Sunday, July 31, 2011

Just To Hold You Over

  Once more you get a delayed post (as you read this, I'm in the great Rhode Island outdoors, chasing rogue lobsters and trying to find a nice tree upon which to pee). But, instead of when I was away in the Dominican Republic, this won't be a warmed-over rehash of a rerun.  Instead, it's new material!   But, it's short new material.  Oh, well, probably makes up for that huge regurgitation of my summer vacation (funny, 'regurgitate' is something I didn't do in the DR).


  Just when you thought commercial spokespeople couldn't be more annoying, along comes Flo:

Seriously, do some women actually look like this?
  That was bad enough, but then the good folks at Progressive thought it would be much better to entice customers through the use of a 70s porn star stalker:

Don't let this man near schools
  This guy makes me want to invite that annoying Keystone Light dude, Keith Stone, over.  He may be a sketchy character with a mullet, but I think I can trust him with the kids.  Or maybe not.    
  Better I should stick with Geico.  Cavemen, geckos, smarmy pitchmen, and woodchucks chucking wood make me skeevy, but they're better than Flo or "70s Porn Star" guy.

  Hey, I found a tree........

See you Thursday!

Saturday, July 30, 2011

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

  Well, that's not exactly right.  Since I work in Education, my summer vacation isn't over yet.  In fact, tomorrow I leave for New England to go camping with my brothers.  It'll be a four-day bacchanal of beer, bawdy stories, beer, farting contests, peeing in (not at) Mother Nature, going out for pizza (hey, just because we're camping doesn't mean we're savages), beer, belching show tunes, pull-my-finger at Walmart (where I think we'll fit in great), tossing whatever we can find into the campfire, and a rip-roaring Yahtzee contest.
  For some reason, our wives and daughters don't want to go.
  Still, I thought I should let you know how it went on the vacation I just returned from (sorry about my egregious use of a preposition at the end of a sentence).  Spending thousands of dollars I didn't have (I just voted to raise my family's debt ceiling so it's all good), we spent five wonderful days in a beautiful foreign country (don't worry, Camden, next year the Penwasser family's coming your way!).
  Oh, yeah, it was the Dominican Republic.  Which, surprisingly, wasn't founded by a religious order.  Or Republicans.  Weird.
Just before a whompin' monsoon.
No problem, though. This was taken from a bar.
  History-It's Old: It was actually founded by Christopher Columbus and his band of unwashed sailors in 1492.  Luckily for us, toilets now exist on the island.
  As those of you who are regular visitors to Penwasser Place, you know we attended what is commonly known as a "Destination Wedding" (for some reason, the destinations for these excursions never include the Amish Country.  Or New Jersey).
  It was a fantastic time, not lessened in the least by widespread bouts of gastrointestinal distress and an unconfirmed report that the groom peed in the pool.  Hey, it couldn't have been worse than that floating "nose oyster" which drifted by me as I lifted a glass of my favorite beverage (my favorite beverage being all of them).  No problem, though.  I scooped it up in someone's unattended glass.
  Seriously, though, who thinks it's okay to hawk up a loogey in a swimming pool?
  I've been to quite a lot of places in my time evading the law serving in the Navy and this is the first place that I've visited where the staff didn't know a whole lot of English besides "Hello," "Good morning," and "No peeing in the pool."
La Playa.
Spanish for "We Bring Your Drinks To You"
  Luckily, I was able to use the Spanish gleaned from four years of high school and three episodes of CSI: Miami.  I never had my drink or food order mixed up and I was able to successfully locate beach towels.  But, I think I'm engaged to one of the housekeepers.
  Even Mrs. Penwasser, correctly deducing her one year of high school German was as useless as Mel Gibson at a bris, picked up a few phrases of Spanish.  With her deft use of "Uno mas," "Gracias," and "Ola!" she'd be confused with Ricky Ricardo in drag.  If he wasn't dead.

