I'm not a political sort of guy at all. However, as a lifelong observer of human nature, I have learned a few things by following the goings on among the presidential contenders...especially from Mrs. Clinton. I've seen her sniper fire comments backfire spraying political shrapnel all over the place. I don't want to have anything I may have inadvertently said in the past, come back to haunt me. So. I'm here to clear the air.
Remember a year or so back, when I wrote about having gone into my bank, and gotten caught up in a bank robbery? "Bullets were flying over my head," I wrote at the time. I misspoke. What I had meant to say is that I went to the bank and I got there right after the bank had closed. And I looked at the teller through the glass door and pointed to my watch to say, "Excuse me, ma'm, but it's two minutes til closing time." And she had mouthed back to me, "Sorry." That's what actually happened. Close, but not exactly the way I had described it. But, let's be honest. Don't we all, from time to time, when we're under pressure, or we're trying to hide our personal failures and foibles, tend to totally lie about a matter? I'm not trying to justify anything, but, tell me, that if you weren't trying to find some excuse for something you'd done, you wouldn't just embellish the story a bit to make yourself look better. With that said, let's move on.
A couple of years ago, I told you about having a driver run me off the road, then get out of his car, come back to my car, open my door, yank me out, and beat me about the arms and face. Do you remember that? I misspoke. Although, that is what the guy had intended to do, had he gotten the opportunity, in truth, he only flipped the proverbial bird at me. I have an excuse for misspeaking on that one, though. Mrs. Clinton inspired me. I, too, was suffering from sleep depravation when I wrote that column.
And, while I'm not political, let me digress for just a moment. Mrs. Clinton said that the reason she said she had come under sniper fire when she hadn't, was that she was suffering from sleep deprivation at the time. Huh? Wasn't she the one who produced the TV spot about the phone ringing in the White House at three in the morning? Suppose the call comes in when she's sleepy. I hope she doesn't decide to nuke California because she gets a call that the Governor has criticized her. You know sleep depravation can do that. All of a sudden, through no fault of their own, the people of California are wiped off the map. Hmm, maybe sleep depravation is not all bad.
Anyway, I'm not here to talk about Hillary Clinton. This is all about me, baby. I'm trying to get a few things off my chest. One of those things is more a personal note to my family. Do y'all remember how I told you that when Uncle Eddie had that seizure I had called 911 and they never responded? Do you remember how at Uncle Eddie's funeral, I had railed against the local 911 people for their lack of professionalism? Do you remember how I had threatened to sue someone?
Well, I misspoke. Now, to be totally fair to myself, I had meant to call 911. Actually, I dialed 411. Then when the operator asked me what number I was looking for, I asked her to give me the local 911 number. She muttered something under her breath and hung up. That made me so mad that I took off in my car to do down to the phone company and give them a piece of my mind. I honestly forgot all about Uncle Eddie until the next morning. But, hey, nobody's human. We all make mistakes.
And sometimes my mistake is that i misspeak. I think it all stems from that time when I was a kid and was kidnapped and held hostage in an underground bunker for three weeks. That can scar a kid sometimes, you know.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
I Haven't the Remotest
As much as i bend over backwards to avoid hurting others' feelings or irritating anyone, I have a suspicion that I will make some folks unhappy today, especially women. But, I think it's time someone stepped up to the plate and told the truth. And, it looks like I'm the designated truth teller here.
The subject at hand is the TV remote. Now, men have been getting a bad rap (or is that "wrap") for years when it comes to their flippant (get it, a pun) attitude towards the remote. Men are accused of running non-stop through the channels and not ever staying on one channel long enough to know what's going on. I've come to the conclusion, however, that either women are worse than men, or else my wife is really a guy. I'm hoping it's the former.
My wife, bless her heart, has to have the remote in her hand if she's anywhere near the TV. Even if she's not watching, she wants to control the remote. And, if we're lying in bed watching television late at night, her last act before she falls asleep is to roll over and wedge the remote between her body and the bed, so that even after she's sawing logs, there's still no way I can control the remote.
My wife, bless her heart, has a really weird, woman-like way of using the remote, too. For instance, let's say she's flipping through the channels. Now, admittedly, she doesn't go as quickly as I do through them, but here is what she will do. She'll flip to a program. And leave that program on just long enough for me to get involved. And just as the detective says, "I have figured out who murdered Colonel Mustard. It has to be..." FLIP. I'm not lying. She does it every time.
