts, because obviously you’re not getting any. My intent was not to make her cry—I was trying to make her change. All for you. If I’d known you were such a wuss, I would have told YOU to join the covert lesbian secret society.
Mr. Man-ners

To Shop or to Sleep? That is the Question

Okay…so I’m nuts! I decided I wanted to see what the sales after Thanksgiving were all about. Friends said it would be a madhouse, but I like shopping. I also like sleeping, which was my other option—but I made the wrong choice. I went shopping and my friends were right! It was a madhouse (and there were no psychologists to handle the madness—as was evident in that one superstore where a scuffle broke out over a computer).

I went to an electronic superstore which I won’t name (but let’s just say unless you were there at 4 a.m., when they opened at 5 a.m., you weren’t going to get a best buy) that advertised several wonderful cheap computer deals. I arrived at 5:30 and the parking lot was packed, but I figured I might still get what I wanted (a $150 complete computer system). I got into a line because as consumers we’re taught to get into lines. I waited and I waited. I’m a man and we don’t ask for directions. I just waited. Ten minutes later a store employee walked over and said something like, “You suckers who want one of those cheap computers—if you don’t have a ticket—we’re sold out.” (Okay he didn’t say these exact words). What? I didn’t see anything about getting a ticket. I didn’t see anything in the sales flyer I picked up when I walked in or anywhere in the store about no stinking ticket. I left the store frustrated.

I was disappointed but I’d heard a man in this line mention that another monolith retailer had cheap computer laptops. So I took a drive over there. The place was jammed. I felt like I was up a wall in a shopping mart. By the time I got through all the security, (do they think people are going to actually STICK desktop computers under their parkas?)—and three feet away from the electronics section—an employee said over the PA, “If you’re shopping for our cheapo deal on laptops, you’re up the creek without a paddle. You should have been here at 3 a.m. you idiots.” Well, they didn’t actually say that, but that’s about how it felt.

I was irked but determined to buy something. So I did. I bought a bomb and now neither of these retailers remains standing! Not. But I felt like it. What’s the use if they advertise they have three of these wonderful deals and they are at three stores nationwide and you might get one if you’re lucky—I have better odds of winning the lottery. I felt this way for the 5 hours I shopped. I resolved never to shop instead of sleep again.

If these stores can stock three of these items for this amount, surely they can offer EVERYONE this price. Think of it, wouldn’t you shop more, if the store made you happy—if they had what you expected to purchase—if they actually had the good, cheap, loss leader items in stock when you went to purchase them. I would. And why are they call loss leaders—is there really any loss involved? Would a company, a mega-electronics store, really sell so many items just to get you into the store so you’d spend more money? The reality is, the people who buy the best-priced items (the loss leaders) will probably only buy really well priced items—so how would the electronics store make any money on these people? Or is the people who come in and expect to find these items who then must spend 3x as much to get a comparable item—who make up the loss by spending too much on comparable items? I doubt all these scenarios. My take is that these companies make money (even a small amount) on every product (loss leader or not) they sell.

This angers me even more. And you’d think John-Q-Shopper would be angry too. Yet, the scary part is that people keep doing this every year. They waste sleep to get deals that don’t exist by the time they get there. I was so frustrated I vowed never to miss sleeping in again on the day after Thanksgiving.

Plus I figured out a way to get even. I say we get EVERYONE who shops together and call these stores at their busiest times just to ask stupid questions (I did it: I called a different electronics store, it was like a city with circuits when I finally got through: “Do you have anymore of those $199 laptops?” “No they were sold out at 5 a.m.” “Well then you should have stocked more when you opened at 6 a.m.

Next year, the day after Thanksgiving, I’m not even trying to get any of these loss-leader items. And I hope nobody else does either. We should teach these retailers a lesson, we should sleep in and not shop the day after Thanksgiving (Black Friday—when I presume many of these companies go into the black on their books from all the pre-Christmas sales). Maybe they’ll figure out how to treat us customers then. Hell, it worked last year with our silent protest against rebates—because this year many of these rebates are “instant” when you check out.

Stuff

I’m loosing my space! I moved into a two-bedroom condo. I had a garage sale to get rid of all my junk. Yet—not four months later, I have EVERY space filled, even my stove stores my old pots and pans that I can’t bare to get rid of.

Yet, every weekend, I go out and buy more stuff. Am I part of a consumptive generation or what? Even after I buy something I see something that will look/work better…so I buy it. I currently have 12 silk plants that will only work as the centerpiece for my dining room table. I have 40 table clothes (20 of which require ironing—and I don’t even own an iron!). I have twenty-five extra chairs stored around my apartment and in the storage unit just in case an unexpected battalion of company shows up (aren’t they releasing the troops for Christmas soon?). I have 50 of my very best ashtrays that I used to collect, which I keep just in case these guests need to smoke (in my smoke free environment). Plus, they’re pretty! Even though they typically remain hidden in my kitchen cabinets.

I have all these things—most of which cannot be used in combination with one another. But these are things I can’t give up. I just can’t get rid of that old sweatshirt that has twenty two bleach stains on it, because it’s my favorite around the house (though I can’t wear it around the house because it’s usually 90 degrees in my condo). I have 10 pairs of sweat pants from when I used to work out—but I keep them in case I’m ever cold—which doesn’t usually happen in 90 degrees. But I might need them someday.

