Did you hear Jerry Falwell died? I’m still reeling. There are some people, I guess, that you just kind of think will always be there, and then, voila, they’re not.
Anyway, Jerry’s gone. Well, according to all the talk coming out of Lynchburg, he’s not really gone, he’s just away. Or, did he only go beyond the curtain? I’m not quite sure.
I heard an interesting quote from this gal who arrived at the site of his funeral ten hours early to make sure she got a good seat. Makes sense, when you think about it. So, think about it. When you go to a funeral, you really don’t want the cheap seats. Of course, you don’t want the most expensive seat in the house either, if you get my drift.
Anyway, this lady made a fascinating experience about having had the opportunity to attend Jerry Falwell’s funeral. Here’s what she said, and I promise, I’m not making this up. I don’t believe I could.
“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience.” Really, she said that. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. You know, she’s right. I have a feeling Jerry won’t be dying again…not anytime soon, anyway. It’s nice the pastor could accommodate this woman.
She went on to talk about her experiences growing up…how her mamma just loved Jerry so much, and how her family would sit around the radio and listen to the honey just drip out of his mouth. She didn’t exactly say that, but that’s the gist, or at least as I understood it. She spoke with such a thick accent that I couldn’t understand everything she said. It just made me realized how much we need to protect our borders. West Virginians are slipping into the state every day and we HAVE to do something about that.
But, back to Jerry Falwell. Did you hear about the 19-year-old Liberty University student who was arrested yesterday? Evidently this kid somehow missed out on the “Vengeance is Mine” lecture. He had put together some bombs because he was worried about the possibility of protesters at the funeral. Nothing says “let the man be buried in peace,” quite like a homemade bomb.
Speaking of bombs, I’m really getting sick and tired of those Hannity and Combes type of TV talk shows. Is this representative of thoughtful debate for the 2000s? The typical “debate” goes something like this:
HANNITY: We have Al Sharpton and the producer of Don Imus’ radio program, Bernard McGuirk, here to discuss the recent firing of Imus for inappropriate comments. Bernard, we’ll let you go first.
MCGUIRK: Reverend Sharpton is an idiot.
SHARPTON: Oh yeah? You’re the idiot.
MCGUIRK: Am not!
SHARPTON: Are too!
MCGUIRK: You’re momma!
SHARPTON: You see, there you go hurling racial slurs. You’re momma!
MCGUIRK: You’re a liar.
SHARPTON: No. You’re the liar.
MCGUIRK: Am not.
SHARPTON: Are too.
MCGUIRK: Stop talking about yourself.
SHARPTON: Me? You’re talking about yourself…calling yourself a liar.
MCGUIRK: You’re an idiot.
SHARPTON: You already called me an idiot.
MCGUIRK: Did not.
SHARPTON: Did too.
MCGUIRK: Well, you’re a double idiot.
SHARPTON: I’m rubber. You’re glue. What you say bounces off me and sticks to you.
MCGUIRK: Does not.
SHARPTON: Does too.
MCGUIRK: You’re dumb.
SHARPTON: Well, you’re bald.
MCGUIRK: Well, you’re a nap….
HANNITY: Ooops, time’s up. We thank both of you for being courageous enough to come on the program and debate this weighty issue.
Speaking of weighty, did you see Nancy Grace on Law and Order SVU last night? Hasn’t she blimped up? Star Jones was on as well. She looks like she’s lost some weight, but I’m pretty sure Nancy Grace has found every pound that Jones has lost.
Anyway, I’m going to wrap this up. My mother always said if you can’t say something nice about someone, say something bad, and I hope I’ve lived up to that today.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Monday, May 07, 2007
Did I Ever Tell You How Much I Really Care About You?
This may well be my last column. My days of hacking away at these pathetic excuses for blogs are done. I am about to embark on a bold, new, dynamic career move. It's a heady move, but, I like to think I'm somewhat of a heady guy. Before you start patting me on the back and offering your congratulations, at least let me tell you what I'm going to do.