    I will admit to feeling a little uncomfortable, though.  Even though I very often don't have enough money to pay attention, I'm Donald Trump compared to some of the people we saw.  There is crushing poverty outside the gates of the resort.  Plus, sharing the same island with Haiti can't be that swell of a deal, either.
  By the time we left last Monday, I was really pretty tired of being waited on.  I'm really not the type of person who gets off on someone constantly at my beck and call.  Leave that kind of stuff to Paris Hilton.
These were the cheap seats
  The wedding itself was beautiful, despite a downpour which turned the aisle leading up to the bridal gazebo (French for "fancy pillar thingie) into a soggy morass of rose petals and pink chiffon banners.  The only time I wore long pants the whole time I was on the island, I sweated more than Charlie Sheen at a papal barbecue.  Yet, it was a beautiful expression of the love between two people who adore each other.  And, a perfect excuse to lay around like sedated sea lions on a Caribbean beach.

  Okay, I'm tired of writing.  How about a few more pictures?

  The outside of our room.  I wanted to take a picture of the inside, but Mrs. Penwasser refused to let me. Apparently, she was embarrassed that her bra was hanging from the ceiling fan.  No, that's not exactly true.  It was my boxers.
  Surprisingly, the pinkish phallus-looking object in the lower left corner of the picture is not a Dominican fertility symbol, but a light.
  Boy, how red-faced was I when I was told by one of the staff to stop humping it.
  Good thing I knew Spanish.

  For those of you who are products of the Detroit School System (I can't make fun of New Jersey anymore.  For now), these are flamingos.  Contrary to popular belief, they are not pink due to a diet rich in rich in shrimp.  Rather, their color is due to massive ingestion of rose petals.  (NOTE: Not true).

  Interesting Fact O' Nature:  Flamingos are the only indigenous animals who cannot kill you.  Even the cute little salamanders grow up to be dinosaurs.
(NOTE: That is totally not true.  Good thing you don't read this crap to get an education).

  Our final day, this is the front entrance.  Luckily, you can't see the machine-gun nests (NOTE: It's getting to where you can't trust a single word I say, huh?).
  There are mountains in the background, but you can't see them because of the fog (NOTE: This is true).
  You can also see me tying my shoe in the lower right corner of the picture.  I've been taking pictures like this since 1979, but I don't know why.
  Starting sometime next week, I'll start sharing them.  Rome, Paris, Venice, the Suez Canal....don't ask me why.  I just did it.

    That's it for now.  It's after midnight, but I wanted to give my summer report before I start shoveling snow.  It's late and I need to go to bed.  Because tomorrow.....
    A camping I will go.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Signs You're At a Swankier Place Than You Deserve

Chocolates on my pillow.  Pillow.

I ate Mrs. Penwasser's before she noticed.

Rose petals around the sink.
These actually were more annoying than they were worth.

Of course, as you'll notice in the upper left corner of the picture, the room did have one of those hotel razors (you know, the one which nicks your face so much you look like a refugee from a Wes Craven movie).

More frikkin' rose petals.

I think the hotel gets a deal from a guy.
Who also sells coke.
And coke-related products.

Yeah.  No kidding.  I felt like Hugh Hefner.

Except that the 20 year-old girls thought I was gross.

So, it is about the money.

I am soooo disillusioned.

I stole the slippers, though.  Just let 'em try and find me.

The place even marked dangerous areas.

Too bad I didn't understand Spanish, though. I broke through and fell to the center of the Earth.  Those damn dinosaurs can be so cranky.

Of course, pillow candies, rose petals, and slippers notwithstanding, some people took the All-You-Can-Eat shrimpfest and All-You-Can-Drink Rum Runners to extremes.

Next: More on "How I Spent My Summer Vacation."

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Is It Me Or Are People Getting Lazy?

Damn it, what if I want it today????

NOTE:  I should be back from the Dominican Republic.  But, I'm a little tired from all the touring of churches, monuments, and swim-up rum and coke bars.  Expect to read something absolutely hilarious (or written by me) tomorrow.  Or the next day.  Whenever.  Heck, I may be getting lazy.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Vacation Post-Is It Art?

NOTE:  Okay, so I burned my nipples off last night (we all know that, since this is a delayed post, the nipple abuse hasn't happened yet.  But, you can be damn sure I'm going to avoid sliding under any burning poles in a country which shares the same island-with Haiti.  This partying lifestyle is starting to wear me down (who do you think I am?  Charlie Frikkin' Sheen?).  Thank goodness we'll be home soon.  There's only so much partying a middle-aged man can do.  I need to get back home to recuperate before the Annual Penwasser Brothers Camping Trip in Rhode Island next week.  Anyway, please find below a little repeat from December, 2009 which I call "Is It Art?"  Enjoy.  Or not.  What do I care?  I'm still on vacation.

