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.