Are you ready? I'm guessing some of you are thinking male model. Not quite. I'm going to become a life coach. And why not? I've read about these life coaches. It's a pretty cushy job. The money is good, the hours are short, and there's no heavy lifting. You go around telling people how pathetic they are and giving them some ideas to become less pathetic. The beauty of this is that the people who hire you are pretty much accustomed to failure. They've never made the right decision in their lives, so if (when) I don't work out, hey, it's what they expected all along. That means I'll never disappoint them. And to make things even better, if I don't help them, they're pretty much conditioned to blame themselves anyway.
Now all I have to do is find out how to get in front of these folks and let them know I'm open for business. I'm thinking about advertising on the back of match book covers. I always was a sucker myself for match book cover ads. I used to submit pictures of Blinky almost every week. The fact that I never got admitted to the Acme Artist's School is not the point. What is the point is that matchbook advertising works. In fact, as a life coach, I going to recommend that all of my clients spend some major dollars on matchbook covers.
Of course, I have lots of advice to give. I think my ability to give advice, often times on subjects about which I know absolutely nothing, is one of my stronger points. A good life coach has to act like he/she knows what he/she is talking about, even when he/she knows nothing.
Another thing working in my favor...an ability that has been pointing me towards a career in life coaching for many years, is my ability to come up with cliches at the drop of a hat. Hey, that's a cliche right there. I think you get my drift...you see where the compass is pointing, as it were. Really, a life coach is nothing if he doesn't have his cliches, and I have a satchel full.
I'm not exactly sure what a life coach does beyond that. He probably has some sort of spreadsheet to show people to prove how smart he is. And maybe some pictures of him standing with past clients, hugging them as if to say, "I'm so proud that I helped you." He also probably knows a lot about IRAs and annuities and roll-overs. I'm hoping that's not the case, because I don't know a thing about those subjects. In fact, truth be told, I find all that stuff rather boring.
But, as for the rest of the day to day duties...the meat and potatoes of the operation, so to speak, I'm pretty much going to have to improvise and learn as I go along. I rather imagine that my first few clients will bear a lot of the brunt of my inabilities. But, a man has to learn somewhere, doesn't he?
And even those first clients are going to be made to feel as if their success is the most important thing in my life. And therein lies my greatest strength...my ability to make people think I care. It's not that I don't care. It's just that I could never care as much as they might think I should considering how much of their money I'm going to be earning.
Well, I gotta run. I want to make up some ads to put on the match books. If you're in need for a good life coach, I'd appreciate you giving me a call. I think I could really help you...if for no other reason than that I care about you so very much. Look at me. You can tell I care...can't you? Alright. Why not give me a call today and tomorrow can be the first day of the rest of your life.
Are you ready? I'm guessing some of you are thinking male model. Not quite. I'm going to become a life coach. And why not? I've read about these life coaches. It's a pretty cushy job. The money is good, the hours are short, and there's no heavy lifting. You go around telling people how pathetic they are and giving them some ideas to become less pathetic. The beauty of this is that the people who hire you are pretty much accustomed to failure. They've never made the right decision in their lives, so if (when) I don't work out, hey, it's what they expected all along. That means I'll never disappoint them. And to make things even better, if I don't help them, they're pretty much conditioned to blame themselves anyway.
Now all I have to do is find out how to get in front of these folks and let them know I'm open for business. I'm thinking about advertising on the back of match book covers. I always was a sucker myself for match book cover ads. I used to submit pictures of Blinky almost every week. The fact that I never got admitted to the Acme Artist's School is not the point. What is the point is that matchbook advertising works. In fact, as a life coach, I going to recommend that all of my clients spend some major dollars on matchbook covers.
Of course, I have lots of advice to give. I think my ability to give advice, often times on subjects about which I know absolutely nothing, is one of my stronger points. A good life coach has to act like he/she knows what he/she is talking about, even when he/she knows nothing.
Another thing working in my favor...an ability that has been pointing me towards a career in life coaching for many years, is my ability to come up with cliches at the drop of a hat. Hey, that's a cliche right there. I think you get my drift...you see where the compass is pointing, as it were. Really, a life coach is nothing if he doesn't have his cliches, and I have a satchel full.