I have 9 pairs of cut-off work pants—that might come in handy if I ever paint anything (and want paint to splatter on my legs)…but they’re comfortable (even though I never wear them out—they’re too ugly—and I never wear them in—because I have so many nicer around-the-house shorts). But I keep these cut-offs. If they ever go missing—I’d miss them.

The odd part is that I moved into my condo—got rid of loads of junk—then just went right back out and bought another load of junk. And I keep buying. Granted, it looks good, it works well in this home. But now, I don’t have anywhere to put the new stuff. My closets are full. My cabinets are full. My shelves are full. My storage cabinet is full. Soon, the trunk of my car will be full with all the overflow stuff.

Is this why people buy houses with large storage basements and garages (which they can never park their cars in, because all their junk makes the garage its home)?

And finally, the one questions I’ve been avoiding. The one I don’t ever want to answer again. The one that scares the living hell out of me (how can hell be living?): Is it time to move again—to accommodate all my newfound stuff?

Holiday Rage

Some people would argue that road rage is very understandable around this time of year. What with Christmas coming up, I’ve noticed all the old people, people without driver’s licenses and people out for a Sunday drive (on a Friday) are out and about. It’s amazing that these people find it necessary to drive during the holidays (when they wouldn’t even consider it during the year). Are their loved ones so special they must risk a major car accident that will not only affect their family but also mine? Guess so.

I also guess that road rage was invented for times when people don’t want to take accountability for their own actions. It’s like pleading impaired mental ability. Or insanity. “But officer, he cut me off and I was really pissed. I plead road rage. I shouldn’t have to be accountable for my actions. I wasn’t in my right mind.” This has become the credo for our society these days. “I wasn’t in my right mind.” “I’m sorry people of New Orleans, I was on vacation when Katrina hit—I had vacation rage” (that’s when you can’t do your job so you go on vacation 12 times a year—to avoid making the tough decisions). “I lost my job so I killed all the employees. I had employee rage” (I was angry because they were still employees and I was now a “disgruntled employee” so I showed them). “But my son broke my favorite vase and didn’t even feel remorse, so I killed him. I had parent rage” (that’s when you NEVER should have been a parent to begin with). “The line at the airport was really long, so I figured I’d weed it out by killing a few passengers. I had airport rage” (all the “security” which makes people want to go screaming from the plane only heighten this!). None of these things are justifiable. But we as a nation seem to feel that if we can blame someone else (or something else) then we’re off the hook. “The operator put me on hold for six minutes during a 911 call, so I blew up the 911 headquarters! I had 911 rage!”

Get a life—take accountability for your actions. Rage is controllable. It is not a disease. It is not an excuse.

With the holidays and all the stress everyone’s under—if necessary, take a chill pill! Don’t get caught up in Holiday Rage. Buy a gift card.

(This message brought to you by someone who likes gift cards!)

The Perfect Gift

With Christmas coming up, it makes me wonder about gifts. I love gifts and I hate gifts. Don’t get me wrong, I love to get the perfect gift. But let’s get real, who ever gives the perfect gift? I’ve received some cool stuff in my day. Everything from a desktop computer to a pair of angels made in Mexico. But were they the perfect gift?

The perfect gift must come from either a. the person you feel closest too (meaning your lover, mate, or husband/wife—not a fur ball from the cat), b. must be well thought out without being something on a list (the computer was on a list, even though I never thought I’d get it—now if I’d gotten the Porsche I ask for every year, it wouldn’t have been the perfect gift, that would have been the Mercedes I never put on the list) c. must come with no strings attached (what am I stupid! Get real! No, I mean it—if you must stay with someone/do something for someone/reciprocate with a like gift—well it’s not perfect). d. must be perfect at the time (this means if I put it on my list last year and have forgotten all about it and might not even want it this year, it’s not perfect). e. must be something that will make my life easier (meaning not an appliance/clothes/or something I have to return) e. must not be something I’ve been hinting at or asking for over the last few months/years (meaning don’t get me anything I want, get me something I want but am afraid to ask for or don’t even know I want/need).

Okay, so the perfect gift is rare. I’ll admit it. It’s hard to find. It’s hard to buy. I try every season to find these elusive gifts for friends/family. What do I end up getting them? Things I think are perfect for them. Of coruse, a week later they ask me, “Do you mind if I take your gift back, I got six nose hair trimmers that play music in the shower?” I always say, “Here’s the receipt,” but I’m secretly thinking, I took back the one that scrubbed your back too, damn it, I bet you didn’t get even one of those!

So I’ve figured out what the perfect gift is: Love! Oh, I’m schmaltzy, but not that schmaltzy. Love is imperfect too (take if from a romantic cynic). The perfect gift is really something else. And I’ve been a big naysayer about these things for years: Gift Cards. Okay, on the surface they look tired and lazy. Maybe. But at least someone doesn’t have to return them. They fit everyone’s wallet. They are never the wrong color or the wrong size (well, usually they’re not big enough, but isn't that always the case). Plus, the person can keep receiving your gift for months or years (depending on their size) to come—and remember just how lazy (err, I mean thoughtful) you were.

I say, even if gift cards seem easy, at least I thought about which store to buy them at. An added benefit is that I didn’t spend 12 hours agonizing over the toe nail trimmers with the hula girl dancing on them (to remind you of our trip to Hawaii) or 30 days praying that the price would go down on some electronic (knowing that if you didn’t like it—all you could was get a “store credit”). So I say…give the gift that keeps on giving (no not a STD) a gift card.