This is pretty much how I feel
    Scanning the newspapers recently, I’ve noticed a most unusual art exhibit is once more making the rounds. 
    Touted as a cutting edge celebration of the human condition, it consists of skinned human bodies (oh, did I mention they were dead?) frozen in various activities such as dribbling basketballs, riding bicycles, or juggling pizzas.  To prevent them from stinking like French longshoremen, they’ve been injected with some sort of Super Glue resin to keep them as stiff as Al Gore at the Senior Prom.
    The whole shebang is the brainchild of a German scientist (insert inevitable, tasteless joke here). 
    Even though it strikes me as something of a freak show, it does a pretty good job of showing us what we actually look like on the inside (um, that would be pretty yucky).
     But, is it art?
     Fine art has always been somewhat of a mystery to me.  Whether it’s an impressionist rendering of man’s inhumanity to circus peanuts or a Flintstones jelly glass, most art to me looks like it belongs in the Monkey Flings Poo genre.
    Except dogs playing poker.  Or anything with Elvis on it.  Now, those I like!
    I’ve visited a buttload (caution: not to be confused with the eminently larger “shitload”) of museums in my day from the finest New York galleries to what you generally find scrawled on bathroom walls.  I distinctly remember my first such experience. There I stood, transfixed by what was before me, lost in deep thought.  Pompously stroking my chin, I waxed eloquent to fellow museum mavens on what creative message the artist was trying to convey with his bold, dynamic blend of colors juxtaposed against the tragedies of our daily lives.
    Until I realized I was looking at a “CAUTION-Piso Mojado-Wet Floor” sign.
    Since then, I’ve learned it’s better to just keep my mouth shut.
    It’s not just paintings, either.  Unless it’s a Greek or Roman statue (identified primarily by missing arms or genitalia), most sculptures to me look like something a kid whipped up with his Play-Doh Fun Factory.
    Take THIS ball of clay, smash it into another, differently-colored ball of clay, toss it into an oven and-voila!-we have the Creation of Man.  Or Oprah.
    Even the masters leave me cold:  Whistler’s Mother (Get a good TV), The Thinker (I’M thinking he should put some clothes on), Michelangelo’s David (I feel sooooo inadequate), The Last Supper (Separate checks?), and ANYTHING by Picasso (“Hey, didja get the license plate of the truck that hit ya?”) cause me to look at them and gasp, “Huh?”
    OK, maybe I’m not the most sophisticated guy.  To me, one of those velvet sad clown paintings, a Beers of the World jigsaw puzzle, or a statue of the Virgin Mary made of elbow macaroni are mucho classy.    
    Several years ago, I took a trip to Paris with some friends.  The City of Lights was nothing like I expected.  Clean and well-organized, its citizens were as friendly as can be (oops, sorry-that’s Epcot).
    Actually, though, we were treated extremely well, despite the sneezing powder in our escargot and the Jerry Lewis Marathon on the hotel TV.  At any rate, we were treated better than we probably deserved, given our propensity to amuse the unamuseable (CAUTION:  NOT a real word) with our Pepe Le Pew impressions and our complaints of “You call THIS French Toast!?”
    While there, we did all the goofy things tourists are supposed to do:  gawk at the Eiffel Tower, marvel at the Arc d’Triomphe, sashay (or is that mosey?) down the Champs Elysee, and take in a show at the Moulin Rouge (YOU know what type of show I mean!).
    After nearly a week of carousing around the city, we grew tired of idling away in tourist traps and cheesy trinket shops-“Hey look! A statue of Napoleon made of butter!”  Drawing upon the cultural aspect of our natures, we thought it would be a good idea to stroll through the Louvre.