And I'll tell you something else. Remember, now, we have this pact, you and me...we don't mention these columns to my wife. Okay? She never reads 'em, unless someone says, "Oh, you'll never guess what Steve said about you." Anyway, here's my little secret. I think she knows full well what she's doing. I think it's a form of torture.
It's particularly bad when I'm trying to watch a baseball game. I love baseball. If I'm watching, she'll come in the room and tenderly take my hand, and after she's pried my fingers open, she'll take the remote. She'll hold it...tauntingly, as if to say, "I have it. Don't make me use it."
After a few minutes, I'll relax, as much as a man can relax when he's watching TV and his wife is holding the remote. I'll get involved in the game. And, just as the Braves are about to stage a fantastic comeback, with the bases loaded and Chipper Jones at the plate, with a count of 3 and 2, and here comes the pitch. FLIP.
I kid you not. Now don't tell me she doesn't understand baseball. She understands just fine, thank you.
She also does the FLIP when I'm watching the news. You know how the news guys love to tease us. She's in on it. The newscaster will say, "You'll never guess who was assassinated tonight. Full details when we come back." Then we'll watch the fifteen commercials and then the news will finally come back on and the guy says, "A horrible tragedy tonight." FLIP. If I had been married in 1963, I probably still wouldn't know that Kennedy was dead.
But it's not just her flipping. It's what she'll choose to flip to. She has an uncanny ability to flip to a channel that's as uninteresting as the previous channel was interesting. Last night, for instance, my wife, bless her heart, decided, while I was trying to watch David Letterman, to switch to Arthur. Now, I'm not talking about the Dudley Moore movie. I'm talking about the animated adventures of Arthur the Aardvark, which has to be the cutest, sweetest, most boring show on TV. I never knew my wife was so enthralled with Arthur. She lay there watching it for fifteen minutes, while I keep reminding her that Letterman is on. At least I thought she was watching it until I heard her snoring.
Of course, by that time, the remote was nestled safely under her body. So there I was, just me and Arthur. The show was pretty good. You see, Emily really wanted this sparkly ball that D.W. found, so she tells a little white lie about how Marie-Helene actually gave it to her. No harm done, right? But then Emily has to tell even bigger lies to cover her story! Have you seen that one?
The subject at hand is the TV remote. Now, men have been getting a bad rap (or is that "wrap") for years when it comes to their flippant (get it, a pun) attitude towards the remote. Men are accused of running non-stop through the channels and not ever staying on one channel long enough to know what's going on. I've come to the conclusion, however, that either women are worse than men, or else my wife is really a guy. I'm hoping it's the former.
My wife, bless her heart, has to have the remote in her hand if she's anywhere near the TV. Even if she's not watching, she wants to control the remote. And, if we're lying in bed watching television late at night, her last act before she falls asleep is to roll over and wedge the remote between her body and the bed, so that even after she's sawing logs, there's still no way I can control the remote.
My wife, bless her heart, has a really weird, woman-like way of using the remote, too. For instance, let's say she's flipping through the channels. Now, admittedly, she doesn't go as quickly as I do through them, but here is what she will do. She'll flip to a program. And leave that program on just long enough for me to get involved. And just as the detective says, "I have figured out who murdered Colonel Mustard. It has to be..." FLIP. I'm not lying. She does it every time.
And I'll tell you something else. Remember, now, we have this pact, you and me...we don't mention these columns to my wife. Okay? She never reads 'em, unless someone says, "Oh, you'll never guess what Steve said about you." Anyway, here's my little secret. I think she knows full well what she's doing. I think it's a form of torture.
It's particularly bad when I'm trying to watch a baseball game. I love baseball. If I'm watching, she'll come in the room and tenderly take my hand, and after she's pried my fingers open, she'll take the remote. She'll hold it...tauntingly, as if to say, "I have it. Don't make me use it."
After a few minutes, I'll relax, as much as a man can relax when he's watching TV and his wife is holding the remote. I'll get involved in the game. And, just as the Braves are about to stage a fantastic comeback, with the bases loaded and Chipper Jones at the plate, with a count of 3 and 2, and here comes the pitch. FLIP.