Fashion (Non)Sense

Am I behind the times or what? I recently visited a store, which I won’t mention, but its initials are AB&F. Here I saw the newest fashion: Ripped up jeans and crumpled wrinkled dress shirts. You have to be kidding. I usually throw my pants out when they get this ripped up. Yet they wanted over $100 for some of these jeans (they looked like they threw them into shark-infested water with blood on them). In addition, I usually avoid anything that’s not “wrinkle-free” in my shirts. Had I known, I would have taken those all-cotton shirts I was going to use as rags and worn them to work.

I must have fashion all wrong. I was dressing all corporate, dress shirt and pressed slacks when the fashion is cotton shirts where the collar shrunk so it looks like it’s inside out (and it’s so wrinkled that it looks like I slept in it the entire last year) and pants that look like some vicious animals had a tugging match with them.

For years, I’ve been ironing my shirts and mending my pants. I’ve been making dry cleaners and tailors rich. I’ve been having my pants taken up so they didn’t drag on the floor. Now I find out that I didn’t need to do this. To be in style, I should have worn wrinkly shirts and ripped jeans and pants that were twenty-two inches too long, balled at my feet.

Or is this just kid’s fashion. Like those pants that hung two inches below their crotches and made them look like “gang”-ster members! I always thought this was the kid’s way of rebelling against their parents who looked prim and proper when they went to their jobs. Perhaps, this is just another trend. Another way to dis’ the establishment. Dis’ the corporate world that frowns upon crumpled shirts, ripped pants and clothes that don’t accentuate the body. Or are kids dissing the body all together?

I don’t know. But I’ll tell you one thing, fashion changes in one New York minute (meaning a second). I don’t like it. So, this year, I decided to try to get a jump on the fashion mavens. I’ve come up with what I suspect is the next fashion trend (based on current fashions). It’s all ready for next year. I have this old wrinkled shirt with food, blood and paint stains on it, plus a pair of cut off work pants with notorious snail trails (odiferous ones) on their butt cheeks. For shoes, I’ve got a pair of white gym shoes (which I will have some famous sports star hawk) that are now streaked and dirty (I will soon start selling these for the small price of just $200/pair—it’s a great deal, I get to break them in then resell them). I’m all set for next year’s fashion. That is, unless of course, the yuppie look is back.

Buzz Goes to the Houswarming Party

Hi, Musca Domestica, here again. Just call me Buzz…bzzz. I’ve been on ice for awhile, literally.

You see we fliez….bzzz, have a different metabolism than say dogs, or cats, or even humanz…bzzz. Let me ezplain. One day my owner left some food out to cool, zo…bzzz…he could freeze…bzzz…it. I waz hungry…zo…bzzz I started eating it. No biggie. Frozen…bzzz…pizza…bzzzz…iz…bzzzz…good lukewarm.

Anyhow, zo…I’ve got a big belly by the time he goes to freeze…bzzzz…it. I tried and I tried…but I couldn’t fly away when he goez…bzzz…to put it in the freezer…bzzz. I juzt…bzzz…couldn’t. Zo...bzzz…well, to make a long ztory…bzzz…long….he put me on ice. It waz….bzzzz…weekz…bzzz…before he went to make the pizza…bzzz…again. Ezcept…bzzz…he didn’t actually go to make it. He juzt…bzzz…tozzed…bzzz…it out. And I awoke. I was cryogenically frozen…bzzz. And I always…bzzz…thought that was a myth. Not!

I awoke when he waz…bzzz…throwing ztuff…bzzzz…out for hiz…bzzz…big housewarming…bzzzz…party. He must…bzzz…have zought I waz…bzzz….gone. Becauze…bzzz…he jumped when he hear me flying around hiz…bzzzz…head.

“Hi, Mr. Bill, I zaid,”…bzzz…az…bzzz…he got out of hiz…bzzz…zhower…bzzzz. He rezponded…bzzz…in typically fun fashion….bzzzz….”Fly away. Fly away home. Or I will make mince pie of you.” Oh, he’z…bzzz…juzt…bzzz…zo…bzzz…much fun.

Then I became a housefly…bzzz…on the wall. That way my lizp…bzzz…izn’t…bzzz…zo bad. That’s better.

I watched as interesting people arrived. There were men and women. They all carried odd bags. Zhiny and sparkling…bzzz. And when the food started…bzzz...ooking…it smelled…bzzz…delicious. I wanted to fly into the room and eat at the cakez…bzzz…and cookiez…bzzz. But I knew zomenone…bzzz…would be offended. Pluz…bzzz…I knew there would be lotz…bzzz…of leftoverz…bzzz…for me to eat. Zo…bzzz...I juzt…bzzz…watched. People drank wine and beer. They zmoked..bzzz...cigarettez…bzzz. Ezplain…bzzz…to me why people do all theze…bzzz…thingz. They’re not good for them. Well, I guezz…bzzz…it’z…bzzz…like why we fliez…bzzz…eat zhit…bzzz…it’z…bzz…an addiction.

Okay, zo…I cheated…I fell off the wagon…I had some zhit too….and it waz…bzzz…mmmm…mmmm…good. And I got a buzz…bzzz..bzzz…off o it.

Zo…bzzz…I must…bzzz…admit…the party waz….a good one…but then I landed on some food that waz….bzz…being put in the frezer…bzzz….again….and well…I couldn’t fly away. I’m almozt….frozen….bzzz…bzz…again. Well, at least…bzzz...I live longer thiz…bz…..way. Until…nezt…time…thiz…bz…iz…bz…Buzz…going into cryogenic zleep…bz.