I'm not exactly sure what a life coach does beyond that. He probably has some sort of spreadsheet to show people to prove how smart he is. And maybe some pictures of him standing with past clients, hugging them as if to say, "I'm so proud that I helped you." He also probably knows a lot about IRAs and annuities and roll-overs. I'm hoping that's not the case, because I don't know a thing about those subjects. In fact, truth be told, I find all that stuff rather boring.
But, as for the rest of the day to day duties...the meat and potatoes of the operation, so to speak, I'm pretty much going to have to improvise and learn as I go along. I rather imagine that my first few clients will bear a lot of the brunt of my inabilities. But, a man has to learn somewhere, doesn't he?
And even those first clients are going to be made to feel as if their success is the most important thing in my life. And therein lies my greatest strength...my ability to make people think I care. It's not that I don't care. It's just that I could never care as much as they might think I should considering how much of their money I'm going to be earning.
Well, I gotta run. I want to make up some ads to put on the match books. If you're in need for a good life coach, I'd appreciate you giving me a call. I think I could really help you...if for no other reason than that I care about you so very much. Look at me. You can tell I care...can't you? Alright. Why not give me a call today and tomorrow can be the first day of the rest of your life.
Friday, May 04, 2007
You Don't Like Me. You Really Don't Like Me!
Well, the Queen came to town and I didn't get to see her. But, and here's the exciting part, I was driving on I-64 at the same time she was riding on I-64. That'll be something to tell the grandkids about one day. Hey, actually I'm at that point in life where I can tell the grandkid.
True, he's only 11 months, but he is the smartest kid you'd ever want to meet. And cute! He so reminds me of myself at that age. Except, to be honest, I never had the sparkling disposition this kid has.
The fact is I have always had a somewhat rotten disposition. My grandfather used to ask my mother, every time he'd catch a glimpse of my sour puss, "Is that kid ever happy?"
My mother's reply was that, "He's only happy when he has something to complain about." Fortunately, I'm still that way. So, as you can well imagine, I'm a happy guy.
That's the great thing about living in this rotten world...there's plenty of stuff about which to complain. I try and stir things up when I see a situation developing. I hate it when there's real potential for turmoil and it dies down before it really gets a head of steam up.
For instance, I was in my doctor's office a few weeks ago for a follow up visit. When I had been there the week previously, I was asked to hand over my insurance card so the receptionist could make a photocopy of it. I started to ask her then why I had to show my card since they had copied it a few months before that. But, I felt too sick to stir things up.
But, anyway, when I went in for the follow up visit, and the woman asked me for my insurance card, I politely asked her why I had to show it again inasmuch as I had given it to her less than a week previously.
I was nice about it. I was pleasant. I think those of you who know me know that I'm always pleasant.
So I was blindsided when this arrogant excuse for a receptionist pointed to the sign by the window and shouted, "Because that sign says you have to."
There's nothing that gets my blood boiling more than a stupid answer, so I (again politely) say, "That's a stupid answer." I then ask the girl, "If the sign said 'Stick Your Finger Up Your Nose' should I do that simply because there's a sign that tells me to?"
Now, I knew that asking that question would only escalate matters, but, hey, I have a column to write. Am I supposed to just sit around passively and wait for people to treat me like bird droppings? No! I have to force people to do that sometimes.
The rest of the story is not all that interesting. I'd like to tell you the girl was fired on the spot, but, alas, she wasn't.
I do have a knack for irritating others. I think it's what has helped me get to where I am today. I had to tell an archaeologist off recently. He had written an article for our magazine...worst writing I'd ever seen, to be honest.
But, because I hate to hurt someone, rather than tell him that he had the writing skills of a six-year-old, I simply did a little editing and sent it back to him. He called me up, screaming about how I had ruined his masterpiece. "Everyone tells me I'm an excellent writer," he screams. "I conduct tours and people say I write like I talk."
"Maybe that's your problem," I tell him.
"You're just a little man," he tells me.
"And, you're the worst writer I've ever encountered," I tell him.
All in all it was a pleasant conversation. We simply agreed to loathe each other.
I have somewhat mixed feelings about my encounter with him. I hate for it to be said that 100% of all archaeologists with whom I've ever had any interaction, hate me. But, on the other hand, how many of you out there can say you've had the pleasure of screaming at an archaeologist?
