Cushy Conversation

As I was surfing the web to come to this blog today, I think that I counted at least five times in which I stopped and asked for directions to this place.  If you’re a woman reading this, yes, I did say, “asked for directions.”  Special thanks for this achievement of unmanly-like routine goes out to the “Howcast” videos on youtube.  You have my lifetime subscription and support.  Now that I’ve identified this broken down shack excuse for a blog, if I could only remember what the four-digit security code was…

Since we are in the midst of the Holiday Season, it just wouldn’t be fitting if we did not mix the words “Politically Correct” in with the other characters of the Nativity Scene.  Now, I’m no Merriam- Webster Dictionary; however, I would like to throw a few punches below the belt line of these two words together by dipping them in the chocolate of sarcastic definition.  So, with that being said, incline your ears to the following brought to you by Lancer the Willy Wonka of word associations.

Politically Correct, it’s the fibbing contestant in the game show “To Tell the Truth.”  The “befriend everybody” routine the tongue acquired from facebook’s founder Mark Zuckerberg.  A verbal, fancy driving, cruise control that dressed up in a “tippy-toe through the tulips” costume at a Halloween party. Clocking out for recess, words that gather around the oral playground and engage in the game called ring-around-the-rosey.  Talk turned hybrid in order to communicate with less smog; therefore, not polluting the attitudes of the listeners.  Speech that is as backwards as Edward Scissor Hands giving a full-body massage.  Words that leave a substance like that of floating feathers after a nasty pillow fight due to all the fluff released by the speaker.  Communication wrapped in the soft, swaddling clothes worn by the Michelin Man in order to market itself as inoffensive threads to the beholder.  Chat that hasn’t taken a shower in days yet bears a compelling smell due to all the cologne that was dumped upon it by the illegitimate schmoozing.  It’s the sleep number bed of the tongue that contours to everybody’s tastes. The modern day Romeo wooing outside the general public’s bedroom window.  A discussion that comes prepackaged with painkillers in order to numb the nerves of the recipient.  Dialogue that is smooth as freshly-laid asphalt spread by a cheap construction company of illegals, and covers the potholes of controversial subjects.  Lastly, it’s the generic brand of talk that rides the fence smoothly like a Buick LeSabre with the “Dynaride” feature.

As I end, my fingers, reaching the peak of edginess and their tongues sticking out, exit the stage and call for curtains.  I more than likely have used that line once before, but found it fitting to insert as a conclusion for this blog.  The middle one (finger) could have made a statement by itself, but wanted to follow the guidelines expressed in the HANDbook which requires this part of the hand to be escorted out by other fingers.  It would have been a politically correct statement saying, “You’re number one.” 

When You've Got It, You've Got to Flaunt It.

It appears as though another week is upon us, but this one bears that of the Thanksgiving holiday.  Just as turkeys will baste in the oven on Thursday, so also do ideas cook themselves to a crisp in my mind until they are roasted and ready to feed a famished family of four.  Figuratively speaking, it is time to take this blog post out of the 350 degree oven and dish it out into the suggested serving sizes to those hungry enough to eat of its portions.  Dig in before it gets cold and supplies last.

Status symbols:  These are the equivalency to the bratty, red-headed stepchild that, if you could, b*tch slap and haul their sorry rear-sided seat cushions back to reality.  Whether it’s as hot as a Styrofoam cup of Starbucks coffee or versatile as a Blackberry, status symbols hang on our social life like overly priced ornaments on a waste-away Charlie Brown Christmas tree.  Each weigh down the individual with the misconception of amplified elitism. Words of these vain-constructed, self-followed folks such as “My accountant”, “First class”, “summer home” and “Refi” (short for refinance) get tossed around in the conversation like a baseball during warm-ups in the bullpen.  Am I supposed to be impressed with your persona that is stuffier than a fogged-up bathroom during a hot morning shower?  Because if that was your intention, sorry, please try again, muchacho.  They drive a vehicle that parallel parks itself, knows where they’re going better than the one in command, has temper tantrums by setting off an alarm and flailing its senses like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man as he enters a stage of panic, and also demands a high allowance (A.K.A. car payment) each month in order to not walk out on the owner.  Did it ever come across your mind that you, the bearer of bogged down social statuses, are a walking jewelry store? Hooker-like hoola hoop ear rings dangle from your lobes like a circus performer on a swinging trapeze.  Not to mention, the half-dozen rings on your fingers because you don’t want any one of those phalanges feeling left out of the mix.  A redistribution of wealth among the meat hooks if you will.  Sitting very distinguished, not showing any emotion because Heaven forbid you break your face by cracking a smile; recycled plastic in surgery isn’t composed with high strength like it used to be.  Doctor’s orders:  Pluck out the stick that is up your tail feathers which is making you have a hitch in your get-along.  Unless you are doing a remake version of the movie Jesus of Nazareth, please walk like the mistake-filled human you were born as.  Hidden meanings camp out in the activities that make up some status symbols.  I would be more than happy to discuss this in greater detail.  For example, “Lunch meeting” is an expensed face feeding.  “Committees” are a glorified and upgraded session of the stupid convention.  To playback one of these recorded, pop in a blank VHS tape.  “Business trips” is an all inclusive vacay paid for in part by those that grunt the formation of the company line.  And, “Tax write-off” could very well be the sense of giving the dog a treat, Mr. IRS agent for doing a good deed to charity or plea for a reimbursement of an item you needed in the first place.  After pulling the gun’s trigger for yet another zinger, it had become apparent that the buck stops here. 

I have come to the conclusion, and will now dissemble myself into a corner inside Funny Bone Laugh Lines inserting a foot into my mouth for that which was previously stated.  It will house the five toes like a mansion considering the vastness of the offensive speech that can be disbursed from such an opening. 

The Armchair Passer of Judgement

My apologies for not posting an entry sooner; unfortunately, I had to step through security at the door of this blog.  Refusing to walk through and participate in a full-body scan, I was asked to move to the side and allow my jaw-dropping bootay to be groped.  Agreeing up to a point, I looked Funny Bone Laugh Lines square in the eyes and told him, “If you touch my junk, I’m going to have you arrested.”  Where was the online survey that I could have taken in order to critique that performance?  Everybody’s a critic dot com. 

The Monday morning quarterback comes in more forms than an income tax return and some even appear in real-time.  We’ll just make somebody else do the dirty work because, what the heck, as Will Ferrell would exclaim, “I’m a divisional manager—I drive a Dodge Stratus!” then sit back and question their motives like an annoying backseat driver.  Well, in the ride of life, why don’t I pull the car over, call “shot-gun” and YOU can steer the ship if you’re such a hybrid of expertise!  Not only that, I will act like a Vegas casino slot machine slurring on an overdose of pocket change and spew out criticisms on every decision made.  How does the clog dancing non-orthopedic shoe feel on the other foot now?  Like O.J. Simpson putting on the black leather glove over a latex one during his trial I would probably assume.  Monday morning quarterbacks’ outlook on life is through the kaleidoscope of hindsight.  Sit on the sidelines and watch life flesh itself out on the replay screen, and then immediately categorize yourself as a guru demanding everybody vacuum the red carpet so you can pussy foot your obvious observations.  A framed certificate recognizing your achievement in slothful and drooling cynicism speech has been signed, sealed and delivered to your address for you to proudly display.  For a limited time only, receive a laminated smaller version of this, similar to the Gun Permit card, that can be conveniently stored in your wallet or purse notifying others of your way to exercising the First Amendment. 