Which Smurf are YOU?

Find your inner Smurf!

Bermuda Triangle of Weather

The only reason I’m writing is in case I’m ever lost. Because I’ve heard many people get lost and are never found in the Bermuda Triangle. Now I don’t live anywhere near the Caribbean. However, I do live in the Bermuda Triangle of weather conditions (Arlington Heights, IL). It never ceases to amaze me how I can leave my job and within five minutes of getting home I enter a Tropical Rain Forest. It’s raining, thundering, lightning—and even a few mysterious (only native to my area) frogs and insects and flora and fauna seem to grow near/in my home. It’s a virtual wonderland.

I should have realized I lived in the Bermuda Triangle of weather when there was a large and rather threatening thunderstorm in my area. Suddenly all the lights, radios, electronics went out. Nothing worked. As I entered my bedroom to find a flashlight I saw something I didn’t expect. Light. However, it wasn’t coming from inside. It was coming from outside my bedroom window. When I opened the shades I got to see a transformer sparking and exploding. I hear that kind of thing happens all the time in the Triangle. Electronics stop working. Things break down unexpectedly. Now, it was probably lightning that set this transformer afire, but I didn’t see it. It was a mysterious sight. And of course my electricity didn’t’ come back on for hours that night.

Then there was the time I was outside, smoking a cigarette and it was balmy (if a little cold). Within moments of my lighting the cigarette the weather changed dramatically, what with the wind chill and the crazy 50-mile per hour winds.

I wouldn’t mind living in the Bermuda Triangle of weather if only I was on some tropical island with coconut drinks, sandy beaches and ocean surrounding me. Instead, I’m in a four-story building with condo developments, a sea of roads and land surrounding me. If I should disappear—at least everyone will know that I’ve been lost in the triangle of weather. Moreover, maybe someday I will return. So if you’re ever visiting Arlington Heights and your compass should go out, and it starts to rain and wind picks up—well, maybe you too will be lost here. And when that happens, maybe I can return to the land of the living (meaning, somewhere else in Illinois).

Which Muppet Are You?

You are Kermit the Frog.
You are reliable, responsible and caring. And you
have a habit of waving your arms about
maniacally.

FAVORITE EXPRESSIONS:
"Hi ho!" "Yaaay!" and
"Sheesh!"
FAVORITE MOVIE:
"How Green Was My Mother"

LAST BOOK READ:
"Surfin' the Webfoot: A Frog's Guide to the
Internet"

HOBBIES:
Sitting in the swamp playing banjo.

QUOTE:
"Hmm, my banjo is wet."


What Muppet are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Half-Full

While most pessimists may see a glass as half empty, I am the ultimate pessimist. I believe that the glass is truly empty, except for the bubbling spittle someone hopes I’ll mistakenly drink out of it. I also believe that when it rains (yes, it does pour) but I also believe that it’s actually God’s attempt to spit all over me. It his very own cruel cosmic joke. Okay, so I have issues with water. Therefore, it was no surprise that at my housewarming party, everything having to do with water went wrong.

First, the pride and joy of my bathrooms, the faucets had water stains. At least I believed the nickel plating was water-stained. When I rubbed and rubbed I found out the truth (I didn’t have a nickel to my name). The nickel was gone, replaced with a terrible grey cloud (the undercoating on the faucets). I couldn’t rub two nickels together since both bathrooms had the same issue. Okay, so they were functional, but not nearly as lustrous as when they were new.

I found this out not a couple hours before the party. It almost ruined my good time. However, I soon forgot all about it when I was in the final stages of take off (the dryer making a sound like a plane taking off—but this was not unusual) and I tried to use the dishwasher. I placed the nasty dirty dishes in, turned the knob, and viola. Nothing. Nothing was happening. I tried again and again and again (as if this would fix the problem). So an hour before the party—the dishwasher was on strike. A sympathetic strike: If the nickel-plated faucets could look terrible, the dishwasher could go on strike. Oh well, I still had to take my shower to get ready.

The shower worked fine. It was the people who arrived early that were the problem. The first one was invited and watched TV while awaiting my return. But when two additional guests arrived, I had to wait until they were almost out of view so I could dash semi-clad (stocking feet) into my bedroom to dress.

Later, after the party had started, one guest spotted my beautiful mountain/lake scene stained glass piece. What he spotted was three small cracks, where else but in the water.

Needless to say, the next time I have a housewarming party there will be no water involved. No water to clean. No water to drink. No water to bath in. No plumbing. No dishwasher. No faucets. No half-full spit glass. Just air and earth. My next domain is going to be a cave.

House de' Warming

Hosting a housewarming party requires you to be a French tour guide. I guided my visitor’s through this typical tour after they arrived at my door:

Welcome to the Palace’ de Mine. Over here is the Foy Yea (translation, I own this foyer so “yea!”). Next, we will see one of the most underutilized rooms in the Palace, the Kitchen de Mess. You will not see it in its natural habitat, because it’s unusually clean for le guests (thanks for cooking food de o’ther guests will actually eat, Mon cherries).”

De dining room is adjaCent’ to the de Living Room Du Jour (du jour because it changes daily). Here you will see my Notre Dame (noticeable dame) in the frame on the wall. Nice, huh? Don’t know who she is, but that’s why I bought the frame. De Living Room Du Jour is also my Lounge le Area (meaning I ONLY wear lounge pants in it, when I’m wearing clothes).

