Confessions of a Challenged Senior

I thought about the thirty-year business I ran with 1,800 employees, all without a Blackberry that played music, took videos and pictures, and communicated with Facebook and Twitter.
I signed up under duress for Twitter and Facebook, so my 7 kids, their spouses, 13 grandkids, and 2 great-grandkids could communicate with me in the modern way.
I figured I could handle something as simple as Twitter, with only 140 characters of space. That was before one of my grandkids hooked me up for Tweeter, Tweetree, Twirl, Twitterfon, Tweetie and Twittererific, Tweetdeck, Twitpix, and something that sends messages to my cell phone and every other program within the texting world.
My phone was beeping every three minutes with the details of everything except the bowel movements of the entire next generation.
I am not ready to live like this. I keep my cell phone in the garage in my golf bag.
The kids bought me a GPS for my last birthday because they said I get lost every now and then going over to the grocery store or library. I keep that in a box under my tool bench along with the Bluetooth (it’s red) phone I am supposed to use when I drive. I wore it once when I was standing in line at Barnes and Noble talking to my wife as everyone within fifty yards was glaring at me. It seems I have to take my hearing aid out to use it and I got a little loud.
I mean the GPS looked pretty smart on my dashboard, but the lady inside was the most annoying, rudest person I had run into in a long time. Every ten minutes, she would sarcastically say, “Re-calc-u-lating.” You would think that she could be nicer. It was like she could barely tolerate me. She would let go with a deep sigh and then tell me to make a “U-turn at the next light.” Then when I would make a right turn instead, it was not good.
When I get really lost now, I call my wife and tell her the name of the cross streets, and while she is starting to develop the same tone as Gypsy (the GPS lady), at least she loves me.
To be perfectly frank, I am still trying to learn how to use the cordless phones in our house. We have had them for four years, but I still haven’t figured out how I can lose three phones all at once and have to run around digging under chair cushions and checking bathrooms and the dirty laundry baskets when the phone rings.
The world is just getting too complex for me. They even mess me up every time I go to the grocery store. You’d think they could settle on something themselves, but asking “Paper or plastic?” every time I check out just knocks me for a loop. I bought some of those cloth reusable bags to avoid looking confused, but I never remember to take them in with me. Now I toss it back to them. When they ask me, “Paper or plastic?” I just say, “Doesn’t matter to me, I am bi-sacksual.” Then it’s their turn to stare at me with a blank look.

What Editors Adore
(Editor’s note: I did not write this. –Ed.)

Sung to: “My Favorite Things”

Commas with splices and run-ons to correct,
Long-winded sentences without a subject,
Paragraphs needing breaks, typos galore,
This is what editors simply adore.

Factual errors and incorrect verb tense,
Text incoherent and grammar imperfect,
References missing, structure that’s poor,
This is what editors simply adore.

Misspellings rampant and syntax that’s sloppy,
Plagiarized text that is an exact copy,
Fragments abundant, writing that’s a bore,
This is what editors simply adore.

When authors scream
When I correct
Words that don’t make sense,
I rewrite the hell out of the document
to eliminate all nonsense…

No Nursing Home for Us

No nursing home for us. We are checking into the Holiday Inn!
With the average cost for nursing-home care costing $188.00 per day, there is a better way when we get old and feeble. We have already checked on reservations at the Holiday Inn.
For a combined long-term-stay discount and senior discount, it’s $49.23 per night. That leaves $138.77 a day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner in any restaurant we want, or room service, laundry, gratuities, and special TV movies. Plus, they provide a swimming pool, a workout room, a lounge, washer-dryer, and more.
Most have free toothpaste and razors, and all have free shampoo and soap.
Five dollars’ worth of tips a day will have the entire staff scrambling to help you.
They treat you like a customer, not a patient.
There is a city bus stop out front, and seniors ride free. To meet other nice people, call a church bus on Sundays.
For a change of scenery, take the airport shuttle bus and eat at one of the nice restaurants there. While you’re at the airport, fly somewhere. Otherwise, the cash keeps building up.
It takes months to get into decent nursing homes. Holiday Inn will take your reservation today. And you are not stuck in one place forever—you can move from Inn to Inn, or even from city to city. Want to see Hawaii? They have a Holiday Inn there too.
TV broken? Light bulbs need changing? Need a mattress replaced? No problem. They fix everything, and apologize for the inconvenience.
The Inn has a night security person and daily room service. The maid checks to see if you are okay. If not, they will call an ambulance or the undertaker. If you fall and break a hip, Medicare will pay for the hip, and Holiday Inn will upgrade you to a suite for the rest of your life.
And no worries about visits from family. They will always be glad to find you, and probably check in for a short mini-vacation.
The grandkids can use the pool.
What more can you ask for?