In the fabric of society, you, the Monday morning quarterback are the worn- behind portion of the pair of jeans.  Instead of living off the seat of your own pants, you become critical of those who decide to actually function as a human.  My pointer finger extends itself towards your direction and mouths off, “Here’s looking at you, kid!” I’ll be sure to comment thorough constructive criticism your shortcomings and converse them to others first before including you in the “pin the tail on the donkey” routine. 

No Sense in Common with the Brain

Let me start off by saying that it has been a while since I polluted the blogosphere with content derived from the four little walls called my brain.  In fact, Funny Bone Laugh Lines came over to the door with a cocktail drink in its hand and introduced itself to me as I signed in.  It was nice of it to do so, but an even better gesture was that it finally paid the water bill and got the faucet flowing with sarcasm once again.  So, with that being said, dim the lights, watch where you step and prepare yourself because the tongue lashing will be like Free Willy performing tricks in the Sea World of satire.

Have you ever looked somebody in the face and point blank thought to yourself, Were you born a dumb a!# or does it just come easy to you?   It’s true.  After spending millions of dollars on research funded by a generic, Flavorite-type stimulus package, I have come to the conclusion that some people (underline “some” and dress it up with italics) do not come with the minimum requirement level of common sense that it takes in order to perform certain entry-level tasks throughout the day; such as, getting out of bed, getting dressed, DRIVING A CAR, conversing without one’s tongue being “all thumbs”, or simply just writing their name on a pertinent piece of paper.  In the 21^st century, a voiceover can be heard in the delivery room drowning out the crying baby as it says: “Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, meet the new addition to your family, a bouncing baby boy!—Common sense sold separately.” On the menu of life, the two side orders that come optional with this dish are common sense and street smarts.  Try not to spit it out on the bib, because to a select few, it’s like meat to a vegetarian.  A caption of the poster child for this type of individual would read, “Not thinking for oneself—it’s not just for the legally incompetent.” NBC once aired an expose on this quality and reported it working a 9-5 cube job as a telemarketer trying to sell its soul while cold calling selective prospects.  I urge some to give it a 30 day trial by typing “Der Der Derr” as the promo code.  Scientific findings indicate that common sense is NOT a creeper to the brain, and therefore should not have a restraining order put on it. The pay per view match that will leave you dangling like a bad hang nail involves two Abbott and Costello-like fighters:  Book Smart vs. Common Sense Dumb.  Come early.  Get a good seat.  This duo defines the meaning of photo finish. I hate to break it to ya, Common Sense, but you are about as outdated as the Hillary Clinton headband. Good Luck to you anyhow. 

With a curve ball thrown at a portion of society, I returned to the mound like Nolan Ryan as he tossed the first pitch of the World Series and realized that I may still have a little heat left in me.  I decorate the last portion of this passage with the retro-sheek look embossed in the title of a hit show from the 70’s, “Welcome Back, Kotter.”

The Key in Revenge

In an episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond,” Ray Romano described his dancing as a way of frantically searching his body for car keys with no rhythmic grace set to music.  Losing keys can change the pace of the whole day, and one common way of doing such can even trigger an episode of tourettes; especially if it involves locking them in an automobile. 

After realizing that you have indeed put your car keys in lock-down mode, you peer through the window, and it is as if those dangling items in the ignition are wagging their pointer finger at you with a “Nah-uh! You can look but you can’t touch” response.   A labor union in revolt of their owner is one way to compare those grouped keys on the ring as each of them lip-off their taunting tell-all signs that you neglected the “I’ll stand by you” vow when you acquired ownership of its metal clique.  Who’s to say that it was your fault?  Maybe they linked themselves together like an annoying chain of paper clips and reached for the door and engaged the lock button.  Don’t ask them for direction advice while poking around with a wire hanger; they look innocent but are as deceiving as a political campaign ad.  They’ll thumb their noses at you as you stand there helpless and waiting for AAA to charge you and then pay a kickback to them.  If you were to give these keys an ink blot test, chances are an image of a “bat” would not come to mind; however, their personality is likened to cat-like qualities as they turn their head while in the ignition and pretend to either not know you or not see you.  A snake in the grass these objects are.  They will turn on you and create a dramatic scene with the supporting actor called the “car alarm” as it screams, “STOP!  STOP!  INTRUDER!” once you finally have access to that little keychain gang. I know first-hand that they will have a riot inside your car as they change the pre settings to the radio stations, readjust the seat position and mirrors, and suck the energy right out of the vehicle by draining the battery.  All the while, they will have your children brainwashed into not unlocking the doors—“Don’t look at him…Maybe he can’t see us.”  Those keys will document your response sprinkled with more “F” bombs to eliminate the Taliban in order to submit you into an anger management course with a one-sided requisition. 

Who am I to judge their previously mentioned actions?  They only gave me the “I’m sorry, but you didn’t get an invite” look. I only fund their rent by making the car payment, distribute some of my earnings to insuring their living quarters, and keep up the body and mechanical maintenance.  Who am I to question their motives?  What was I thinking?  I'll dedicate a slap in the face from you, Car Keys.

Dolla Dolla Bill Y'all

Johnny Cash sang a classic song once upon a time, and as he rambled the lyrics, his lungs didn’t lift a finger and take a breath.  The song was “I’ve Been Everywhere” and the person he originally sang it with probably wasn’t June Cash, a recording label or even dedicated to an audience member; it was a duet performed between him and the One Dollar Bill. 

Does the ranking Private of the greenbacks no longer come hard-wired in being a little slut?  It seems as though that it used to perform a little dance and utilized its flexibility to stretch itself thin into some awkward positions that rarely lead it to wander out of my wallet with a hoochie momma stride and into somebody else’s pocket.  Here is a tip that you can put in your little jar, Mr. Paper Currency:  Get off the birth-control pills! Your reproductive organs used to function and duplicate yourself by creating the little pitter patter of dollah footsteps.  Now, my billfold is an empty nest of sorts, and your lack of offspring is impregnating it with a barren-like persona.  Why is it that some people can wake up in the morning to the smell of your moolah flavor in the easy bake oven, and I get up to images of your inability of both exercising your limberness and starving yourself to fit into a size 0?  I used to parade you around as being a double-jointed figure with high self-worth.  Unfortunately, you again need to be taught how to bend over backwards and give more of yourself because your milk shake brings all the boys to the yard.  How is it that the pimp in Warren Buffet can bring out the ho in you, and I can’t even get you to show some skin by making me a penny?  Why didn’t you ever form a posse quick enough when I needed you for rent?  I’m surprised ol’ George isn’t sporting the STDs considering how many strippers he’s been in contact with since his passing.  Maybe the laataays he hangs out with is one of the main reasons he constantly bears that goofy looking grin on his face.  By the way, I am still waiting for your buds to bloom into that highly coveted money tree in my backyard.  Lord knows that in today’s economic situation, you would clone yourself better in a dug hole than lounging around like a fat cat at some financial institution overworked and underpaid. The next time you’re given up for adoption in an offering plate, would it be possible for you say a prayer or two for me?  It would be much appreciated. 