Over here is the hallway, oops, I mean the Art de Triumph Hallway. Triumph, because I figured out how to hang my photos, matching the tops and bottom all by myself! Vive le triumph!

Over here is the first Room de PooPoo and PeePee. You will note the striped walls point down, directing users which way they should poop or peepee. Of course, you will note the stripes might also be said to be pointing up. However, as I don’t expect any heroes (be a hero, don’t pee on the floor, poop on the ceiling) at my party, I doubt that I shall have to remove poop from my ceiling.

Further down the Art de Triumph to the right you will note the EntranCe’ to the second bedroom which is now the Office de Blogging (it could also be called the Office le Flogging since I flog the words to fit them into my blog).

Even further down the Art de Triumph Hallway is a second EntranCe’ that leads into the Master de bedroom. Please, note the second Room de PeePee (no poopoo since I wanted to keep it clean for le guests) and Shower Gelee' (No Bathtub Bubble’). I got to use gelee in a sentence...yipee!

The last door in Le Bedroom de Master is where we have the Master le Closet, which I lord over. And finally, we have the BalConY’. The place I shall jump off if I must use this French accent for one more tour of le Palace de’ Mine.

What kind of muffin are you?

I know...not another quiz. But I'm still working on cleaning up all the stuff my messy guests (not!) did at my housewarming party. I will tell all next week. So...here's the quiz.

Below are my results! Odd...but fun.


You are a Mystery Muffin! No one knows what you
are. YOU don't even know what you are.

Who am I...who, who, who, who? (sounds familiar doesn't it??)

What kind of muffin are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Who are you? Who, Who, Who, Who?

Hey...I'm having my housewarming party. I have all the important TV friends coming to help with cooking and cleanup. That's why I'm posting this quiz.

This was my answer.



Fun at the Titty Twister.
Which B-Movie Badass Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

How much is my blog worth?

My blog is worth $5,080.86.
How much is your blog worth?

Housewarming: Cleanup

I had my list of invitees for my housewarming food items. Now I had to make a list of TV guests for the cleanup.

I thought I would invite that balding guy that had the earring before it was popular for a man to have an earring (he must have been born on a pirate ship)—who was that, Mr. Cream—yeah that makes sense, he’s as white as cream. He can make everything that is white, white again. And a few things that aren’t (wink, wink). I will also invite his cousin the White/Black Tornado who was so politically correct he changed his name.

And I need a couple of maids. Maybe that Hey Zel—she was always funny. Plus, I could invite that maid who acted like a man but was dating a butcher who acted like a girl, yeah that’s right, her name was Al Ice. She was a bit cold at times, especially if her butcher boyfriend didn’t give her a big enough prime cut of meat. I don’t think I’ll invite him, but if Al Ice brings him, I’ll just have to pretend I have a braying Bunch (six) of kids and don’t have a clue what she does in our bedrooms when we’re not at home. “Oh, my ‘art’ magazines that were hidden between the mattress and the box spring are missing, have you seen them Al Ice?” the oldest male kid will ask. “They were out of date, so I tossed them (right into my collection of porn),” Al Ice will reply. Thank God the braying bunch isn’t coming to my housewarming party—or all my clean-up people would have to say “Marsh uh, marsh uh, marsh uh!” then click their ruby slippers three times in a row.

I will also invite some TV cartoon/plush friends to help with housewarming cleanup. I’d love those Rubbing Bubbles to come and work over my bathroom. By rubbing each other repeatedly they create a lot of friction—and that anger must come out somewhere—so they can beat my bathroom into shape. Then there’s Puddles the bear who peddles laundry detergent. He does all those commercials where he’s rubbing up against towels (it’s a fetish which makes him piddle, but you never see that on camera). He can supply the detergent, but he can’t touch the towels!

So far, so good. I have my list of cooking invitees and cleanup invitees. Now I just have to create a list of attendee invitees.

My New Chairs

Since I've talked about decorating my condo so much, I thought I'd post a picture of how my "reupholstered" chairs came out. I really wanted them to "pop" as they say on all those HGTV shows!


Okay, I admit it: The chairs were so bright they gobbled up the ozone layer and started forming a worm hole in the atmosphere. Not! I actually enhanced that photo (can you tell I like green??).

This is the real picture! (there's only one here, so you can see the detail, though picutres don't do these chairs justice!)

Not bad, huh?

See, I really did move and had all those experiences with my freaky family, crazy contractors and nosy neighbors!

Indentured Servant 2

(This is a serialized story, please read yesterday’s story for the 1st installment of this article):

So, we have a man who has bad hair and has bankrupted at least one company (DonAl Trump) doing one of the Indentured Servant shows. Then we have a convicted criminal (Marta Stew Art) doing another. Which means that we should all be rushing to get a job with these two successes! (In what universe?) Okay, I admit it. I’d take a job. First, I want to know how to bankrupt a company without losing any of my own money and second I want to know how to get access to insider trading, get caught, then make orange the next black. I want that power.

The power of fame means these two get to have fame, fortune and people willing to ask, “How far up do you want my head.” Plus they get their own TV show.

Let’s review the show. For immediacy sake, let’s take Marta Stew Art’s version of the Indentured Servant.