There once was a poor leprechaun,
who wanted to go ‘cross the pond.
He rode the next rainbow
to grab hold of some gold—
and found he had just crossed the pond.
—The Limerichaun

There once was a man named Sam
who ate nothing but peas and ham.
When he didn’t have any
he stole more than a penny
and now he eats well on the lam.
—S. in PG

We watch basketball every March
salivating until we are parched.
We call it “March madness,”
but it is just sadness
to end on a word like “larch.”
—S. in PG again

An Irishman who had a little too much to drink was driving home from the city one night and, of course, was weaving all over the road.
The policeman pulled him over. “So,” said the cop to the driver, “where have ya been tonight?”
“Why, I’ve been to the pub, of course,” slurred the drunk.
“Well,” said the cop, “it looks like you’ve had quite a few to drink this evening.”
“I did all right,” the drunk said with a smile.
“Did you know,” said the cop, folding his arms across his chest, “that a few intersections back, your wife fell out of your car?”
“Thank heavens,” sighed the drunk. “For a minute there, I thought I’d gone deaf.”

*The Crown & Anchor Pub
(Franklin Street’s Favorite Pub)

Once again the Monterey Symphony has been gracious enough to give F.T. readers (because you can) tickets to their February concert (check out the full-page ad in this issue). All you have to do is be the 4th, 10th, 15th, or 20th person or reasonable facsimile to email us at tickets@foolishtimes.net. Here’s the hard part: Include your name and email address. We will notify the winners on February 15th by email and your tickets will be waiting at the box office.
One of the major TP companies is in for a lawsuit for stealing my idea and doing an over-or-under survey.
Finally, with all the business closings around here, not one has been a Foolish Times advertiser (you get all the credit).
Don’t Forget the Advertisers!

Greetings, faithful reader. This issue features the return of the Redneck Review (thanks to all the rednecks who have been inquiring about it) and a new column from one of our more recent discoveries, Deborah J. Rebolloso (“You’re Wearing THAT?”), also known as Deb Reb. Thanks to the Monterey Symphony for offering free tickets once again to Foolish Times readers. Just be the 4th, 10th, 15th, or 20th person to email us at tickets@foolishtimes.net. Include your name and email address and we’ll notify the winners on February 15th. Be sure to email soon—we quickly received more than a hundred entries for the December concert tickets. Finally, thanks to everyone who’s been submitting stories, pet photos, cartoons, limericks, and what-not. We were getting low in what-not and appreciate the infusion.

“The current Edward is a lanky dude with an attitude darker than my ex’s chest hair and a brow ridge that would dwarf a park pavilion.”