I can also say that I've had a bit of a run in with everyone who works for Queen Elizabeth. I had mentioned that I had requested press credentials to see the Queen. Some one from her office phoned me and told me that I was too late. I told them that if I couldn't see the Queen, then our magazine would do an article on Elton John. This person from the Queen's office didnt' find that amusing.
He did tell me I could go to the state capitol and watch her on a giant jumbo screen. Now that makes sense. In other words, I can go get in all that crowd just to watch the Queen on TV. My thinking is that I could kinda do the same thing at home.
The gist of his reply had to do with suggesting I do just that.
So, there you have it. I'm proud to say that a direct representative of Queen Elizabeth likes me as much as my doctor's receptionist, and, oh yes, this archaeologist fellow.
True, he's only 11 months, but he is the smartest kid you'd ever want to meet. And cute! He so reminds me of myself at that age. Except, to be honest, I never had the sparkling disposition this kid has.
The fact is I have always had a somewhat rotten disposition. My grandfather used to ask my mother, every time he'd catch a glimpse of my sour puss, "Is that kid ever happy?"
My mother's reply was that, "He's only happy when he has something to complain about." Fortunately, I'm still that way. So, as you can well imagine, I'm a happy guy.
That's the great thing about living in this rotten world...there's plenty of stuff about which to complain. I try and stir things up when I see a situation developing. I hate it when there's real potential for turmoil and it dies down before it really gets a head of steam up.
For instance, I was in my doctor's office a few weeks ago for a follow up visit. When I had been there the week previously, I was asked to hand over my insurance card so the receptionist could make a photocopy of it. I started to ask her then why I had to show my card since they had copied it a few months before that. But, I felt too sick to stir things up.
But, anyway, when I went in for the follow up visit, and the woman asked me for my insurance card, I politely asked her why I had to show it again inasmuch as I had given it to her less than a week previously.
I was nice about it. I was pleasant. I think those of you who know me know that I'm always pleasant.
So I was blindsided when this arrogant excuse for a receptionist pointed to the sign by the window and shouted, "Because that sign says you have to."
There's nothing that gets my blood boiling more than a stupid answer, so I (again politely) say, "That's a stupid answer." I then ask the girl, "If the sign said 'Stick Your Finger Up Your Nose' should I do that simply because there's a sign that tells me to?"
Now, I knew that asking that question would only escalate matters, but, hey, I have a column to write. Am I supposed to just sit around passively and wait for people to treat me like bird droppings? No! I have to force people to do that sometimes.
The rest of the story is not all that interesting. I'd like to tell you the girl was fired on the spot, but, alas, she wasn't.
I do have a knack for irritating others. I think it's what has helped me get to where I am today. I had to tell an archaeologist off recently. He had written an article for our magazine...worst writing I'd ever seen, to be honest.
But, because I hate to hurt someone, rather than tell him that he had the writing skills of a six-year-old, I simply did a little editing and sent it back to him. He called me up, screaming about how I had ruined his masterpiece. "Everyone tells me I'm an excellent writer," he screams. "I conduct tours and people say I write like I talk."
"Maybe that's your problem," I tell him.
"You're just a little man," he tells me.
"And, you're the worst writer I've ever encountered," I tell him.
All in all it was a pleasant conversation. We simply agreed to loathe each other.
I have somewhat mixed feelings about my encounter with him. I hate for it to be said that 100% of all archaeologists with whom I've ever had any interaction, hate me. But, on the other hand, how many of you out there can say you've had the pleasure of screaming at an archaeologist?
I can also say that I've had a bit of a run in with everyone who works for Queen Elizabeth. I had mentioned that I had requested press credentials to see the Queen. Some one from her office phoned me and told me that I was too late. I told them that if I couldn't see the Queen, then our magazine would do an article on Elton John. This person from the Queen's office didnt' find that amusing.
He did tell me I could go to the state capitol and watch her on a giant jumbo screen. Now that makes sense. In other words, I can go get in all that crowd just to watch the Queen on TV. My thinking is that I could kinda do the same thing at home.
The gist of his reply had to do with suggesting I do just that.