It opens with a review of what has happened in previous weeks. This includes sniping by contestants, successes, failures, intrigue, and a recap of all the backstabbing (and that’s just between Marta and her employees) It’s as riveting as All My Children. The burning questions: Who will NOT be nominated for an Emmy Award this year? DonAl or Marta? Will DonAl’s real parents Alfalfa and Bozo ever be outed? And who picked the song Sweet Dreams for Marta’s version of the Indentured Servant?

Granted, this song is great, but how does it apply to Marta Stew Art? Has anyone EVER dreamed of Martha Stew Art without it being a nightmare? It sure wasn’t her ex-husband!

After Marta prances about the screen smiling (we can only imagine she’s smiling at her prison girlfriends), we hear her say: “Your assignment, if you chose to accept it is …” Of course, none of the contestants can actually choose. They must accept the assignment or they will “disintegrate in thirty-seconds.” Within one hour, one actually does disintegrate from the show (because as we know, these contestants are fired--never to be heard from again—if only!).

However, before this happens, the show seems to go on and on and on and on (like that annoying bunny) for an entire week. It’s really only one hour, but it feels like a week. Finally, some team wins and some team loses. One person gets fired. Which makes no sense, because if a team failed in real life, wouldn't they all get fired? However, this isn’t real life. It’s “realty TV” where deserted survivors on an island can win food and two failures can get their own TV show.

Cool Quiz

Okay. I'm on a little sabbatical. Actually, my computer is, so I thought I'd put some interesting little quizzes and tests in my blog while I'm away (well, while my computer is being diagnosed at the computer hospital!). I'm going to try to add content during the next few weeks, when I can use someone (anyone) else's computer.

I took this cool test on another blog. You can take it too. Apparently, what it means is that ONLY 37% of people are cooler than me. I scored higher than many. Take it yourself!

The Indentured Servant 1

A friend of mine loves The Indentured Servant. I have to wonder, who wants to watch DonAl Has Trump, who has bankrupted a company without losing his own wealth, but has stolen away people’s retirement hopes, train the next bankrupters of America. Are these potential indentured servants (they serve a higher evil power) so desperate for any kind of work, they don’t mind that they might get a rubber check: Is a rubber check and the hopes of a job better than no check at all? Alternatively, are these ContestAnts just doing it because, “Any publicity is good publicity.” If so, just remember that while this adage is true, so is the one that goes, “An old dog feels freer to bite the hand that feeds it rather than the devil id doesn’t know.” In addition, I know from personal experience (no I do not have a dog) that when a payroll check bounces it's like a day without…pay. Sometimes it’s even like a week or two or four weeks without pay (depending on often you get a paycheck). And it’s no fun. It’s like taking a test (similar to what they do on The Indentured Servant) without ever getting the results.

Okay, so working for DonAl may not be like a test without results—but it’s certainly like waking up and having a bad hair day. Can’t DonAl find the time to get a better hairdo (I suspect that’s why he keeps getting divorced)? And speaking of divorces, can’t he afford a Stepford Wife (then he wouldn’t have to do his hair, because his robot wife would do it for him). Okay, so maybe they don’t make robots unsophisticated enough to marry DonAl and unfortunately God hasn’t made women sophisticated enough to not fall in love with his money. Nonetheless, maybe DonAl should just marry a hairdresser. Then her tip could be his tip and it would all stay in the family. Unless he doesn’t tip. Could he be that cheap? Okay, so maybe he’s not that cheap with his wife (still, I wonder, would he be that cheap with employees?). And maybe he keeps his hair that way because the Toup-look is coming back into style (next he’ll be doing a comb over, or is that a comb over?). Okay, I’ll admit it, his hair has become his signature—like Jacko’s missing nose is his—but who would want their hair to be their most mentioned quality? Not me. Still, I guess, “Any publicity is good publicity.”

Ask Marta Stew Art. She’s made an Art of getting herself out of a Stew. As a convicted criminal, you’d think no one would like her anymore. But I guess I should have known better. If Orange Juice can get away with murder and if Bigamist Bill (he would have married twice if he could have) can get away with not knowing what sex is then Marta can get away with a spike in popularity after becoming an ex-con. Jacko gained popularity it happen too. But at least Jacko got out of the limelight. Marta jumped right into it by becoming the host of The Indentured Servant 2.

(This is a serialized story, please read tomorrow for the second installment of this article):

Housewarming: Main Dish/Drinks/Dessert—Breakfast Anyone?

I was still planning my housewarming (and why is it a housewarming, nobody brings logs). I had the appetizer guests all lined up. The Peanut Man, the Weebler Elves, Prince Charles the Tuna, Pill DoughBoy and the StayFluff man. Now I needed to figure out who to invite who could prepare the main dish. I’m a man, I know nothing about cooking, cleaning or burping babies. But my TV friends would. They could prepare a dish suitable for the French Grommet (a magazine that teaches how to cook meals to die for).

For the main dish, I decided to invite the French Drunk Chef over. Ooops, I forgot, she’s dead. Hey, if I’m going to have a fantasy (psychotic) housewarming party (break) I can invite anyone living or dead that I want too. Anyhow, she’s the only one I know who can fry/bake/baste/griddle/create (while drunk) some scrumptious pancakes. No, that’s a breakfast food. Because the party is in the late afternoon/early evening, I will strongly urge the French Drunk Chef to make crepes. Crepes are more golden than pancakes (because they have waffles in them). I’m sure she will do a good job. To add that special sauce on top (syrup) I think I will have Mrs. What’s ButterWorth go tap some trees (when Mrs. What’s ButterWorth taps, syrup answers). Well, nonetheless, her sauce will taste great on the pancake-waffles.