Furtive glances, brooding pouts, and cryptic comments, interfaced with fabulous tap dancing and glass-shattering vocals. Yes, kids, it’s a toothy parade of hungry, prowling adjectives describing “Twilight: The Musical.” Opening on Valentine’s Day in a cave near you.
Teen vampires are “in” now, a reminder that the family who preys together stays together. Like, for centuries. Hoping to rebuild your 401K? Consider investing in Gothic apparel futures.
When it comes to teenage vampires, anyone who’s willing to live forever as a 17-year-old has more guts than I do. Personally, the only thing I’d want from those days would be my eyesight. Okay, young knee and hip joints would also be peachy. And the skin tone. But the shallowness, insecurity, and self-absorption of that age? Nah. Fortunately, I’ve kept all that intact anyway.
But how accurate is the movie version of undead high-school hotties? Let’s poke around for a closer look. Originally, Twilight’s lead vampire was a pudgy kid in braces, named Spanky Larsen. But the producers cleverly changed the name to Edward Cullen because it rhymed with “bedhead” and “sullen.” The current Edward is a lanky dude with an attitude darker than my ex’s chest hair and a brow ridge that would dwarf a park pavilion.
So, what we might find inside Edward’s school locker? Hmm. Sunless tanning lotion, check. An orthodontic retainer and a smushed hunk of 18th-century birthday cake. Check. Ooh, and here’s a heart-shaped box of goodies for Bella, his main squeeze. But instead of lame-o chocolates, the shiny foil papers are packed with Coumadin blood thinner. That Ed, what a lovebunny.
Indeed, Ed’s true love and flavor of the month is Bella Swan, a morose chick whose name rolls off the tongue leaving an aftertaste of long-necked prey. In her locker are (1) a hoodie that reads, “Suppersize Me!”; (2) a meeting list from Codependents Anonymous; and (3) a dinner bell! OMG, Bella, Y R U a dinna bella 4 U fella?!?
Competing for Bella is Jacob, a werewolf who smells suspiciously like Rogaine. Now’s a good time to check out his locker while he’s in detention for marking territory in the lunchroom. Whooeee! That locker smells like wet dog! Lookee here, we find an expired rabies tag, chewed Frisbee, toy mailman and…what’s this? Eeeeeeeuuw…a pooper scooper!?! And these crumpled papers? One is a suspension notice for rolling on a decayed woodchuck before homeroom. The other is an invoice from “Critter Gitters” pest control. Seems our Jacob crept over to Bella’s house for midnight obedience training and got stuck in the pet door.
How come vampires and werewolves get all the good movie roles? To even things out, I’m producing a TV series about unpopular teen monsters. In one episode a young mummy named Pickles makes the swim team. Though he has a killer butterfly stroke, Pickles’ swim career unravels, so to speak, after he clogs the pool filter with ancient spices. In another show, he protests the school dress code by wearing his wrappings low and baggy, in hip-hop gangsta style. But a look inside Pickles’ locker shows a fastidious side, as evidenced by the steam iron, spray starch, and hemming tape.
I’ve also created a role for Frank Stein, a boy in ill-fitting blazers and high-water pants, with a really bad haircut. He’s rebellious and misunderstood by his parents, a plastic surgeon and a fashion designer. In chemistry class, Frankie bonds with Furina, a she-wolf who shares his terror of Bunsen burners. She lovingly reminds him to not pick at his stitches, and he French-braids her back hair.
As for the current stars of Twilight, how do their lives turn out? Well, Edward eventually dies of high cholesterol, the classic “steak in the heart” for a vampire. Jacob the wolf returns to the family cattle ranch and falls for their prize heifer. And Bella? She marries real-life Benjamin Button, thereby becoming (prepare to wince)…a Bella Button.
Copyright © 2010 by Mary Tompsett
***
Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated humorist who lives with her dog and cats on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Racine, Wisconsin). Her horse left the family for a more stable environment. Read more at www.marytompsett.com.

“Some of the techniques are ridiculously simple. Like going to a novelty store and purchasing cheap glitter to sprinkle in your hair.”

Let’s face it. We all want personal success. The top job.
Every greedy, lying, cheating, no-good, corporate bastard vice president or politician wants to move up. You know. The kind who would steal fifty dollars off their mother’s bureau drawer while her back was turned.
A person who would embezzle their own company. Or deceive Congress. Bah! Small potatoes.
What would you say if I could show you in my new CD software package how to reach the real top, the very top?
How to become God in five easy lessons. Yes, you heard right.
How to become God!
God!
I’ve made it easy for you on my new CD package. You can’t screw up because it’s all laid out in simple steps. With the right attitude, you too can be as much of a deity as you want.
First, I show you how to speak in a low voice that’s appropriately God-like. If God spoke in a high-pitched, shrill obbligato, like some frustrated, undersexed librarian, you think anybody would listen?
I show you how to emit words low from your diaphragm and how to make Biblical-like, ponderous statements that command respect, attention, and fear.
For example (say it in a low, booming voice): “It is for you, Jonathan, to begat more children to populate the earth. Begin with your voluptuous office assistant Raquel. The one from whom you sit across the table at sales meetings. The one whom in your mind you often dream about smiting, conquering in bed, but are too afraid to ask. Fear not! Begat! Begat! All you can.”
Some of the techniques are ridiculously simple. Like going to a novelty store and purchasing cheap glitter to sprinkle in your hair.
Want to put a nagging wife who doesn’t appreciate you in her place? You can do it with my new kit.
At first, she’ll doubt that you’re God, having lived with you for ten years. But after just ten days of putting my instruction into practice, she’ll plead for divine intervention of any kind. Sex. Chastisement. Waiting on you hand and foot. Talk about a life-affirming change.
Your abusive boss will be so terrified of you, he’ll beg you to take a raise in salary, and insist that you only come in to the office to pick up your checks.
Everything in my new kit has been tried out personally by me with success. For example, never let your spouse or co-workers see or know that you go to the bathroom. God does not poop.
Either hold it in, or do like I have, tell your wife you’re going to collect firewood, and go out into the woods and do it (take toilet paper). After only two weeks of seeing that you never go to the bathroom, people will come to accept that you’re God.
I also show you how to make seemingly accurate predictions of the future, that, like fortune-telling machines at the county fair, are sufficiently vague enough to never be wrong. Believe me, this is a real art form.
It’s all here for you. For just $79.95 you get the CD, instruction booklet, gold paint and glitter, plus a new addition. Twelve ways you can use your new “on-high” condition to defraud the government of state and federal taxes.
Copyright 2010 Sammonsays.com

“I spent most of my life Valentine-deficient, and wasted a good deal of brainpower wondering why.”