So, there you have it. I'm proud to say that a direct representative of Queen Elizabeth likes me as much as my doctor's receptionist, and, oh yes, this archaeologist fellow.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Wait Problems
I got up early this morning and watched my DVR’d latest episode of 24. The show is pretty good, but Jack Bauer really does live in an alternate universe. In the real world, nothing happens that quickly. For instance, in the latest hour episode, Jack saves his ex-girlfriend, Audrey. Audrey is totally whacked out due to Chinese drug-induced brainwashing techniques. But, within five minutes, Jack has brought her back to reality, at least close enough to help the good guys.
So many things have happened in this one day of the current season’s shows. Jack has been shot or shot at on at least four or five occasions. His brother has been murdered by his father; he’s cut off innumerable fingers (not his, those of friends and enemies), and he still goes on. Wow! I’m impressed.
What I’d like to see Jack accomplish within a matter of hours, though, are such mundane things as getting his driving record straightened out at DMV. At least three hours of programming would have to be devoted to him sitting in his little kindergarten chair watching numbers flash on the screens, while DMV workers visit with one another, drink coffee, and occasionally scowl at the people who pay their salaries.
In Jack Bauer’s world, he can capture a Middle Eastern terrorist, a Russian spy, and an American traitor in less time than I can get my cell phone customer service rep to correct an error on my bill. And, in less time than it takes me to stop fuming over poor service from that rep, Jack has recovered from having spent the past year being tortured by those rascally Chinese.
Now, Jack Bauer could probably get better service at DMV than I because I’m willing to bet that if his number wasn’t called within the first three minutes, he’d be removing fingers from an insolent clerk. Of course, if he had to stop at Food Lion and pick up a makeshift finger remover (maybe a garlic press), then he’d never even make it to DMV within that hour’s episode.
Food Lion management has some sort of policy about constantly moving items. On one visit, the garlic presses might be with other kitchen utensils, but on the next, it could easily have been moved over to diapers and baby food. And, while I’m talking about baby food, have you noticed how Food Lion keeps baby formula under lock and key. I went in the other night, spent about 30 minutes perusing the baby stuff aisle and finally gave up. When I asked where the baby formula might be, the assistant manager told me that it was up front. When I got up front and asked about the formula, a sales clerk got out a wad of keys and started unlocking this cabinet. I don’t think the Hope Diamond is any more closely guarded. After I made my selection, the clerk wouldn’t hand me the formula. I had to walk around to the check out area and pay for the formula before I was allowed to hold it. Let Jack Bauer deal with stuff like that.
Once he found his garlic press, he would then have to get in line. And, if he got behind the folks I get behind, there goes another hour episode. Here's a warning. If you're standing in line at the checkout in a grocery store, and the person in front of you is holding coupons, leave the store. You'll never get served...at least not until the clerk has had to double check each coupon against the receipt to ensure that the coupon user got full credit. Then the coupon user will want to take the coupons back and closely inspect each one to make sure he isn't somehow being cheated. There are no coupon users on 24. And in Jack Bauer's world there are no price checks at counter twelve. Everything goes smoothly, even major obstacles are cleared away within minutes. I mean look how quickly Powers Booth recovered from learning that his girl friend was sleeping with the enemy. Why can't things go that easily in my world?
Truth be told, a real-life Jack Bauer, as good as he might be at diving out of windows and torturing the bad guys, would never make it in the real world. Sadly enough, we can’t go around punching people in the gut because they don’t give us the answers we seek immediately. How easy it would be, if,after waiting a half hour at DMV, to just dive right through the plate glass window and leave. But we, the real heroes of the world, have to sit there and be ignored until our number is called.
Jack Bauer is a wimp, when you think about it. He can’t do anything unless he has a gun. And, if he doesn’t have one, he’ll knock someone out, or do as he did this week, put the ol’ Johnny Weaver sleeper hold on Ricky Shroeder. And, if you don’t know who Johnny Weaver is, you’re either too young or too intellectual to be reading my column.
How nice it would be to be able to save the world, save our loved one, resolve personal issues, help a friend overcome alcoholism, disarm a bomb, cut off an ear, and kick a few folks in the groin, all within 24 hours...and never even get our hair mussed. But, in real life, it just ain’t that way. Every hour of Jack Bauer’s life is filled with daring exploits. Sometimes it takes me that long just to find my car keys.