Okay, okay, I know it’s not a very balanced meal. Peanuts, crackers, tuna, bread, crepes/syrup. But hey, it’s a party and I’ll die if I want to (“It’s my party and I’ll die if I want to, die if I want to, die if I want to.”). If I must include veggies at this party then I’ll have to invite the Golly Green Mayan. He’s an old Indian who has veggies growing all over his green outfit (not to be mistaken for green jeans). At least with him at the party there will be something healthy to eat.

For drinks, I decided to invite a couple of TV friends. First, I’ll invite the Cool Man. His drinks always have cool ingredients, like red dye #2. It’ll be a good to drink straight up, or if people want a mixed drink (is that a drink with parents of different ethnicities?) they can mix it with my next TV friend (at least billboard friend) will bring. I’m going to invite James Deam. He’s famous for drinking himself into oblivion with Scotch before driving over that cliff.

For dessert, I wanted No’mores. So called because after eating a couple you say, “No more. No more. Or I might explode.” This is exactly what happened to my next invitee, the StayFluff Man. He’s one big sweet fluff. That’s why I’m sure he and the PillDoughboy will get along fabulously.

After the party ends, and if people planned to stay the night  I’ve invited some entertaining TV friends to make breakfast. I have the Tricks Rabbit (he pours cereal, while appearing/disappearing from a magician’s hat). Also, the Quicker Than a Speeding Bullet Rabbit (he’s a rabbit equivalent Superman) who can keep the Tricks Rabbit company (I just hope they don’t multiply and conquer). His chocolate concoction tastes like cow’s milk without the cow. I will also invite Antony the Tigger (a distant relation to TiggerToo, the cousin of the brother of the uncle who works with that bear who smells like excrement). He can provide a cereal—that’s for rabbits, not for kids. I’m certainly not going to serve pebbles (it was a cereal once upon a time: but in rabbit lingo it means poop) to the rabbits.

I think that just about completes my cooking guest list. Next, I’ll have to create an invitation list of TV friends for cleanup.

Housewarming: Appetizer

It was time to have a housewarming party. This was a Greek tradition: House—Place where you reside. Warming—Gifts. Anyhow, I wanted the food at this shindig to be homemade. Meaning made at someone else’s house, because the closest I could get to making something in the kitchen was a “mess.”

Still, my inability to cook has never prevented me from watching people who know how to cook. At restaurants. At parties. At the couch: on the cooking channel. Once, I even got inspired enough to try to make something all by myself. I tried to make a pizza. After the fire department had to use the Jaws of Life to open my mouth, due to me inadvertently shredding the wax paper separating the cheese onto my pizza, well I decided if I wanted to live a long life that I would never cook again.

This does not prevent me from wanting homemade food at my housewarming. And these cooking shows have given me a great idea. Now I know how to have a great party with great appetizers. I’d invite Martha Stewart (but I hear she’s too busy firing people). So, what I’m going to do is invite all my friends to help with food preparation. Not my real friends. No. I’m inviting my TV friends.

First, I’ll invite the Peanut Man to come over and place his shucked nuts on a plate. That didn’t come out right, but you know what I mean. I’m sure people will love his salted nuts.

Second, I’ll invite the Weebler Elves. They wobble but they won’t tumble out of the tree: Just to make sure they don’t, I’ll hide the French Drunk Chef’s stash (Sherri). There’s one thing I’ve always wondered about these elves: With all the money they make from their crackers (and cookies), why do they still have their factory/home in a tree? Is it some kind of tax incentive program because they’re environmentally conscious? No matter, the Weebler Elves will provide us with their wicked buttery Ritzy crackers (oops, they don’t make those, do they). Still, the Weebler Elves do make some kind of crackers

To make these crackers even tastier I’ll convince Prince Charles the Tuna to supply the tuna. Hell, even though a star hasn’t kissed him, he’s still all right in my book. Plus there are many people who are star-kissed, that I wouldn’t want at my housewarming party.

It might be a good idea to have some kind of tuna fish salad as a dip. This means, I’ll need bread also. For this, I’ll invite the Pill DoughBoy (who became dependent on diet pills, while trying to break his addiction to bread. His cousin, the Pill DoughnutBoy, who has a similar addition, told me that). With a few winks, I’m sure the Pill DoughBoy can make something rise. He always does.

Next…I’ve to got create a list of friends to make the main dish. And the desert. Plus, I’ll need a whole new crew of TV friends to do the cleanup.

Doctors & Nurses: Nazis & Vampires

I recently had to visit my doctor. Everyone believes that doctors take the Hippocratic Oath, but doctors also take an oath to:

Ask for payment upfront, even though you have 16 different insurance companies covering the visit.
Probe and prod where the sun don’t shine.
Ask you how you are, then run out the door for some ‘code’ (meaning someone tapped the bumper on their BMW) before you have a chance to tell them.
Perform every test known to man (and a few experimental ones) including a GRE test, a spelling test and a needle prick test (this is done to make sure you’re listening to their $200 per ¼ hour opinion).
Not find anything. So they can run more tests (experiments) and bill more hours. This is part of their allegiance to the Nazi party.

Doctors and nurses are paid by the government to gather information. Not the U.S. government. It’s the German government (Hitler is still alive!) who want all these tests (experiments) done. Doctors must also employ nurses trained in needle warfare, meaning they are vampires (they understand sharp stake like instruments and carry vials of blood, do you need any more proof). This means nurses (vampires) could fight off a U.S. battalion without any weapons except their hands and two hypodermics. Just the threat of being stuck with a needle would stop most soldiers in their tracks. Because, as we all know, men are poop-in-their-pants afraid of shots.