Don't Be A Stranger

The weekend has packed up his things and left us once again like a bad break-up.  He has been told several times that a key is hidden underneath the mat on the doorstep, and encouraged to drop in during the middle of the week for a little visit or preview.  He informed me that this action would be unconstitutional, and therefore, against his right to free assembly; especially when told when and when not to make an appearance.   Obviously, with a response such as that, an order to cease and desist from sleeping around with the Tea Partiers would be a recommendation he should consider following.  If you were to ask me how my last weekend was, my answer would probably be as mixed as the referee call to the field goal attempt during the Mississippi St., Florida football game last Saturday.  One part of me said, “It’s good!” and the other half exclaimed, “No good!”, and after seeing a different perspective, the good conforms to the bad; unfortunately the weekend fleshed out the role of a Debbie Downer.  Wanting to partaay and shake my bootaay, he instead desired to curl up on the couch and flip through 100,000 channels of shows portraying as much action as a test pattern.  Thanks in part, to Dish Network and their “Let’s Watch T.V.” slogan.  Is there a template that a weekend comes prepackaged with and, like a cold-calling salesman, fans out a stack of brochures on the kitchen table of an ideal situation?  Such a fast talker Mr. Weekend is.  Coming and going so fast that I really couldn’t make out what he would look like in a police lineup.  Too bad he still wasn’t dressed up in that Milton Bradley Rich Uncle Pennybags costume that he showcased last Halloween and hand deliver a “Get out of jail free” card to me some time ago.  If water boarding was still legal, he would be a master at it in his own way, hands down, with his “No rest for the wicked” philosophy and constant torture of nominating me to labor during his stay.  From time to time, though, he can demonstrate a “Best in Class” quality of schmoozing when major holidays are observed during his tenure.  Apparently, it’s not what you know, it’s who you know.  The occasional slipping a little “green cabbage” with some prez portraits on ‘em in the pockets of Memorial Day and Labor Day is a great investment for him.   Thank you!  You got my vote for a fist pump.  I’m sure that this contribution is figured in my payroll tax deductions one way or another.      

Lemme Buy You a Draank

Coming up with an idea for today’s blog post, I pretty much batted the air aimlessly trying to grasp an introduction that would serve as a mouth-watering appetizer and draw you, the reader, in for more.  Well, I’m no Applebee’s and this is no “2 for 20.” So, with that being said, you have my blessing to pull a Whoopi and Joy from “The View” and walk out abruptly.  For those who are interested in seeing some country on a little joy ride, sit back, enjoy the sights and try not to get sick because it’s been a while since I’ve driven a clutch so the sudden stalling and going may make your stomach the Shawn Johnson of organs with its gut gymnastics.

Quenching the thirst that vehicles have is not an easy task when they have the flavor of the gasoline juice on their taste buds.  They drink the fuel to revitalize themselves like a boring white man uses the “sauce” as liquid confidence.  Just as a social drinker feels comfortable talking to strangers with a glass of adult beverage in their hand, the car feels like a playah when the nozzle is in its side.  Suck it up, vehicle, it costs me “X” amount of dollahz for you to socialize and have water cooler talk with some gorgeous red-haired car you called “Vette” for short.  A car with your looks better not even think of going to bed with something of that class by being parked by its side in the garage.  We’ve seen cars with horrible birth defects already, or do I need to refresh your memory?  Does the Toyota brand ring a bell and turn your daytime running lights on?  I can grab a picture of a P.T. Cruiser if you’d like, and ask if you would feel comfortable having your babies look like that.  I would get you “fixed” by pulling the battery cables off the connection if you came back with a “yes” answer to that question.    

Gas guzzlers are the alcoholics of the auto world; up to the pump, and belly up to the bar.  Regular unleaded is the can of PBR and Super Premium is like a fine wine.  Both can set my car into a trance and have it flagged by law enforcement for a DUI if it drowns its high mileage in the fluid.  I JUST filled you up a day or two ago and now you’re thirsty again!?  Not only that, but you require that I carry around a gas can which I labeled “Vehicle sippy cup” that you can tap into anytime you please.  Do you piss it out like one with overactive bladder?  My gosh!  I keep pumping and pumping…Come up for some air would ya, geez!?  To top it all off, when I drive you away from the little swingin’ car night club, you resemble a child as you model the milk and or grape juice mustache on your bug-filled grill. Maybe, I should just hook up an IV by installing a gas tank like the farmers and construction workers do so they don’t have to listen to your fussing “Low Fuel” chime.  The least you could do is get a part-time job and help forking over a small portion of the cost.  I’ll keep that idea in my back pocket along with “Save 5 cents off Your Next Fill” card. 

  

Talk is Cheap

What one thinks is the gift of gab, is really the curse of chatter.  Factual evidence has shown that the mouth of the talker often consults with online sources in how to cast off this spell of overzealous speaking.  I’ve even seen the tongue of these people crawl out of the word exhaust pipe (the mouth) on its hands and knees panting, delirious and plead to its owner, “Pleeeeeeease…..I beeeg of you.  Shuuuuut uuuup!” It has been said that these folks like to hear themselves talk, but unfortunately, their ear drums invested in some ear plugs to block the constant noise and are unable to listen intently to the speech shot aimlessly. 

Once the motor mouths start firing on what seems like 8 cylinders running on E85, the winds of B.S. start to blow changing the atmospheric activity.  Heck, Katrina probably wouldn’t have been a cat 5 hurricane if the people behind the Fox News desk hadn’t partaken in yap like it was a dish in an all-you-can-eat buffet line.  The body tries to give its signals like a manager brushing and stroking himself in a baseball game to alert that enough is a command and not an option.  In fact, hoarseness to a person is the voice box removing the rifle from the rack above the fireplace and giving warning that it’s about to clean the guns. 

My thoughts and prayers are with whoever picked the short straw and was chosen to sacrifice their working day to converse with this type of person because you don’t know what word is going to be the hot button and trigger a six hour verbal road trip.  Do you know why the BP oil spill wasn’t taken care of right away? A fast and steady stream of stupid was leaking out of the mouths of babblers calling attention to government aid louder than the catastrophe on the gulf. 

Some career advice for those whose mouth doesn’t comply with current regulations and functions with the mute button disabled:  TALK RADIO.  At least there you can get some compensation for annoying the Jesus, Joseph and Mary out of people.  Who knows, you may even bump Rush Limbaugh and become the “Windy City” of human talk.  When a “yes” or “no” answer is all that’s required, this person(s) insists that a vocal essay with voice double spaced and in 12 font is a must.  Escaping from this conversation is like the seven year itch that just won’t pass over while in its final stages.  Their voice is like getting stuck behind a slow moving vehicle but cannot move around it because you’re in a “No Passing Zone.”  You’re caught in a web of chatter, and like rocking a car back and forth when stuck, the only way out is the smile and nod method.  More than once has mail been accidently forwarded to these people’s mouths when addressed to “the city that never sleeps.” 

Would it be cruel and unusual punishment if we sentenced their tongue to decompose like that Happy Meal from McDonalds that a person kept on the shelf for six months straight? Possibly, we could pull the conversation that these people obtain in BULK from the shelves at Sam’s Club. Just claim to them that it bears the same defect that Toyota had—unintentional acceleration—and doesn’t know when or how to stop. 