I kid you not. Now don't tell me she doesn't understand baseball. She understands just fine, thank you.
She also does the FLIP when I'm watching the news. You know how the news guys love to tease us. She's in on it. The newscaster will say, "You'll never guess who was assassinated tonight. Full details when we come back." Then we'll watch the fifteen commercials and then the news will finally come back on and the guy says, "A horrible tragedy tonight." FLIP. If I had been married in 1963, I probably still wouldn't know that Kennedy was dead.
But it's not just her flipping. It's what she'll choose to flip to. She has an uncanny ability to flip to a channel that's as uninteresting as the previous channel was interesting. Last night, for instance, my wife, bless her heart, decided, while I was trying to watch David Letterman, to switch to Arthur. Now, I'm not talking about the Dudley Moore movie. I'm talking about the animated adventures of Arthur the Aardvark, which has to be the cutest, sweetest, most boring show on TV. I never knew my wife was so enthralled with Arthur. She lay there watching it for fifteen minutes, while I keep reminding her that Letterman is on. At least I thought she was watching it until I heard her snoring.
Of course, by that time, the remote was nestled safely under her body. So there I was, just me and Arthur. The show was pretty good. You see, Emily really wanted this sparkly ball that D.W. found, so she tells a little white lie about how Marie-Helene actually gave it to her. No harm done, right? But then Emily has to tell even bigger lies to cover her story! Have you seen that one?
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Something Spooky in Gloucester
I’m afraid. I’m very afraid. I have just moved to Gloucester Courthouse. Have you ever been there? It’s a quaint little town about an hour east of Richmond. On my first visit there, and even on subsequent visits, I thought it somewhat reminded me of Mayberry.
However, since I’ve moved there, I’m thinking it’s more like one of those small towns you see in the horror movies. In fact, with its rustic charm and backwoodsy feel, I’m going to call my story, “Return to the Village of the Dag-Nabbited.” I don’t like to use the word, “damned.” You know, with the Jeremiah Wright thing so much in everyone’s minds.
Anyway, the more I get to know Gloucester, the more frightened I become. For instance, sometimes I’ll drive through the town square at about 8:00 in the evening. Now, for a small town, by this time you’d expect everyone to be home, in bed. But, in Gloucester, there are cars, many cars, parked along the curb. Nothing so bad in itself, but, there are men walking in somewhat of a zombie-like stupor through town. Maybe there’s some sort of town meeting going on, but I think it’s much more sinister. I truly believe that some sort of Invasion of the Body Snatchers-like alien force is at work here.
My wife and I went in a little sandwich shop the other night. There was an acoustic duo playing and the place was fairly crowded. When we walked in, the duo stopped playing and everyone turned to look at us. But wait! It gets even more frightening. We stand at the counter to order a sandwich and the woman smiles at us with a blank-eyed stare and says, “Sorry, we’re closed.”
“But, it’s not closing time,” I start to say. My wife hushes me up. She is afraid I’ll make a scene. Or, could it be that some human-transforming pod has already overtaken her body? I’m not sure. Anyway, we leave.
Then there’s the newspaper, the Glo-Quips. Now with a name like Glo-Quips itself, I think there is plenty of reason to believe that some alien force is in play here, but since I’m not one to jump to conclusions, I’ll present more evidence and let you decide.
Glo-Quips has to be either a) the worst newspaper in the world; b) an Onion-like satire on newspapers; or c) a devious, cleverly-encrypted collection of coded messages designed to destroy one’s brain cells. I’m picking selection “c” here.
I had written a column on Glo-Quips a couple of years ago. I thought it was just funny the first time I read it, that a newspaper could be written as poorly as this publication. But, I picked up another copy the other day. And, seriously folks, it’s pretty scary.
For one thing, there’s a rant and rave section, where readers can phone in their complaints. These people complain about everything and they don’t mince words. In the latest issue, someone is accusing a post office employee of being a convicted forger. Another caller is suggesting that virtually everyone in the county administration is involved in, or covering up child abuse. One complaint comes from someone who is afraid of a man who walks along Route 17 and talks to people in the Walmart Shopping Center. Hmm, maybe there’s some validity to that one.