I should know: I had to have two blood tests run. You would think they could use the same vial of blood, but the vampires (err, I mean nurses) were hungry: they needed two vials for two separate experiments (err, I mean tests) I expected the nurse would use a small needle to take my blood. “What’s that?” I asked staring at something that looked like a device for artificially inseminating Elephants. “It just a needle,” she said. I could imagine her running her diabolical Nazi experiments on me. We all know these experiments (err, I mean tests) start with drawing blood. Next, she was going to ask me to strip, then place electrodes on my genitalia. “Are you sure that’s the right…” was all I got to say, before she impaled my vein.

After she’d taken two vials, she said, “Now that didn’t hurt one bit, did it?” Sure, if you don’t mind having a Nazi impale you for some maliciously evil experiment. “No, it wasn’t too bad,” I lied. I was afraid if I said it hurt, she would insist upon giving me something for the pain (like a shot or something). You know what they say; no pain, no gain for your doctor--who else can change this much to inflict this much pain? I can just imagine the job requirements for people in the medical field: “Must like pain, scat, piss and every other vile human bodily fluid. No beast lovers (bestiality practitioners) need apply.” Don’t get me wrong, I love my doctors and they have very qualified people working for them. Nevertheless, why does every test require pain?

When my doctor’s 15 minutes were up, I left and waited. For how much it cost to run these “tests” (experiments) you’d think the results would be instant. But they’re not. You must wait until at least the next day. Of course, the next day when I tried to get my results, my doctor was busy (probably out golfing) and the nurse said, “He’ll have to call you back.” Which I figured meant when the next solar eclipse happened. After all, I was not a paying customer anymore; he’d already billed me for my exam and tests and inflicted the Nazi nurses on me. He was on to bigger and better insurance companies and patients who needed more expensive tests (experiments) done. So I was happy to hear from him by the end of the year (it felt like a year, but it was actually the same day). He said that none of the tests proved anything (does testing REALLY prove anything?). And he recommended some more tests (experiments). But he said he couldn’t fit me in until the next month (not because of the richer insurance companies/sicker patients/more experimental experiments) but because he was attending a training seminar (which I knew meant he was meeting secretly with Hitler to go over all of the test results).

Doctors
Nurses
Satire
Humor

Well Hung 2 ½

Of course, I only hung a certain amount of pictures the other day. One doesn’t rush into these things. After all, I had been gathering my thoughts (like a Turkey gathers on Thanksgiving) about hanging my artwork for over three months, how could I possibly hang it all in one day? That would be sacrilege: I really wanted to do it right. But how?

My only resource (as I’d used all my books to level my furniture) was the Internet. Perhaps, I’d missed something the last time. Something important (like my sanity for trying to hang artwork in the first place). Maybe I’d misjudged the Internet. Many people found it useful.

So I tried to find info on well-hung pictures on the Internet once again. My first search brought up some pictures of well-hung people, but none of them seemed to be mounted on a wall (on a bed perhaps, but not a wall). I tired other search terms. I wanted to know how to “group” my artwork. However, I decided against searching for “well-hung groups” for obvious reasons (meaning, I couldn’t remember my password to view the images). However, the Internet didn’t help much. Take for instance one designer’s suggestion that I group similar frames (wood, metal or indestructible dollar store plastic) together and use similar matting. What was I supposed to do? Rip the backs off my artwork, take construction paper and cut similar colored mats (because custom mats cost more than Picasso sketches)?

Maybe the Internet had answers to other questions I had. What I really wanted to know was how I get bloodstains off wood frames after hammering my fingers. The Internet didn't have an answer. Thankfully, that wasn’t the most imperative question, though it’s a burning one (in my hammer-smashed fingers). What I really needed to know—but got no answer for—was when I hung artwork should I level the pictures inside the frames (even if they are different sized pictures and frames) or level the frames (at the top, bottom, middle or where the blood stains are) and what’s a good grouping (diagonal, horizontal, straight across, up and down, all around, or should I do the hokey pokey and turn myself around). Also, if I can’t get an answer to these questions, how much does it cost to have someone do all this work for me (probably a gazillion dollars, because the hanger will make the hangee crazy changing locations, plus we all know how hard it is to find a trained, certified, insured poodle, I mean picture hanger, on a weekend—almost as hard as it is to find a doctor off the golf course).

While I never got these burning and not so burning questions answered, I did visit some interesting decorating sites, including: “Death of a Domain,” “Hung Without Busting a Lung” and “Well Hung: How Deep to Place Your Nail.”

These were all very informative sites, but all I wanted was well-hung art. All I needed was well-hung art. I tried to use the Internet advice to the best of my ability (meaning I childproofed my computer against these sites and threw out the passwords). In the end, I just guessed (since the last coin got lost in the flip). One wall had picture frames leveled at the top. One wall had pictures leveled at the bottom. One wall had a grouping of four pieces of artwork that formed a box. One wall had my bloody fingerprints framed like a Rorschach inkblot test (it looked like “modern” art—what does that reveal about me?).

Still, it all turned out well. While I didn’t learn much about hanging artwork (except how not to handle a hammer), I did learn that “well-hung” is not a good search term on the Internet (unless you’re into that kind of thing).