The Easy D

When putting into consideration a title for this blog, I made my brain empty its pockets in hopes that something good would come out of it.  Scrounging around some of the items that it pulled out, I tried to get clues from possessions as they clanked on a silver platter as if it were getting searched by airport security.  Rolling its eyes at me, I could tell that my brain did not like the comment that I dished toward it in lyrical form as I sang “Pants on the ground…Pants on the ground.  Looking like a fool with your pants on the ground.”  Apparently, resembling a gangsta is one thing (which it does quite often), but being called one in subtle fashion is another.  If I am not mistaken, my brain spent the amount with the same figures as the year it was born on the jeans it was sporting.  I will not tell you how old this think tank is, but trust me, that is a quite a large sum of digits.  A polo shirt with the collar flipped, and a nice pair of expensive white kicks accompanied the heavy—HEAVY scent of Calvin Klein cologne.  Ooooh myyyy goooosh!  This could only be the premature sign of one thing:  My brain is a douche bag.  Hence, the “Easy D” which is a copy cat streamline to a movie title, except of course, a different letter at the end. Kind of a nice piece of extra garland on the artificial Christmas tree this season I guess.

Normally, when identifying somebody of this attribute, my fingers would have defaulted to type the name of Alex Rodriguez or any other member of the New York Yankees.  However, I thought that I would spin the ol’ pointer finger back at myself for a moment of rarity.  So, let’s roll up the sleeves and start taking the punches, brain because my fists of fury are registered weapons.  Look at the man in the mirror, Mr. intelligence ‘cause the definition of a “Debag” is about to be reflected from your shiny forehead.

Gray matter, your kindness has a deficit much like that of the U.S. Government’s budget.  You’re a watered-down version of a mother f*cker with a side of prick that’s flavored with an artificial sweetener called Equal.  Rico Suave with a touch of Clark Griswold.   Alter ego of the knight in shining armor.  In the flight of life, mind, you ride in the section of “coach” of jerks and aholes.  Not enough frequent flyer miles accredited to be a first class male bizzo--yet.  You are about as friendly as the VCR timer back in the day.  Confidently bloated swaggah with a circle-n-slash drawn around your persona.  Generosity of yours in a neck brace, and the growth of your compassion stunted to the size of a Gary Coleman or Emmanuel Lewis.  A personality with more recalls and “bugs” in the system than a Toyota.  You’re a male diva in your mind’s eye set at the Neighborhood of Make Believe.  Playah in the nymph stage of the life cycle, (lemme teach you the ways, grasshoppa ) and the witty face self-proclaimed to be photogenic as you shoot pics of yourself with your disposable camera. 

Need I go on, or do you get the picture drawn and painted like that of a Bob Ross PBS special?  If I were you, cranium, I would register that space as a high-level offender of the douche bag class. 

An Eye for Imaginary Vision

Eyes are the window for the brain to visually grasp its surroundings.  I don’t know if anybody in particular quoted that line, but if they did, I just ripped it off like the Muppet wallpaper that barely clung to a bedroom wall and psyched itself up to do a “tuck ‘n roll.” When a statement such as that just throws itself into my arms as if it’s a diva on a day time drama, what is one supposed to do?  Toss it aside like Randy Moss does with his talent during each down? Of course not.  When you have a full tank of gas in the car that is a result of "pay it forward", only one thing comes to mind:  Roooooad Triiiip!

Lately, optical illusions have been doing the pop-in from time to time and spending the night on the couch with great expectations of getting a plug in one of my blogs.  We worked out a deal recently that if I did what they demanded they would stop eating me out of house and home, stop ordering costly pay per view channels and stop the hogging of night and weekend minutes on my cell phone.  Don’t ever have an optical illusion write an agreement; they’re experts on enclosing a hidden agenda in a play on words and pictures.  How do I know this?  They are better known as the David Copperfield of pictures.  Little magicians who dazzle the eyes with their imagery swagger.  Still-framed pictures that are self-taught in pulling the wool over one’s eyes. They package deceit and protect it with those little shipping Styrofoam popcorn balls and delivered to the eye thanks to Fed Ex.  We’ll sign for it by gazing at the depiction and letting the illusions sweet talk our eyes into letting them into our brains.  I sat in on a counseling session once when Dr. Phil diagnosed these as being the “pathological liars” of pictures.  A two-faced persona of the staring object as it puts earphones over the eyes and captivates them into some seductive sort of trance.  They are the one-man show to the visual sense—the clown, juggler and knife thrower on the street corner of a picture all wrapped up into performance.  They cause the brain to knock on the doorway of the eye and demand a urine test for signs of drug use since hallucinations are a second cousin.  Visual reality held hostage by phony imagery and its hypnotized hold on the eye to subtle singing of the lyrics, “Tell me lies…Tell me sweet little lies.”  Crafty as Bernie Madoff and witty as a colorful commentator, they are the scam artists in the world of art; poking that pupil for all it’s worth. 

Please Put Your Response in the Form of Dumb

The following blog contains sarcasm that may or may not be suitable for all readers.  Please feel free to take a complimentary Bounty paper towel off the roll located at any one of the nearest exits and dry yourself off from wording that will release a strong mist of satire.  If at any time you feel offended or no longer amused by the content in this passage, it is asked that you click the red “close” button up on the right-hand corner of the screen or the blue “back” button on the opposite side.  Doing such really doesn’t put a knife in my back or hurt my feelings since I am not able to see you leave in the first place.  So, if you think that a dramatic depart will turn the faucet of my tear ducts on, much like they do whenever I watch Marley and Me, you’re probably going be about as effective as a paralyzed mime. 

Have you ever read an article online, and then stuck around long enough to browse the comments left at the end of the reading?  I have to admit that I have lingered around afterward to see what some people have thought and the positions they hold.  After all, everybody has the right to voice their opinion, but not every opinion is right.  What baffles me is the fact that a story won’t be on the screen for more than five minutes and somebody already practices their freedom of speech—because it’s “constitutional” to do so.  Are you really that bored?  Get a life!  I’m pretty sure that Kmart has them on blue light special today so grab a cart and stock it full.  Don’t forget to ask the associate checking you out about the extended warranty that comes along with it.  You never know when it might be a defect.  Then again, this outlet store has a mission to sell only products busting a gut with quality.  If they didn’t, then why else would Jaclyn Smith take time from making soap operas and write her signature on everything she endorses. 

I understand that you are more than likely shaking your head at me right now which is the same thing I do when I read some of the dribble that people put as a response.  This group of people have a Doctorate degree in turning freedom of speech into freedom of stupidity as it just drools from their fingertips, to the keyboard and then in crucifix form on the screen.  If you could play statements that they write in reverse and listen to an inner message, there would be a devil-like voice that would proclaim, “FAIL!”  Were these people born dumb a**es or does it just come easy to them?  But unfortunately, you can’t back mask something that has been written like you could a cassette tape back in the early ‘80s. Oh wait, you can!  It’s called reading between the lines, and right now it says how much real estate in their brain has been rented out to a lady called Mary Jane. 

Like a coin that is quite mutilated, I can’t make heads or tails of what they have stated.  Their thoughts are like those Youtube videos that play faster than the internet is able to download.  The hamster wheel’s transmission is slippin’ so to speak.  What does not help is the over abundance of spelling errors that are peppered throughout the reply.  I want to put in response at times, “To whom can I dedicate this spell check application called a DICTIONARY to?”  From what I hear, Congress passed a law that every household gets one of these free each year so apply for one. The government is busy doing a whole lot of nothing, so it may take a while before you receive a credit.  Much like when the converter boxes were in high demand. 