    Even though my distaste for artsy stuff was well-known, I still thought I should give the most famous museum in the world a try.  What could it hurt?
    Plus, I might get to see some dinosaur bones or a mummy.  Cool.
    Unfortunately, we hadn’t allotted enough time to adequately tour the joint, as it is truly the mother of all museums.  We were practically forced to run through each of the galleries and didn’t even have time to see any caveman exhibits.
   Despite the seemingly endless assortment of objects d’arte, we were dead set on viewing DaVinci’s Mona Lisa, the Louvre’s biggest draw. 
    Like a pack of bloodhounds fixed on the scent of a fleeing bank robber, we dashed through the museum, stopping only scant seconds to view anything which remotely caught our eye.
    Thank goodness there were signs leading us to our destination because, without them, we would have gotten hopelessly lost.  Still, I’d really like to catch that joker who swapped some of the signs around.  We wasted a half hour in the Men’s Room trying to find which stall was hiding the Mona Lisa.          
    Finally, as we smacked into the back of a huge queue (Fun with English Tip: a snooty, ten dollar word for “line”), we knew we’d arrived at our destination.  Somewhere up ahead was arguably the most famous painting in the world.  Even I was moved by the experience as we prepared to view history.
    As we drew up to the head of the line, though, we couldn’t help but feel disillusioned.  Rather than some huge production or jaw-dropping masterpiece, our Holy Grail came across as a bust (which, incidentally, can also be a ‘sculpture’ for you art aficionados.  It’s also a much more sophisticated term for boobs.). 
    Not much bigger than a postage stamp, the Mona Lisa was safely segregated from the crowd by Plexiglas and looked no more impressive than some kid’s paint-by-numbers set.  We felt that all the hype amounted to little more than a P.T. Barnum sham.
    Of course, we took the obligatory photographs, if for nothing else than to prove to our families we actually did more in Paris than drink cheap wine and wolf down cheese which smelled like feet.
    Once done, we proceeded to look for an exit, our thirst for culture dashed and our feet weary from our madcap race through the labyrinth which is the Louvre.
    Shuffling into a huge gallery, we were startled by the many tapestries covering the walls.  An ancient smell of must hung in the air.  We knew we were in the presence of masterpieces which were several hundred years old.
    One tapestry, in particular, held our interest.  Despite being dulled from the passage of centuries, it excited our senses through its riotous display of colors and imaginative themes.
    Depicting the pomp and majesty of a king holding court, the tapestry illustrated dozens of courtiers (strangely, NONE of whom wore pants-except the king) and their ladies paying homage to their noble sovereign.  Interestingly enough, it also showed quite a few animals cavorting about with each other and half-men/half-goats chasing chickens.
    The thing was massive, as it fully covered an entire wall.  At a good ten by twenty yards, we knew it would never hang in somebody’s trailer or rec room.
    Craning our necks to the ceiling in an effort to take in its full scope, we felt our visit to the Louvre was vindicated by this wonderful expression of some unknown artist’s muse.  We each stood, enthralled, knowing we were in the presence of something larger than ourselves.
    My awed concentration was quietly broken by one of my companions.  In one brief instant, he gave voice to a heartfelt sentiment.  A sentiment which shook me out of my revelry and brought me back to the role for which I am best suited:  Art Non-Snob.  A sentiment I identified as my own.
   “Gee, I wonder if you buy a couch to match it or buy it to match your couch?”
    Or your collection of plastic dead guys?