But, there’s even more about Glo-Quips that frightens me. For instance, what would you think about a newspaper in a small Virginia town that has a columnist who writes about what a great guy Hitler was? I’m not making this stuff up. I’ll show you the paper if you want. Or, a front page story that is merely about a county employee who showed up for work three sheets to the wind? The biting investigative piece in this issue asked the burning question, "Have you ever eaten green eggs and ham?"
I tell you something is happening in Gloucester...something very, very weird. Scoff if you will. Ridicule me. But, if I suddenly show up missing one day, I hope you’ll remember this. And go get help. My wife is still there, or, at least, that alien pod that looks like her.
However, since I’ve moved there, I’m thinking it’s more like one of those small towns you see in the horror movies. In fact, with its rustic charm and backwoodsy feel, I’m going to call my story, “Return to the Village of the Dag-Nabbited.” I don’t like to use the word, “damned.” You know, with the Jeremiah Wright thing so much in everyone’s minds.
Anyway, the more I get to know Gloucester, the more frightened I become. For instance, sometimes I’ll drive through the town square at about 8:00 in the evening. Now, for a small town, by this time you’d expect everyone to be home, in bed. But, in Gloucester, there are cars, many cars, parked along the curb. Nothing so bad in itself, but, there are men walking in somewhat of a zombie-like stupor through town. Maybe there’s some sort of town meeting going on, but I think it’s much more sinister. I truly believe that some sort of Invasion of the Body Snatchers-like alien force is at work here.
My wife and I went in a little sandwich shop the other night. There was an acoustic duo playing and the place was fairly crowded. When we walked in, the duo stopped playing and everyone turned to look at us. But wait! It gets even more frightening. We stand at the counter to order a sandwich and the woman smiles at us with a blank-eyed stare and says, “Sorry, we’re closed.”
“But, it’s not closing time,” I start to say. My wife hushes me up. She is afraid I’ll make a scene. Or, could it be that some human-transforming pod has already overtaken her body? I’m not sure. Anyway, we leave.
Then there’s the newspaper, the Glo-Quips. Now with a name like Glo-Quips itself, I think there is plenty of reason to believe that some alien force is in play here, but since I’m not one to jump to conclusions, I’ll present more evidence and let you decide.
Glo-Quips has to be either a) the worst newspaper in the world; b) an Onion-like satire on newspapers; or c) a devious, cleverly-encrypted collection of coded messages designed to destroy one’s brain cells. I’m picking selection “c” here.
I had written a column on Glo-Quips a couple of years ago. I thought it was just funny the first time I read it, that a newspaper could be written as poorly as this publication. But, I picked up another copy the other day. And, seriously folks, it’s pretty scary.
For one thing, there’s a rant and rave section, where readers can phone in their complaints. These people complain about everything and they don’t mince words. In the latest issue, someone is accusing a post office employee of being a convicted forger. Another caller is suggesting that virtually everyone in the county administration is involved in, or covering up child abuse. One complaint comes from someone who is afraid of a man who walks along Route 17 and talks to people in the Walmart Shopping Center. Hmm, maybe there’s some validity to that one.
But, there’s even more about Glo-Quips that frightens me. For instance, what would you think about a newspaper in a small Virginia town that has a columnist who writes about what a great guy Hitler was? I’m not making this stuff up. I’ll show you the paper if you want. Or, a front page story that is merely about a county employee who showed up for work three sheets to the wind? The biting investigative piece in this issue asked the burning question, "Have you ever eaten green eggs and ham?"
I tell you something is happening in Gloucester...something very, very weird. Scoff if you will. Ridicule me. But, if I suddenly show up missing one day, I hope you’ll remember this. And go get help. My wife is still there, or, at least, that alien pod that looks like her.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
A Moving Experience
I just moved to a new house. And, it's been a rather eye-opening experience. For one thing, having lived in this house for about a week without television (the cable people haven't gotten around to hooking me up), I think I've come to have some sort of mind meld with our forefathers...you know the rugged, pioneer, Little-House-on-the-Prairie-Michael-Landon types,
I think I can feel their pain, their anguish. I also think I know why our ancestors died so young. They were bored to death.
This sitting around the house talking to one another thing gets old rather quickly. I can just imagine past generations sitting around the house and thinking, there's bound to be something better to do than this.