It is always such a joy to watch two people sit behind smoking glass mirrors called a computer and duke it out with each other.  A UFC fight set to internet chat, if you will.  Hop into your little Hybrid car, put it in Drive and waste your time traveling the freeway like a nomad.  You would have had more use of your day than debating with somebody whose IQ is the same size as Sonic the Hedgehog’s wee wee.  If you converse at all with these folks, you might as well send yourself postage paid to the “Stupid Convention”  or Smallville; whichever stop comes first.   

I need to stop abruptly.  The true colors are shining through like my male PMS. 

The Lighted Beeootch

One of the games that I used to play when I had the P.O.V. size of “ground level” was Red light, Green light, GO!  I’m not going to lie to you, but I just finished three rounds of playing that about two hours ago in my front yard.  It got a little intense during the last few minutes of the ending session, and was close to defeating that old stop light, buuuut no go. I have learned that there is virtually no difference between fantasy and reality when it comes to traffic signals.  Just ask the big poppas on the street corners who regulate my stop n’ go driving each morning, afternoon, evening…Oh heck, anytime, really, how I react to its shenanigans.  Don’t believe the stories that it tells you involving cops because stop lights tend to misshape the truth like a pair of stretch pants worn by a debut “Biggest Loser” contestant. Now, I understand that these lights have to work some long hours by standing around twiddling their thumbs and imitating a group of construction workers watching the one employee actually DOING something, but cut a guy a break once in a while. (Preferably muah)  I don’t know who or what establishes your timing, but is there a way that we can reset it so that it’s not backed by Murphey’s Law?  Whenever I am running late, you dish out every red light, and if I have more time to spare than a dead man who constantly arranges the furniture in his casket, you seem to hit the pause button on the shade of green.  Read my lips as I mouth off to you, electronic director of the commute:  ANNOOOOYIIIIING!  For some drivers, they are offered the “Go” option for minutes on end without any sign of stopping, and others can see themselves aging in their vanity mirror before it’s time to cross (I seem to be the luckiest person to always be in this crowd).  What’s the difference?  Is it because I’m a white Caucasian male whose race is suddenly becoming the minority in its own country?  I didn’t want to bring up the race card, but it appears to be the norm nowadays as a way to play one’s own violin.  Right now, I am performing like a Johann Sebastian Bach of string instruments.  Is it money that you want?  Here!  I have some Benjamin Franklins in my wallet who are complaining of claustrophobia.  Perhaps, the two of us could work out some sort of deal:  My moolah for your compassionate tolerance.  I understand that in an age of multi-tasking you are forced to wear different hats in the job force, (wear a street sign, wear a street lamp on pole and wear other driver command signs) so a little underground economy action can’t hurt you.  One minute somebody disputes your call by either not heeding your yellow caution or “No Turn on Red”, yet at the same time nobody ever disagrees with the street name/number clinging to your arm.  “Hmmm…15^th Street???  Ya sure ‘bout that?”  That would be like finding Chef Boyarde in the grocery store checkout line buying Mac and Cheese in bulk. However, how many people throw the driver’s “Rules of the Road” book at you when they have to wait longer in the turning lane than expected?  I’ll be honest and raise my hand to that confession.  I don’t think that I will ever forget the time you snitched on me with your little mounted camera and caught video of me running you red.  What are we, first graders in elementary school?  I’ll keep that in mind along with an evil laugh the next time on of your own is under the weather due to a power outage and color blind. 

Discussion on Its Death Bed

There are topics that have been talked about to death, so I thought that I would dig a grave, bury them, and put a nice little headstone over the site by chatting about ‘em some more.  Don’t you hate it when people just don’t let an issue R.I.P., but instead they will put the little paddles on the chest of the discussion and yell, “CLEAR”? Check its pulse because it has been out to the world for some time, and yet conversationalists will try to revive it by giving the Heimlich Maneuver to something that has choked on its own vomit because even IT’S sick and tired of hearing the same old’ same old’ mutterings.  A new way of doing C.P.R. has come out.  We should perform that new task on subjects that have lived as long, if not longer, than that of the Simpsons cartoon show.  What a novel idea!  I’ll try it and you can watch.  It will be like the “I’ll wash you dry” philosophy of speech.  All you talk radio hosts, columnists, and bloggers, just go back to the meat room of yak, pick a side of beef that’s already hanging lifeless (Ground Zero Mosque, Christine O’Donnell, etc.) and beat the living death out of it with some more tongue lashing, pencil scribbling and computer keyboard stroking.  In fact, you should all line up together in the form of a funeral procession (Rush Limbaugh can lead the way) and one by one pull each hearse to the side of a bridge and drop the bodies of overdone talk into the river.  Law enforcement, better known as the FCC, will applaud you for it instead of slapping the cuffs of fines on your wrists.  For some reason, an assumption is made that one can get more mileage out of some of these topics than a DeSoto automobile produced in the early 20’s.  Apparently, the ride of chatter never breaks down and always has the manufacturer’s warranty still active.  Look in the distance, conversers, I see the twinkling cherry lights above the wrecker, and it appears to be towing away talk that has overheated on the side of the airwaves.  Find a matter that has the new car smell to it and fresh off the assembly line—just not a Toyota of talk.  Yes, there are a dime a dozen of these, but they are already death traps.  It would be a defeat in purpose to choose something authentic that is already hooked up to the heart monitors.  I guess the new thing today is taxidermy of talk.  Once it is dead, let’s stuff and stow it in the corner where we can glimpse at it and gossip about it until the tears run down its cheeks and begs, “Pleeeeeease, juuuust let me diiiiiie!” Read the will of conversation.  I believe it clearly states that it would like to be cremated, but you thought that clause looked out of place like a physician calling “Dial a Nurse” for medical advice.  Talk is cheap.  I think even in this economy you could afford a new list of focuses to cover.  Go window shopping.  Something will grab you attention, and pretty soon you will be singing “how much is that doggy of discussion in the window?”

The Prickly Side of Patience

What can flare the temper of your patience to the point that it enrolls itself in anger management classes?  What got it hooked on the powerful addiction of nicotine in order to relieve its stress levels?  From what did your patience’s high blood pressure stem?  How did it come close to checking itself into an insane asylum, or jumping off a bridge?  Why does it now have to find gratification through the practice of yoga to tap into its inner peace and happiness?  All of this is because of one word with three syllables that works triple overtime to take three years off everybody’s life with each use:  Computers.

In an unsteady job market where workers fear being laid off at any given moment, you, computer, do your job as if it’s a government position where you’re employed for life no matter how well you perform.  I would compare your execution of job tasks as the DMV employee of technology—irritable with a side of irregular bowel syndrome.  When face to face with me the user, it is apparent that your sassy, inconsiderate, do-as-you-please attitude is the real blood flow that motherboards the operating system.  A phrase I like to use whenever I introduce the Windows Vista and Windows 7 sistas.  You come to work sporting baggage in the form of useless updates that cause more drama than a circle of high school teenage girls.  The newer you become the more likely you are to fold under pressure like a shirt on a shelf at a retail clothing store.  One minute, you interact with me at speeds greater than the speech of a rambling auctioneer, the next, you become that of one who suffers from extreme social anxiety and hides behind Bill Gates’ pants leg like a shy child. If I did my job as inconsistently as you did yours, I would be the recipient of the falling axe another jobless claim statistic.  You gave me that look on your face that read, “Program not responding” after that last statement.  Let me put it to you this way, you better count your blessings that you know how to sit at my desk and look pretty, or else you’d be out on the streets learning how to interior decorate a garbage dumpster.