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Vacation Post-Not For Nothin'

NOTE:  As promised, here's a post from last year (or was it the year before?)  Oh, screw it, I'm on vacation so I don't feel like looking it up.  Wait a minute, this is a delayed post, so I haven't left the country yet.  So, I could look it up if I wanted.  Screw it, anyway.  More than a few of you may have already heard some of the little gems below.  But, try not to ruin it for the others.  By the time you read this, I'll be fast asleep after winning Lindsay's Samba and Corona Chuggin Contest the night before.  In fact, I probably won't get up for hours.  Have fun at work.  Anyway, hope you enjoy....

      Feeling a little grumpy today.
    Grumpy, in addition to being one of my favorite dwarfs (or should that be ‘dwarves’?) is one of our least appreciated emotions.  Not nearly as popular as ‘Giddy’ or ‘Surly’, it still can be quite useful.
    For, it’s when I’m grumpy that I look at life with something less than a cheery “Golly, gee, whiz!” disposition.  At these times, I find myself commenting on things in a “Not For Nothin’” vein.  For instance:
    Not for nothin’ but...
    I wonder what the Reader’s Digest version of the Reader’s Digest would look like.
    Foods I find funny:  Potted Meat Food Product, Circus Peanuts, anything with the word wiener in it, SPAM, “Smuckers,” Olive Loaf, Beef Tongue, couscous (whatever the hell THAT is), and Head Cheese.
    Could be me, but I’m thinking that none of the guests on The Jerry Springer Show ever went to Harvard Law School.
    Why don’t they ever sell you the yard at a “Yard” Sale?
    Why do we get a receipt for our newspaper?  Is that in case we don’t like the news?  “Excuse me, that whole Afghanistan thing just ain’t working out.  Can I have my money back?”
    At 3/4 water, why is it called “Earth”?
    Question:  Why do dogs lick themselves?  Answer:  Because they can.
    Imagine if we all had our own theme music.  Mine would be “Short People.”
    How quick is “Remove Card Quickly” at the gas pump?  And what happens if I don’t?
    There’s no such thing as a bad cookie.  Except for that disastrous “Grandpa’s Toe Ahoy!” promotion by Famous Amos.
    Why does Hawaii have an interstate?
    For the love of all that’s holy, STOP ordering Diet Coke with your Big Mac and fries!
    Ever look in the classifieds and wonder just what in the heck “Free to a good home” is all about?  Is there some sort of screening process (i.e., “I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Bin Laden, you can’t have the kittens.  How ‘bout a ferret instead?”)?  And, do you still have to pay if you have a “so-so” home?
    I noticed the following road sign a block away from one that said “Blind Drive”: “Dangerous Intersection.”  I guess that goes without saying.
    Speaking of road signs: there’s one in my neighborhood that says, “Speed Hump Ahead.”  I suppose that’s a natural result of “Speed Dating.”
    OK, last road sign comment, I promise.  I suppose that, in this politically correct age, we don’t want to offend the dead, so we’ve switched “Dead End” signs for “No Outlet.”  For the life of me, though, where will I be able to plug in my boom box, then?
    Do condoms and athletic supporters ever come in “small?”
    Instead of the hardware store, shouldn’t Crack Filler be sold at the pharmacy?
    Why do people call them “ink” pens?  I’ve never heard of “jelly” pens.
    Why are “water” crackers dry?
    OK, let’s see if I got this right:  “mouse” to “mice” and “louse” to “lice.”  So, is it “rouse” to “rice,” “grouse” to “grice,” and “house” to “hice?”  But, what about “moose,” “deer, or “fish?”  And, what’s with that whole goose/geese thing, anyway?
    Sheesh, I’m glad my native language is English.
    “Erections which last longer than four hours need to be brought to the attention of your physician.”  Four hours!?  I’m convinced the guy who came up with that time limit is the same one who lies about “landin’ the big one.”
    And, not for nothin’...but if I had an erection that lasted four hours, you can forget about me bringing it to the attention of my doctor.  I’m bringing it to the attention of the media.
    Message to those people who feel the need to rent one of those storage spaces or “PODS”:  You have way too much crap!  Throw it away!!
    Why do we pump “gas” instead of “liquid”? 
    I hate those lightning-fast automatic shut-off faucets in public rest rooms.  While I understand they’re designed to avoid water waste by clods too stupid to turn the knob, forcing me to wash only one hand at a time is incredibly irritating.  But not as much as when water drips into my armpit at the infrared paper towel dispenser.
    If the cleanliness of my underwear ever becomes an issue, then I say the accident wasn’t so bad, after all.  And, while you’re at it, kindly put my drawers back on, thank you.
    Joke Which Isn’t Mine Yet Still Makes Me Laugh:  Ya hear about the blind hooker?  Ya really hadda hand it to her.
    My golf handicap is, well...ME.  And, speaking of golf, I think its “fun factor” would be increased exponentially by windmills or stuffed gorillas at every hole.
    People who keep their Christmas decorations until St. Patrick’s Day:  lazy.  People who insist on lighting their Christmas decorations until St. Patrick’s Day:  lazy idiots. 
    Is it physically possible to be “beside one’s self”?
    Group Paralysis:  what happens at a WaWa when an employee says, “I can help someone over here.”
    Why is it we don’t want our money’s worth when it comes to things like college class or physicals?  “Dammit, doc, I want my prostate checked and I want it checked NOW!”
    The thing that separates man from beast:  Port-A-Potties.
    I’m going to have to change my gym membership away from that new club in town:  “Pontius Pilates.”  I mean, we get a good workout and all but I’m getting tired of having to wash my hands all the time.  Plus, that whole scourging thing is getting tiresome.
    “Kinoki Cleansing Detox Foot Pads”:  Japanese for “Sticky Toe Gauze For Suckers.”
    Why do we feel the need to identify ourselves on the phone to someone with Caller ID?
    Of course, that’s not as silly as how surprised the person with Caller ID sounds when you tell them who you are:  “Ohhhhh, hi!!”
    When did the symbol “#” become known as the “pound” sign?  Isn’t that the symbol for “number?”  Now that I think of it, it would be redundant to tell someone to hit the “number” key on their telephone.
    The next time you laugh at your dog while he’s backing up all over the yard trying to decide where to drop a “yard apple”, remember how you dance in front of the magazine rack before heading to the bathroom.
    If you ever feel the need to “rest” in a gas station “Rest Room”, you’ve been on the road too long.  Or you’re homeless.  Time to find that light on at Motel 6.
    How can you tell if a Smurf is feeling blue?
    And, finally, not for nothin’, but if you read me like a book, I’d be a short story.
    I’m just sayin’...