I've also learned something about the construction workers of today. They stink. I think the young men and women of today's work-force have spent so much time watching television, they've never taken the time to learn to do a job well. For instance, I have a brand-new home (not bragging, just stating fact), with no door knobs. It seems that these guys forgot about the door knobs. Now, I am exaggerating. Many of the doors have them. It's only a few doors that they overlooked.
For instance, there's a door going to the laundry area, and it has a knob. The only problem is, I really won't ever need the knob because the door won't go past the washer and dryer. You know, it seems like someone would have gotten a tape measure out and figured those things out. And speaking of the washer and dryer, these nincompoops put in the vents and plumbing so that the washer and dryer are forced to be positioned in a way that the doors open into each other. If they had positioned them the opposite way, there would have been an open space between the two, which would make for an easy transfer from washer to dryer. It may seem like a little thing, but really, can't someone just use a little forethought?
Also, there are no light bulbs in the house. I guess the workers figure that their workmanship looks a lot better in the dark. And, once I put a bulb in, I discovered that the light switch in the walk-in closet is positioned behind the door, so you have to open the door and walk around it in the dark in order to get to the light switch. And, there are no drawers in the bathroom. Where do they think I'm going to put my toothbrush? No towel racks either.
Okay, maybe I'm a bit of a whiner, but this is the first home I've ever lived in that wasn't sitting on wheels, or, at least, cinderblocks, and I want it to be just right. But, I guess I should be thankful for what I have. Actually, since I've gone without TV for several days, I discovered I have a wife. Who knew?
Forget everything i just saId. Everything is fine. I'm perfectly happy. And, if I get too bored, I can always pull up a stool and watch my underwear spinning in the washer. And, actually, that's more entertaining than a lot of today's TV programming. But maybe I'm biased.
I think I can feel their pain, their anguish. I also think I know why our ancestors died so young. They were bored to death.
This sitting around the house talking to one another thing gets old rather quickly. I can just imagine past generations sitting around the house and thinking, there's bound to be something better to do than this.
I've also learned something about the construction workers of today. They stink. I think the young men and women of today's work-force have spent so much time watching television, they've never taken the time to learn to do a job well. For instance, I have a brand-new home (not bragging, just stating fact), with no door knobs. It seems that these guys forgot about the door knobs. Now, I am exaggerating. Many of the doors have them. It's only a few doors that they overlooked.
For instance, there's a door going to the laundry area, and it has a knob. The only problem is, I really won't ever need the knob because the door won't go past the washer and dryer. You know, it seems like someone would have gotten a tape measure out and figured those things out. And speaking of the washer and dryer, these nincompoops put in the vents and plumbing so that the washer and dryer are forced to be positioned in a way that the doors open into each other. If they had positioned them the opposite way, there would have been an open space between the two, which would make for an easy transfer from washer to dryer. It may seem like a little thing, but really, can't someone just use a little forethought?
Also, there are no light bulbs in the house. I guess the workers figure that their workmanship looks a lot better in the dark. And, once I put a bulb in, I discovered that the light switch in the walk-in closet is positioned behind the door, so you have to open the door and walk around it in the dark in order to get to the light switch. And, there are no drawers in the bathroom. Where do they think I'm going to put my toothbrush? No towel racks either.
Okay, maybe I'm a bit of a whiner, but this is the first home I've ever lived in that wasn't sitting on wheels, or, at least, cinderblocks, and I want it to be just right. But, I guess I should be thankful for what I have. Actually, since I've gone without TV for several days, I discovered I have a wife. Who knew?
Forget everything i just saId. Everything is fine. I'm perfectly happy. And, if I get too bored, I can always pull up a stool and watch my underwear spinning in the washer. And, actually, that's more entertaining than a lot of today's TV programming. But maybe I'm biased.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The Great Ukrop's Beer Scare of 2008
Wow! What about that beer scare at Ukrop's? "Fortunately," says a Ukrop's spokesman, "it turned out to be nothing more serious than a bomb." The spokesman, Harv Pinkle, went on to say,"Considering the type of world in which we live today, you never know. It could have been a six-pack."
Quickly Pinkle asked, "That is how theose heathen stores sell beer, isn't it? In six-packs?"