Are you aware how many gray hairs you have given my patience?  If you owned stock in Just for Men hair dye, you’d be a very rich machine.  My patience drops expletives in complete sentences with a little cherry on top in the form a few exclamation points. It learned how to count to ten at an early age in order to secrete the pent up hostility. That was right around the time when you made yourself available to home users in the form of Windows 1.0 version on Microsoft's amateur night.  The patience that I have practices the second amendment religiously throughout the day when diplomacy between you and it has gone awry.  A finger on its hand whose trigger instinct has been ranked number one by J.D. Power & Associates for countless years in a row.  Giving its liver swimming lessons on the deep end in the pool of alcohol, you have been seamless in your effort to drown its body organ by delays more recurring than an eye-rolling character on the show of Glee.  You try to kiss and make up to my patience by automatically having all my programs in previous condition after my patience introduces its friends the 10 toes of death and kicks you in the watoosy—also known as the reboot.

So, don’t even consider putting my patience down as a reference if you are ever in the job market search.  It would, however, compose a letter of recommendation; especially if it were to promote you to the latest series of Trojan viruses that are waiting on the street corners of the information highway just waiting to jump you.  Keep that in mind whenever you are tempted to unbridle your scatter brain, show up late for work, or call in sick, Mr. Computer. 

It's Always Sunny in Old Age

Now that the air which Mother Nature breathes out of her lungs has the season of fall virus huffed all over it, it seems as though the sun takes its time rolling out of bed in the mornings.  As a matter of fact, it hits the sack early every night too.  I have also noticed that the heat ball in the atmosphere will pull the shades to its windows down every afternoon by covering the sky with overcast clouds and take a little nap.  Why don’t you just become a snow bird like every other senior citizen and winter out in Arizona?  I only see your face once in a while during this time of the year, but if I could imagine below the belt line, I would probably suspect that you even style the socks with sandals look as well.  Um, P.S. when I was at the bank on the third of the month, I don’t think you recognized me standing to the side of you in line while you had funds from your social security deposit dispersed in cash form.  I can understand though, because the wrap-around sunglasses that you now sport kind of cut down on your peripheral vision—not that your age has anything to do with it. 

How much do you think you contribute to a person’s road rage as you drive your Buick Roadmaster station wagon 20 mph in a 40 mile an hour zone?  Check out people’s statuses lately on facebook and you’d probably get a pretty good idea. Feel free to leave a comment on one if you so desire by saying, “The way I drive is part of the ‘all day program’ so don’t be jealous if you are not a member.”  I understand that you had to pay a hefty fine for parking in a handicapped spot.  Before you step out of your car next time, I’d advise you to hang that little permit on your rear view mirror that publicly states (in your case), “I’m an elderly person.  I have lived long enough that I no longer need to look both ways before crossing the street; so, I just keep my foot shacked up with the gas pedal.  Don’t mind my turn signal flashing constantly—I’m just trying to drain some of the blinker fluid since it’s a little over full. And, yes, that is a slow moving vehicle sign on the back of my ride.”

I ran into Jesus and God the other day and they were both looking over retirement home brochures pricing out some different options that may affect your living arrangements.  This might actually work out for the best because I heard that they have in-house bingo and bridge clubs. Hopefully, you can fit that into your schedule there since they have the residents eat about a 1,000 meals a day.  Half of those lunches are pills and the other half edible yet unidentifiable.  

It’s not a sign of weakness to wear a hearing aid you know.  They make these devices so small and invisible that people don’t even know you wear one. I say this because last night the weather man stated that it was going to be mostly sunny, and you never showed up.  Now, I don’t want to fault the weather man because Doppler technology is only human, but I feel if you would have had your ears turned up a notch or two, you would have probably shown up for work at a place other than Wal-Mart as a greeter.  You come out for a split second and then disappear.  It’s like you have Alzheimer’s, walk into our living rooms, forgot what you came in for and then leave.  Either that, or you look at the five day forecast and see that you are NOT on the schedule to work, decide to leave early and still receive wages because you are on salary.

Congress sees the hole in the ozone layer, smells the stench of nicotine in the air from your pipe puffing, and they still didn’t slap one of their regulations on your wrist.  It’s not that they care about you personally; they just want your vote this November. So, don’t take it as a compliment or form of respect for the elderly.  With that last zing written in the cool, crisp environment of blogosphere, I sign off.       

Playah of the Week

The words that are typed on the page of this blog are dancing around with an eruption of an emotion called giddiness.  They have a little bit more cackle in their laugh after they disperse from a conference call among themselves to deliver a witty punch line or describe an ironic situation that poses as a humorous observation.  Dressed in casual attire, words can soothe the soul and stimulate the brain to process a scenario in high definition sensation and added sound effects in order to capture the reader’s attention.  What gives these words a weird smile on their face like that of Tiger Woods after having a “consultation” with one of his 30 plus lovahs? IIIIIIIIt’s Friiiiiiiidaaaaay!

Fridays put a different spin on life in general.  It’s the day whose glory has fermented within itself during the other four days of the week.  More than likely, Friday has hidden in the background and spiced its attitude with a splash or two of the special sauce.  I once gave it a breathalyzer test one week, and had to call a cab to give a ride home for the day.  It has had all week to prepare for the entrance of high spirits, and walks down the runway of Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday like a full-of- themselves fashion model; stopping at five o’ clock and giving it a sideways look with puckered lips pose. A punch of the time clock plays the role of the camera flashbulb and holds a still frame moment to the beginning of the end.   The final day of the work week portrays the jubilant appeal of a macho smiling bobble head doll that has its flaunting swagger dancing up and down its neck as to say, “Another week bites the dust, suckaz.”  Up until I was 27, I was convinced that Friday was really dressed up as Henry Winkler’s  The Fonz in the hit show “Happy Days.”  That gentleman had everything—style, substance, confidence and a snap of the finger that could trip the jukebox. Friday hosts some of the most “get jiggy with it” partays that enable the working class to wash away their professionalism in a bottle.  Friday seems to have more pull than a business’ administration, and more motivational prompting than a generic, pointless pep talk orchestrated by somebody who they themselves play the part of an Igor on “Winnie the Pooh.”  Friday overturns rulings of the prim and proper ways to conduct network interactions with its “let your hair down” demeanor.  This day of the week wears the feeling of joy and positivity as its cologne, and let me tell you, Friday bathes itself in it.  Bath and Body Works is currently working on a deal to bottle this attitude head turning scent and sell it on their shelves.  Paaahcing-- Paaaaching.  Hear the sound of the cash register bells riiiing. How many people are in a relationship with Friday on facebook?  I would say the whole employee population; especially, when you come every other week bearing gifts (dollahz).  I would venture to say that NONE are listing this little love affair as “It’s Complicated;” I understand that you only work one day a week, Friday, but if I could somehow pay you in funds that you didn’t have to report to the I.R.S., would you consider showing up for a brief appearance EVERY day? 