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Mi Zapato Con Queso En La Republica Dominicana (I Think)

  Gonna disappear for a few days.  That's right, me and the family are going to take a respite:  my wife from work and me and the kids from sleeping in late.  We've been invited to a destination wedding in the Dominican Republic (you ever notice that destination weddings are never held in Camden, New Jersey?)  NOTE:  Barb, that is my weekly, gratuitous jab at New Jersey.  A state don't live.  Which I think pretty much says it all about the alleged "Garden State."

  Destination Weddings are fantastic.  You get to invite a TON of people, most of whom you probably don't know or even like, but you have to because they're friends (or boss) of your parents.  But-here's the beauty part-most of them can't come because it's too far or their passport has been revoked ("Hey, I didn't know that goat was Al Qaeda!!").  Still, they have the decency to send a gift (preferably money).

  Hopefully, the soon-to-be bride and groom are happy we're coming, even though we're just friends of their parents.  But, hey, I couldn't miss a chance to get molested by the TSA pay over four grand to go to the Caribbean in late-July (where it will be as hot as the friggin' sun.  Or Miami.).  There will be open bars, massive buffets, swim-up cocktail lounges, chocolate fountains, in-room mini bars, lobster tails left on my pillow, all-you-can-drink prayer breakfasts, and jogging trails.

  Don't worry, though.  While I'm swimming in the Pina Colada Lap Swimming Pool, I'll make sure that I have a couple posts right here at Penwasser Place for your reading enjoyment.  Of course, they will be repeats.  What do you expect?  Original material while I'm lying (face down) at the nude beach???

  For those of you who may want to rob me while I'm gone, we have a housesitter, my dog isn't coming (screw him. I stepped in dog crap on my way to the pool yesterday), and the Philadelphia Mob is holding their annual Fish-Fry and Garroting Retreat at my place (hey, they paid cash. In unmarked, non-sequential bills.  Don't judge me).

  See you when I get back!

Hasta proxima semana!
Su amigo viejo,

Oh, one other thing.  If you don't see another post from me (beyond the second "repeat"), that means there was probably some sort of coup in the Dominican Republic and I'm being held as some sort of international sex slave (no accounting for taste).  If that's the case, I'll get back to you as soon as I can.  As soon as I wash up.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

It's a Dog's Life

Eat, sleep, lick self, poop, bark, repeat.
Work like a dog, indeed.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Today's Vocabulary

Saccharometer:  1. (n)  Medical device used to measure scrotums.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

It Didn't Make Sense To Me, Either

But any port in a storm, I always say.

Friday, July 15, 2011

The Republic of South Sudan

  Just when thousands of middle school children finally remembered the names of all the countries in Africa, the Republic of South Sudan has gone and ruined it for everybody by declaring its independence from...uh...Northern Sudan on July 9th.