Pinkle and the entire Ukrop's team have every right to be alarmed. Beer is prevalent everywhere these days. You can buy it on the open market. And, so, I'm told, there are sights on the Internet that even give detailed instructions on making your own beer.
So, when someone from Ukrop's found an abandoned bag outside one of their West End groceries recently, he immediately suspected beer. Ukrop's called in their own beer squad, replete with beer-sniffing dogs, and within a couple hours, to the relief of all Ukrop's employees, the suspicious-looking bag was found to be just a bomb.
The Ukrop's family has toiled tirelessly through the years to ensure that lips that touch alcohol never touch them...or something like that. Smokes? No problem. The Ukrop's make a pretty hefty profit on cigarettes, but when it comes to beer and wine, it's nosiree bob.
Which leaves me scratching my head. Well, I'm not literally scratching my head, except on those occasions when it itches. But I do wonder where the Ukrop's got their abomination for alcohol. I know, I know, it's a religious thing.
From what I've been told, the Ukrop's have a doctored picture of the Last Supper. All of the wine has been painted over. And, or so I'm told, the picture shows Jesus lighting Peter's cigarette.
Now, I couldn't make this sort of stuff up, folks. Oh, wait, hold on. I guess I could make it up. But, even if I were, and I along with the governor of New York, am not admitting anything right now, but, even if I were making it up, you have to admit that,somehow, it seems rather hypocritical to refuse to sell wine, the drink of prophets, and sell cigarettes, the carcinogen of profits.
If you want to shun all alcohol, I say more power to you. There's nothing in the Bible that condemns the moderate use of alcohol, but there's nothing in there that says you have to drink either.
But, how, with all the statistics, and with the horrendous odor, and with those ugly yellow teeth, so prevalent in the mouths of many Ukrop's employees and shoppers,how do you condemn alcohol and promote tobacco?
But, I shan't worry my pretty little head over it. I'll keep shopping at Ukrop's because, truth be told, they are nice to deal with. And, if I ever want a drink, I'll go to Food Lion, which, truth be told, by the time I leave a Food Lion, I need a drink.
Quickly Pinkle asked, "That is how theose heathen stores sell beer, isn't it? In six-packs?"
Pinkle and the entire Ukrop's team have every right to be alarmed. Beer is prevalent everywhere these days. You can buy it on the open market. And, so, I'm told, there are sights on the Internet that even give detailed instructions on making your own beer.
So, when someone from Ukrop's found an abandoned bag outside one of their West End groceries recently, he immediately suspected beer. Ukrop's called in their own beer squad, replete with beer-sniffing dogs, and within a couple hours, to the relief of all Ukrop's employees, the suspicious-looking bag was found to be just a bomb.
The Ukrop's family has toiled tirelessly through the years to ensure that lips that touch alcohol never touch them...or something like that. Smokes? No problem. The Ukrop's make a pretty hefty profit on cigarettes, but when it comes to beer and wine, it's nosiree bob.
Which leaves me scratching my head. Well, I'm not literally scratching my head, except on those occasions when it itches. But I do wonder where the Ukrop's got their abomination for alcohol. I know, I know, it's a religious thing.
From what I've been told, the Ukrop's have a doctored picture of the Last Supper. All of the wine has been painted over. And, or so I'm told, the picture shows Jesus lighting Peter's cigarette.
Now, I couldn't make this sort of stuff up, folks. Oh, wait, hold on. I guess I could make it up. But, even if I were, and I along with the governor of New York, am not admitting anything right now, but, even if I were making it up, you have to admit that,somehow, it seems rather hypocritical to refuse to sell wine, the drink of prophets, and sell cigarettes, the carcinogen of profits.
If you want to shun all alcohol, I say more power to you. There's nothing in the Bible that condemns the moderate use of alcohol, but there's nothing in there that says you have to drink either.
But, how, with all the statistics, and with the horrendous odor, and with those ugly yellow teeth, so prevalent in the mouths of many Ukrop's employees and shoppers,how do you condemn alcohol and promote tobacco?
But, I shan't worry my pretty little head over it. I'll keep shopping at Ukrop's because, truth be told, they are nice to deal with. And, if I ever want a drink, I'll go to Food Lion, which, truth be told, by the time I leave a Food Lion, I need a drink.
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