So many things have happened in this one day of the current season’s shows. Jack has been shot or shot at on at least four or five occasions. His brother has been murdered by his father; he’s cut off innumerable fingers (not his, those of friends and enemies), and he still goes on. Wow! I’m impressed.
What I’d like to see Jack accomplish within a matter of hours, though, are such mundane things as getting his driving record straightened out at DMV. At least three hours of programming would have to be devoted to him sitting in his little kindergarten chair watching numbers flash on the screens, while DMV workers visit with one another, drink coffee, and occasionally scowl at the people who pay their salaries.
In Jack Bauer’s world, he can capture a Middle Eastern terrorist, a Russian spy, and an American traitor in less time than I can get my cell phone customer service rep to correct an error on my bill. And, in less time than it takes me to stop fuming over poor service from that rep, Jack has recovered from having spent the past year being tortured by those rascally Chinese.
Now, Jack Bauer could probably get better service at DMV than I because I’m willing to bet that if his number wasn’t called within the first three minutes, he’d be removing fingers from an insolent clerk. Of course, if he had to stop at Food Lion and pick up a makeshift finger remover (maybe a garlic press), then he’d never even make it to DMV within that hour’s episode.
Food Lion management has some sort of policy about constantly moving items. On one visit, the garlic presses might be with other kitchen utensils, but on the next, it could easily have been moved over to diapers and baby food. And, while I’m talking about baby food, have you noticed how Food Lion keeps baby formula under lock and key. I went in the other night, spent about 30 minutes perusing the baby stuff aisle and finally gave up. When I asked where the baby formula might be, the assistant manager told me that it was up front. When I got up front and asked about the formula, a sales clerk got out a wad of keys and started unlocking this cabinet. I don’t think the Hope Diamond is any more closely guarded. After I made my selection, the clerk wouldn’t hand me the formula. I had to walk around to the check out area and pay for the formula before I was allowed to hold it. Let Jack Bauer deal with stuff like that.
Once he found his garlic press, he would then have to get in line. And, if he got behind the folks I get behind, there goes another hour episode. Here's a warning. If you're standing in line at the checkout in a grocery store, and the person in front of you is holding coupons, leave the store. You'll never get served...at least not until the clerk has had to double check each coupon against the receipt to ensure that the coupon user got full credit. Then the coupon user will want to take the coupons back and closely inspect each one to make sure he isn't somehow being cheated. There are no coupon users on 24. And in Jack Bauer's world there are no price checks at counter twelve. Everything goes smoothly, even major obstacles are cleared away within minutes. I mean look how quickly Powers Booth recovered from learning that his girl friend was sleeping with the enemy. Why can't things go that easily in my world?
Truth be told, a real-life Jack Bauer, as good as he might be at diving out of windows and torturing the bad guys, would never make it in the real world. Sadly enough, we can’t go around punching people in the gut because they don’t give us the answers we seek immediately. How easy it would be, if,after waiting a half hour at DMV, to just dive right through the plate glass window and leave. But we, the real heroes of the world, have to sit there and be ignored until our number is called.
Jack Bauer is a wimp, when you think about it. He can’t do anything unless he has a gun. And, if he doesn’t have one, he’ll knock someone out, or do as he did this week, put the ol’ Johnny Weaver sleeper hold on Ricky Shroeder. And, if you don’t know who Johnny Weaver is, you’re either too young or too intellectual to be reading my column.
How nice it would be to be able to save the world, save our loved one, resolve personal issues, help a friend overcome alcoholism, disarm a bomb, cut off an ear, and kick a few folks in the groin, all within 24 hours...and never even get our hair mussed. But, in real life, it just ain’t that way. Every hour of Jack Bauer’s life is filled with daring exploits. Sometimes it takes me that long just to find my car keys.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
I Have Met the British and They Are Me
I've been reading your comments posted pertaining to my last column on the Queen. I get the impression that there are many Americans who have some sort of inherent affinity for HM (I abbreviate to show my knowledge of all things British). Of course, I know there's at least one Limey in the crowd out there. He's the one who talks such funny English you can't even understand him if you can't watch his lips moving.