Throughout my life, Valentine’s Day has presented me a mixed bag of emotions. Secretly I always hoped for a mixed bag of jewels, but all that ever came my way was emotions.
I loved the notion of it: flowers, chocolates, champagne…tokens of affection from that adoring man. I hated my reality of it: silent telephones, non-existent dates, dinner alone. The closest I ever got to tokens was to pine for them year after year. For a time I wondered if I could make of go of pining as a recognized profession.
My high school “Valentine Carnations” fundraiser set the tone early on; I always hoped to get one from a secret admirer, but was lucky if even one of my girlfriends remembered me. I came to hate that day of the year, as I walked the halls from class to class with one sorry carnation, watching others struggle with their veritable bundles of stems.
Loved the notion; hated the reality. I think the official label for this is conflict.
I spent most of my life Valentine-deficient, and wasted a good deal of brainpower wondering why.
Rarely having a significant other could certainly explain the lack of token exchange; minimal dating makes for an empty mailbox. Over the years, a number of explanations for this were thrown my way. One or two were even solicited.
The High School Answer: “You’re too smart and grown-up for boys your age; they don’t mature emotionally as quickly as girls do.” I’ll take that; a girl has to love an answer that exonerates her completely.
The College Answer: “This is a huge university. It’s hard to meet people.” More exoneration, BUT, isn’t an abundance from which to choose supposed to improve my odds? Curse that logical mind of mine.
As time moved on but my love life stayed behind, I decided to cast aside exoneration and tried internalization: the answer to my query couldn’t lie in the entire male gender; it had to rest in me. The circle of self-doubt was exhaustive: my features, my figure, my personality, my style… some combination thereof just must be off.
The sages among us will recognize this as a complete exercise in futility, but for a good while, the emotional quicksand had the stronghold on me. The source of my epiphany I can’t recall, but at some point, I too became a sage and decided the self-doubt served no purpose, so I cast it aside as well.
Casting aside that self-doubt is undoubtedly one of the best things you can ever do for yourself. (Got that? Say it three times fast.) This is common knowledge after forty—The Coming of Sage—but a revelation prior to that milestone. I was ahead of my time; I caught on in my late twenties.
Hitting my stride career-wise did wonders for me. I believe there’s nothing like a little success for the body and soul. It makes one exude a quiet self-confidence and acceptance, and I don’t know that there’s anything more alluring—except maybe the bulky wallet that ideally goes with it.
Armed with this (the confidence—not the wallet), I suddenly found myself highly attractive to men—almost inexplicably so. If I had a “Babe Period” in my life, this was it.
And life was good, for I was seemingly without flaw to the opposite sex. I walked down the street and heads turned all over the place: cervical fractures, spinal subluxations, mass hysteria. I was even once referred to as “exquisite.”
Yes, exquisite; stifle the snickering. It was in Minneapolis, and I heard the man say it; not the result of brain freeze (for it was early summer) or heavy medication (for he was too young). “Exquisite” is hardly your plain ‘ol vanilla adjective, and when you’re its object of description, it makes for one of life’s lovelier moments. Still, admiration a la distance did not rustle me up any roses come that fateful February day.
It did, however, rustle me up a husband. Yes sir, before The Babe Period abandoned me, I came upon Mr. Right. Apparently finding love is like batting cleanup: you don’t have to hit .400; you just have to hit one out of the park.
Funny that I have no recollection of fine or distinctive Valentines from our courtship, though I do recall a great Godiva Easter basket. Given my fixation, you would think “stellar” in the Valentine department would have been a no-brainer pre-requisite for any suitor. Oh, well; ours was a whirlwind romance, and I must have been too overcome with the skyrockets to care.
Twenty years, a family, and the same man later, can you believe I still find myself wanting on Feb Fourteen?
It’s not that my husband is a non-romantic; point of fact, he’s a hopeless one. Now it would seem cash flow is my enemy. There’s always something better on which to spend the $$ than Valentine fluff. If he had his druthers, my hub would see to it I had that Tiffany’s blue and white with my coffee every morning. Yes, every morning. That would work for me; I can accessorize any limb, and there’s always the rotation factor.
With or without sparkly accompaniment, this is the gent who awakened me with Italian roast and Dove Promises bedside for years until he began the daily commute to NYC; he was going to continue it until I gently suggested that even caffeine and sugar lose their allure when served at 4:00 a.m.… even for me. Sentiment that deep is certainly something to be treasured, and it makes for a pretty nice 365/year Valentine. For the record, though, platinum will always be the perfect choice… and diamonds really are a girl’s best friend.
So back to my query: why did a reasonably intelligent and attractive woman—with pretty good legs, to boot—spend her single life pining for a Valentine?
There’s a mega-enigma, as I’ve now decided it requires an explanation of men. You see, I’ve circled back and found a whole new respect for personal exoneration. I’m not exactly sure I have the savvy for an explanation of men; I’m certain I don’t have the column space.
Actually, I don’t know that an explanation of men exists, and I’m talking throughout the Milky Way or any galaxy of your choice. I know; with a collective guffaw, they’re saying the same about women as I write, for herd mentality is perhaps their best event.
But this is MY story, so-o-o-o, I’m right and they’re wrong. It’s as simple as that. End of story. Defense rests. Verdict decreed. It is simply not possible to explain men.
Scary question for brilliant women everywhere: how can something so simple be impossible to explain??!!
I love the lot ‘o them—even if none of them ever did give me a Valentine.
* * *
Denise Aisling is an independent bond trader who enjoyed ice skating and golf until stricken with Forty-itis. Now she’s working on sainthood as a church choir member and grammar-school volunteer, but her application is still pending. You can contact her at denise.aisling@gmail.com.