  This has been in the works for quite some time, but a delay was caused when the winner of the "Design-A-Flag" contest was captured by Somalian pirates, who inexplicably wandered too far inland from the Indian Ocean (nobody said they were smart Somalian pirates).

  Now, the people of the south no longer have to suffer the hardship of civil war.  Instead, they'll get international war.  Awesome.

  On the bright side, representatives from Orlando, Florida have been in contact with Sudanese government officials about construction of Africa's first theme park.  Planned for the infant nation's capital, its tentative name is Disney Juba.

NOTE:  While a good deal of the above was invented out of whole cloth (whatever that means), there really is a Republic of South Sudan.  With a new flag.  

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

When You Care Enough To Send the Very Best

Just head on down to a gift shop at the Jersey Shore and pick up a little something for your sweetie.

Why waste your money on a dozen roses, bottle of champagne, box of chocolates, or something from Hallmark when you can show her how you really feel?

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Natural Selection

Ya know, Darwin may have been on to something after all.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Happy Birthday To Me

Me sitting on a toilet
A 50 year tradition

    On this day in 1958, Janet Penwasser stubbed out her Marlboro, tossed back her highball, and shouted at her husband, Mal, to stop screwing with those “damn stupid rabbit ears” atop the brand-new television set.
    It was time, she snapped.  The “little project” he started in a Maryland honeymoon lodge nine months ago (NOTE: I checked the timeline) was banging on the cervical door, wanting to say hello to the world.
    “And I don’t give a flying crap if Ed Sullivan is going to have Jumpin’ Jesus on his throne on the verry big shew after the Hungarian plate spinning guy, you’d better get my fat ass in the Oldsmobile and off to the hospital!” 
    Fifty-three years later, here I am.  Sadly, Jan and Mal are not.
    In light of the fact that I am now three years over the half-century mark, it’s occurred to me that, if my age was expressed in dog years, I’d be dead (unless there’s a breed of dog that lives over 350 years.  Maybe Dracula’s dog.  I don’t know).  Or that, if I was living in the Middle Ages, I wouldn’t be.  A mid-life crisis back then happened during adolescence.
    My initial thought was to pretend this day never happened.  The only party I would have would be a Pity Party as I wallowed in a “Woe Is Me” funk.  And you could forget about birthday cake.  Do you know how many calories are in just one slice?
    I made the mistake of complaining about my state of affairs to my father-in-law when he called to wish me a happy day.  My 83 year-old father-in-law.
    “You think you have it bad?  Oh, boo hoo! I use a lunchbox to carry my pills, I get winded from farting, water gives me gas, I need a nap after I get up in the morning, I have to take a Cialis chaser with my Viagra (NOTE: this kinda grossed me out), I forget to put pants on to check the mail, I forget to take my pants off when I take a crap, and I’m always grateful when I don’t wake up in a silk-lined box.  Now, who is this again?”
    After hanging up, I realized that my octogenarian (NOTE: how often do you get to use that word?) relative had a point.  Age is relative.  And not just with people who are related to you.
    I remembered my dismay when I turned 30, 40 (when I almost drowned in a hot tub.  Yes, alcohol was involved), and then 50 (okay, alcohol was involved there, too).
    And I guarantee that, when I turn 60, I look back on my 53rd birthday and wonder, “What the hell were you whining about, you big puss baby?”
    There will always be someone younger than you, so why worry?  Likewise, there will always be someone older than you.  Granted, the pool of available contestants shrinks the longer you stay in the game.  But, except for the “crapping in my pants” part at Golden Corral, I want to stick around for as long as I can before I'm spoken of in the past tense.
    After all, you’re only as old as you feel.
    And, right now, I feel like some birthday cake.
Probably not as cute, huh? 

ADDENDUM:  Both the National Aeronautics and Space Administration and I were launched in July, 1958.  Apparently, I’m going to outlive NASA.  So, I have that going for me.  Which is nice.  For me.  Not NASA.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

We Interrupt Our Program For a Brief Serious Moment

  I was looking at submitting some of my hideous scrawls to HubPages.  Apparently, they give you money (or puppies) every time someone clicks on your link (which sounds like a euphemism I kinda dig).
  Do any of you work with those people?  If so, do you think it would be a good way to go for me?  I'm not sure, but getting paid for this crap might not be a bad idea.  It'll help support my cocaine living expenses.
  I wouldn't leave Blogger and would save my best (?) stuff for you all.  I'm just curious.
  Anyway, mull it over and get back to me.
  We now return you to your regularly scheduled program....