I leave you with this thought:  Do you want to know what Friday looks like sitting in a chair, gagged, and tied up?  Go in to work on a Saturday.  Enough said.    

Plateful of Reruns

It may be hard for some to believe that somebody of my physique can be in love with food, but this petite-framed booty weighing in at a buck thirty and some change can really put it away.  Eating utensils have racked up the frequent flyer miles by taxiing into the human terminal called the mouth since my mother made little airplane sounds as she fed me Gerber classics.  Metabolism cunning as Lebron James’ tongue lashings toward the Cleveland Cavaliers have helped me flirt with the fatty foods without my back end draping a wide load sign like that of a haulin’ 18 wheeler.  The dinner table gives me a welcoming pat on the back as I come to its showcase each meal time; however, it can quickly transform itself into the Antique Road Show when it displays the throwback special attractions called left overs.

Left overs, you are the retail store’s returned, restocked, reduced price items of food.  Like the hitchhikers of meals, you position your thumb up as an indication of a ride wanted to one’s stomach.  You’re like a crew of hold over passengers at an airport waiting to fly stand-by. You stand together at the table much like nerds at a dance party with no dates who line themselves up against the wall and protrude a caption of “Rejects.”  You are the sad-faced puppy at a pet shop, and the doggie bag is your kennel.  In the line of food, you, the left overs, are the dysfunctional guests on stage during the taping of a Jerry Springer show.  A second hand serenade to a second hand taste bud.  The second edition, volume II of food.  Second-string players who were just as good during the meal, but were designated to warm the bench along the sidelines of the feeding trough.  The “As seen on Dinner Table” replicas of the festival held along the buffet line’s parade. You are better known as the understudies to the Broadway stars of food.  When on the table with freshly made cuisines, you are the “extras” needed to fill the scene.  Carrying a confidence rate of subzero, you list yourself as an edible out of work porn star. Left overs are defined in eatery urban dictionaries as the white trash of chow.  Some of your redistributed dishes posing on the plates could be the pictures on PeopleofWalmart.com of nourishment.  The senior citizens of kitchen productions;  the crotchety old man, residents in the land of misfit toys of menu items, you sit in the pity party circle wearing sweat pants three times the size of your bodies while eating junk food and watching reran showings of Twilight.  You not only smell like death, but you taste like it too. The castaway of sustenance, as Limbaugh is the shoe-in to Hall of Stupid. 

I could go on forever, but I feel this gave an accurate portrayal of reheated food. So, somebody better give these left overs a sympathy card and a tissue because they’re crying a river like Oprah Winfrey when she announced she was hangin’ up her show of 25 years. 

The Real Black Sheep of the Family

Back in the day, like three years ago or so, T.V. Land produced a great commercial advertising a little something called “The Family Table.”  To earn some credibility, this television station would ask a few famous Hollywood celebrities to endorse this ideology; however, each star involved would frantically search the Google internet machine to which they would perform a query as to what exactly a family table was.  Perhaps the most popular response from the computer would have been a sassy, Are you sure you don’t mean Bube Tube?  Who sits down at the family table anymore?  That went out on the curb with Beaver Cleaver and black and white television.  I take that back, I believe the Last Supper was the last time anybody sat down to the table as a collective group to eat a meal.  I don’t think even the family table would know what to do if everybody decided to gather around it for dinner.  It would probably start a process of elimination—Let’s see…It’s not Thanksgiving, or Christmas, nobody looks like they’re going to die…Maybe I should look at my handbook in reference to how I should act… With that being said, I’m pretty sure you could find one easily and in like new—if not mint-- condition.  Rarely do you discover anything on craigslist that is still in its original packaging and has that “never been used” profile, but this item could possibly win you some bar bets for sure.   It doesn’t have a sense of humor since nobody tells outlandish knock knock jokes in its presence.  It’s not aware of current events that are occurring at home or abroad. It doesn’t offer a neutral ear to a healthy debate while sitting over a plateful of mom’s Rachael Ray wannabe cooking.  It’s not possessive of a well-rounded personality; a stick in the mud and yet does not have to register as Republican.  Heck, it probably can’t even name the members of the family that live in the same household of the once well-known family table.  At one Easter dinner, it recalled putting on a name tag that read, “Hello, My Name is ‘The Family Table’” and introduced to everybody as such.   In an era of bank bailouts and closures, many family tables are posting up signs that read, “Will work for food…God Bless!”  Ask this home furnishing if the “Summer of Recovery” regarding the upswing of the economy out of a recession is in effect.   It is not uncommon to find family tables having to moonlight their talents elsewhere in order to make ends meet; much less make a buck period.  You think your days are long?  Try sitting in the dining room drumming your fingers and feeling the dust settling on your face due to pure boredom.  A written statement to the keeper of the house was once found on a legal sized tablet resting on the tablecloth:  The bowl of plastic fruit that you have as my centerfold to decorate me is the most hideous thing since watching Reba’s sitcom on Lifetime I have ever been in contact with in all my days as a junk inbox.   You probably thought that it was going to be a suicide note, but counseling has had a resting ripple effect on its life.  So, sit down to it.  Read it its rights.  Don’t wait for it to go postal on a 30 second “The More You Know” ad before you make your first move.   

A Socially Inept Hush Up

I would like to thank you, the reader, for taking time each day to read the posts that I put on this blog.  For some, it probably brings a line laugh line or two on the ol’e funny bone, others it helps cut down on the consumption of sleep aiding drugs.  For me, it brings sweet relief.  I use this as a vehicle to direct some of that sarcasm that I can’t steer properly in REAL life without entering into a verbal brouhaha, and direct it in a way that is therapeutic.  In fact, after composing such a “treatment,” it’s as if I rubbed my whole body down with Flexall Maximum Strength 454.  Did you like that?  I pulled that one right out of the clear blue sky.  Just yanked it out.  Yanked it like Katie Perry’s skit with Elmo on Sesame Street.   

OOOOKAAAAY…AAAAwkwaaaard silence…

I’m kinda glad that you could hear a pin drop after what I just said once that silence crept in for a little visit.  It gives me something to chat about for a minute or two.  Awkward silences are social interactions with a touch of nausea.  They put a little Alka-Seltzer fizz in the tummy juices of social meetings.  It’s a Hoveround wheelchair of talk that suddenly loses battery power RIGHT in the middle of the pedestrian crossing.  A teleprompter that suddenly becomes camera shy.  The conversation that folds like a bad hand in poker.  An “F” bomb that social interaction drops between you and your homies; an awkward moment accompanied with its cousin awkward silence.  (At least that’s what Reverend Jesse Jackson described it as after his comments he made about Obama on LIVE television) Better known as the pause button on the VCR of conversation, pushing it on the remote just to see the reaction as awkward silence tip toes on speech as if it were weaseling around landmines.  It’s a social situation on the side of the road with hazard lights flashing like a car in desperate need of AAA.  Awkward silence is social communications “stoned” on pot.  It’s also known as Conversation sitting like a sad puppy in front of the baggage claim carousel looking for its lost luggage. Well, that’ll teach you for flying in coach on United Airlines now, wont it!  The proverbial dead-end in the conversation that even Google maps didn’t see coming.  It’s a two-party speech which suddenly became a statistic in the Wall Street Journal’s unemployment numbers.  (Don’t worry; I heard that being without work in this country has numerous benefits.  All paid; compliments of the U.S. taxpayer)  Awkward silence is that prompting that yells, “The Best OF conversation” which fills the gap of empty balloons above social contacts.  It’s the “Be Back in 5 Minutes” sign that social interaction post on its front door in order for it to regain composure.  An interaction clipping along at hearty speeds with a sudden sprain ankle, pulled muscle or slipped disk in the back. (Insert Brett Farve’s NFC Championship performance against the New Orleans Saints here) Conversation that is thrown into the water and can’t swim due to the deflated blow-up muscles on its arms.  It’s like one of those annoying dropped calls or dead zones.  (Here’s to you, Sprint—The Now Network.  You guys walked right into that one) Awkward silence is orchestrated drama in social interactions’ silent movie.  Social relations suffering from a quadriplegic tongue.  It’s conversation in the middle of a social interaction whose smile exhibits a snaggletooth.  I think you are getting the jest of where I’m going with this. 