That's one of the irritating things about those English folk...they really don't speak English all that well. Oh, I suppose they muddle through well enough that most of us can make some semblence of what they're trying to say, but for the most part, they tend to mumble. I guess it's that stiff upper lip and all. And yet, they act as if they owned the language.
Speaking of stiff upper lips, what about the so-called British sense of humor. The British are so staid and yet nothing gives them the jollies so much as watching a man dress up like a woman.There's something about that, which really seems to strike a chord.
Something else about the British that bothers me is their sorry excuse for food. Think about it. How often have you said, "Gee honey, I'm really in the mood for a British restaurant tonight."? Maybe the last time you dressed in drag, but other than that...?
Not since Arthur Treacher's Fish and Chips restaurants closed down has there really been a great British restaurant.
And think about what they eat. Shepherd's Pie? Is that something akin to a cow patty? Sounds like it.
It's not that British food tastes bad. It's more that it doesn't taste at all. I believe if I were British I would probably not be so fat because the desire to eat would be almost nil. Of course the down side to being British, is that I'd be...well, I'd be British.
In some ways, the British are rather bland. I hope none of you Brits take that as offensive. I mean it in the nicest possible way. I have family from Scotland, not exactly Britain, but maybe it is. I never was good at Geography. Anyway most of these Scotish relatives are, to be painfully honest, very boring.
I don't know why they can't be as clever and delightful as I am, but, truth be told, they're just not. I guess that's the reason my family only holds reunions about once every fifty years. Everyone just goes to wherever the reunion is being held and just sits there looking at each other. Except for dearly departed Uncle John. He used to take his false teeth out for us kids. It was especially funny when he was dressed up in a bridal gown.
Once Uncle John died, I think the rest of the family kinda figured what's the use. We're just too boring to get together.
Other than their language, their humor, their food, and their personalities, I love the British. I would love to visit London someday. I hear the biggest attraction there is fog. Sounds like a lot of fun. Must be the British in me speaking. Wonder why I have such a burning desire to slip into something lacey?
That's one of the irritating things about those English folk...they really don't speak English all that well. Oh, I suppose they muddle through well enough that most of us can make some semblence of what they're trying to say, but for the most part, they tend to mumble. I guess it's that stiff upper lip and all. And yet, they act as if they owned the language.
Speaking of stiff upper lips, what about the so-called British sense of humor. The British are so staid and yet nothing gives them the jollies so much as watching a man dress up like a woman.There's something about that, which really seems to strike a chord.
Something else about the British that bothers me is their sorry excuse for food. Think about it. How often have you said, "Gee honey, I'm really in the mood for a British restaurant tonight."? Maybe the last time you dressed in drag, but other than that...?
Not since Arthur Treacher's Fish and Chips restaurants closed down has there really been a great British restaurant.
And think about what they eat. Shepherd's Pie? Is that something akin to a cow patty? Sounds like it.
It's not that British food tastes bad. It's more that it doesn't taste at all. I believe if I were British I would probably not be so fat because the desire to eat would be almost nil. Of course the down side to being British, is that I'd be...well, I'd be British.
In some ways, the British are rather bland. I hope none of you Brits take that as offensive. I mean it in the nicest possible way. I have family from Scotland, not exactly Britain, but maybe it is. I never was good at Geography. Anyway most of these Scotish relatives are, to be painfully honest, very boring.
I don't know why they can't be as clever and delightful as I am, but, truth be told, they're just not. I guess that's the reason my family only holds reunions about once every fifty years. Everyone just goes to wherever the reunion is being held and just sits there looking at each other. Except for dearly departed Uncle John. He used to take his false teeth out for us kids. It was especially funny when he was dressed up in a bridal gown.
Once Uncle John died, I think the rest of the family kinda figured what's the use. We're just too boring to get together.
Other than their language, their humor, their food, and their personalities, I love the British. I would love to visit London someday. I hear the biggest attraction there is fog. Sounds like a lot of fun. Must be the British in me speaking. Wonder why I have such a burning desire to slip into something lacey?
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