Circumcision Supplies

Home Depot rocks!  They have everything! 

Thursday, July 7, 2011

I Do-La Fin

    The standard wedding rituals are kinda cool.  I’m kinda partial to the ole Fling the Garter shtick to a crowd of  single dudes who swarm all over a little bit of lace and elastic like seagulls on a box of french fries.
    Although I wonder what kind of message it sends that I enjoy pawing my wife’s leg in order to get a piece of her underwear just so I could toss it to a pack of liquored-up hyenas?
Yes. Dignified.
    Tossing of the Bridal Bouquet is much more dignified in that the ladies don’t dissolve into a rowdy scrum to grab hold of a handful of flowers.  At least here you don’t have to worry about the Flower Girl getting body-slammed into the cold cut table by a frenzied, middle-aged spinster.
"Hmm..hope I get the frick outta
here before 'Matlock' comes on."
    But, you still had to keep a good eye on Aunt May.  A little dodgy in her old age, she treated that bouquet like free lime jello at the La Ciruela Pasa retirement community.
    Truth be told, though, this is much more organized than anything the men do (a lesson which applies throughout most of life).  The bride actually uses a stand-in bouquet while she keeps the real one as a keepsake.
    One of the oddest customs is for the bride and groom to save the top layer of their cake.  Once home, this piece of sugary goodness will be placed in the freezer, to be consumed on the night of the first anniversary.
    Like all good newlyweds, we kept ours.  Although, to be honest, the following year, when we pulled out this mummified glob of brightly-colored frosting and insulation-like cake, we ditched it.  And instantly headed to Dairy Queen for a couple of blizzards.
    Thankfully, the festivities finally drew to a close and we prepared to make good our escape.  We said goodbye to close friends, assured out-of-town relatives we’d be sure to visit, and promised to pay the Ring Bearer's medical bills (who came real close to snagging that garter).
    Despite our best efforts for a speedy, incognito departure, the remaining guests gathered at the front door to bid us farewell.  We were actually touched that they thought enough of us to do so.  That is, until we learned that the bar had closed and they were heading out to the oceanfront.
"Before we go...has everyone peed?" 
    In a setting reminiscent of the that scene in the Wizard of Oz when the wizard stiffed Dorothy by flying off in his balloon, everyone began waving and wishing us well as we drove away in a rice-filled car festooned with streamers and empty beer cans on the bumper.
    Finally alone, we held each other’s hands as we began our lives together.  Sure, the day was hectic, fraught with frayed nerves and nagging unease over whether we made the right decision.
    Gazing into each other’s eyes, we knew we were meant to be together.  All the aggravations and petty annoyances were just that-petty.
    Bathed in the serene glow that comes only with true contentment, I eased our vehicle onto the interstate to whisk us away to a honeymoon lodge, whose location was known to no one save us (NOTE:  Of course, you know it as the “Land of Love” in the Poconos.  There were no dildos in the 1986 gift shop, though.  But, they did have Tampax.  Which we didn’t need.  Hubba, hubba).
    “We’ll be there soon.”  I cooed to my wife (wife!) as I coasted to a stop next to the toll booth.
    I removed my hand from hers for a brief second so that I could reach into my trouser pocket to fish out toll money.
    Reluctantly dropping my eyes from her beautiful face, I looked in my wallet.  Hmm, that’s odd.  I thought I had two one hundred dollar bills in there last night.... 
    Why do I only have two bucks in there now?
    That damn Denny’s!

    We now return 2011.  Please return your seats to the upright position, stow your tray tables, and button up your pants, for pity’s sake! 
    Whew!  That was a long one, wasn’t it (that’s what she said)?
    You’ll have to excuse me now.  It probably would be prudent to throw away any Super Glue in the house.  I don't want to take any chances once I fall asleep.
    Mrs. Penwasser just walked into the room.