It suddenly got really quiet.  I just told awkward silence to go to H-E-double hockey stick by telling it, “Mum’s the word.”  It’s out like a light and sleeping like a baby. 

Momma Drama

For those who actually read and follow this blog, you will have noticed that an entry was not made for Sunday, September 26^th.  When the No. 2 pencil I write with becomes a sixth finger on the hand, it is a sign to step back and take a short break.  Okay, so obviously I was just putting on a front in that last statement.  In all actuality, the ideas in my head were far and few between, and the ones that did stop by didn’t pose as a group of Jehovah’s Witnesses.  If you have ever been confronted by one of these groups, you know exactly what I’m talking about.  Once you let them in your house, they will pitch a tent and will stay until forever comes.  I’d say that they are like the government, but at least you can vote the politicians in Washington to expire after a long, dusty shelf life-- which is unheard of with these folks.  U-Turns are permitted in scripting, so I am going to do as such and navigate my writing toward a subject that was for its intended purpose.  I wasn’t sure where I was going with that topic anyway except for out in the middle of nowhere, beating it and leaving it for dead. 

I spent some time visiting with Mother Earth last weekend and found some habits that she dabbles in to be quite astonishing.  It was as astonishing as the FBI agents who were caught cheating on an open book test.  Let me restate that last part one more time in case your eyes weren’t listening:  Cheating on an open book test.  During my pop in with Madam Planet, I was not impressed with the hypocrisy she lead in point blank fashion.  Resting on her mantle above the fireplace was framed the golden rule, “Recycle, Reduce, Reuse,” she had coined and suggested to be the backbone to conservationists.  Yet, the guest book she had me sign did not have stated anywhere “Made from 100% recycled paper” nor was there any reserved container (other than the garbage) to put my empty aluminum can. 

When I sit back and think of this well-respected woman, I at times, picture her to go on a scavenger hunt around her house and find random material and fibers and reuse them by knitting a pair of socks to keep her feet warm or go on an arts and crafts craze.  Such was not the case.  Literally, walking proof of this was the Hanes Her Way stockings she proudly styled while giving me a tour of her place not equipped with energy saving features.

 In her garage that already was utilizing the heating option, stood, not a typical hybrid automobile, but a child-molester-like van that probably hadn’t passed emissions since 1987, and leaked more oil than the BP rigs along the gulf.  Gas hogs—both her and the vehicle—each doing their part to contribute to the California smog index.

Leaving lights on with nobody in the room, confessing that she indeed leaves the water run while brushing her pearly whites, and scoffing at the thought of “Going Green” are three commandments broken on a daily basis. Still requesting paper to the grocery store bag boy at every visit, she finds the pre-purchased canvas bags to be outright theft of shopper’s money.  Momma Big Blue Marble opted out of the option to “Adopt A Highway” and defined carpooling as transportation for moochers. There went HER reward for leading by example, huh?  Whatever happened to the idea of one day marrying John Denver, planting trees for your tomorrow, having kids and getting a polar bear as a pet?  I asked this to yahoo answers, but they weren’t available for comment. 

Go ahead and dump your coffee cup full of cigarette butts in the parking lot.  Gotta keep those chain gangs busy picking up after you, oh mother of the environment.  I guess I had forgotten that the world IS your ashtray.

This has only been a slap on the wrist to your character, unlike the slap in the face you gave your supportive fans when you wrote a letter to the editor with a statement describing how much of a sham Earth Day was.  Step down, you phony, you’re a hazard to your own health!

Nothing from Nothing Leaves Nothing

There’s no such thing as a free lunch.  Can I please get this cliché laminated with a little glitter bow on top and have it sent via UPS to the moochers in society? I don’t want to pay anything out of pocket for it to get delivered V.I.P. class, however.  Just point, click and ship.  “What can brown do for you?”… With nothing in return.  You probably thought I was going to belt off a few lyrics to the song to which this title was attributed to, but I threw you for a loop like the statements that Roger Clemens made to the Senate committee concerning his involvement in steroids.  Hmm…I must have misspoke like Rod Blagojevich.  My bad. 

Where are the people that live off of freebies and free samples? I have a very calm, cool and collected response for you:  (Looking frantically) Does it say “nonprofit organization” anywhere in the words “capitalistic free market”!? Geez, maybe I should’ve switched-up to a stronger prescription in reading specs, because I didn’t see any correlation between the two.  The way I see it, one of the phrases is telling the other to go suck a fat one! What do you expect for free? NOTHING packaged in bulk with the traditional “handle with care—this side up” written boldly in all caps along the top.  Better round up some strong able bodies to assist in the carrying of items weighing up to ZERO.  Redistribute the wealth of NOTTA to others. While you’re at it, hand it out with a LARGE side order of BONE DRY.  Businesses are cutting back in this economy because you don’t get a lot of NOTHING for NO charge like you once did back in the day. Take advantage of it. Better bottle up that ZILCH and save it for a rainy afternoon.  The P.S. on the invite I sent to you, moocher—Bring a plateful of EMPTY to share with everybody to enjoy! NOTHING is now tax deductible, and just might get you that moolah missing-in-action refund you’ve been banking on.  Side note:  Uncle Sam wants his fare share of the BIG GOOSE EGG as well.  This country doesn’t run on EMPTY.  Be prepared to cough it up in the form of a DRY HEAVE.  DO NOTHING; schedule accordingly, ya lazy tool!  From the blank stares flow the rivers of NOTHING.  Great volunteer work; will dedicate it as the deeds of the VOID!  Spend NOTHING get NONE with NO payments until NEVER!  You get what you pay for, cheapo.   STOP!  Your subscription to NIL is about to expire.  This CLEAR space is your final issue.  This week only, don’t spend a thing and receive an assorted choice of NOTHING.  You may receive other options online at our site that states, “Current Page Unavailable.” NOTHING. NOTTA. ZILCH. ZEEEEROOOO.  Looking for a spacious one bedroom apartment with a nice view, respectable tenants, water, heat and central air paid for $0 a month?  I know a place.  Great location too—it’s called the STREETS!  You can take your EMPTY promises and stuff ‘em in a sack, mister. NO money? NO problem.  NO service.

NO offense.