Well, the truth is finally out. My life is of no interest to Oprah. I know this because I periodically check her website to see what types of guests and topics she’s looking for just in case I might be eligible to make an appearance. So far, not so good. Makes me feel like a pork chop at a vegan convention.
Here’s Oprah’s recent wish list for which I do not qualify:
1) “Do You Need to Lose 100 Pounds or More?” Nope. If I lost that much weight I’d pretty much disappear. I have my older brother, Robert, to thank for my staying slim all these years. When I was sixteen I begged him to snag me a date with one of his friends. He declined. When I asked him what I needed to do to get a guy to like me, he said this: “Well, Rosie, whatever you do, don’t get fat. Guys hate fat chicks!” That was it. Short and sweet, a message burned into my brain for all time. He now swears that he never said that, but I know what I heard, and it has scared me into slimness all these years.
2) “Do You Have an Embarrassing Medical Problem?” Oh, God. I hope not, and if I did, I sure as heck wouldn’t go on national TV to talk about it.
3) “Are You a Karaoke Queen?” I wouldn’t be caught dead in a Karaoke bar.
4) “Need Help Throwing a Dinner Party or Birthday Bash?” I’ve given exactly one birthday party in the past ten years—and that was hosted at a friend’s house. When Steve moved in ten years ago and needed an office, I relinquished my dining room.
5) “Calling all Overweight Moms!” As I said, I’m not overweight and I’ve never been a Mom—except to 35 homeless cats that I feed every day. Do you suppose I could interest Oprah in that?
6) “Does Your Mom Need a Makeover?” Probably not; she’s been dead for many years.
7) “Have You Ever Had Sex with a Family Member?” Not that I can remember.
7) “Are You the World’s Biggest Garage Sale Queen?” I would be if I had a garage to keep all my stuff in.
“Trying to Find Your Personal Style?” Found it already: t-shirts and sweat pants. Anybody got a problem with that?
9) “Aha Moment After the Whitney Interview?” Yeah, just say “no” to loser boyfriends and bad drugs. Ah, Whitney, Whitney, what were you thinking?
10) “Dating Disaster.” Now we’re talking my kind of show except that an hour is not nearly long enough, and I don’t think I’d like to have to admit my part in those disasters.
11) “Want to Know About Your DNA?” Not even. Everyone’s got a crazy Uncle Clyde, but the world doesn’t need to know that I might have been the recipient of some of his DNA.
12) “Do You Want to Break Up with Your Doctor?” I already did that two years ago after he had ignored my complaints of insomnia for five years; then I found out I had sleep apnea. Bye, bye.
13) “Have You Always Wanted a Breast Reduction?” Are you kidding?
14) “NY Area Only: Are you worried about your fingernails?” I don’t have that kind of time.
15) “Want to Know if Your Home Is Aging You?” No, because then I’d have to shoot it.
16) “Have a Unique Dance Routine to Teach Dr. Oz?” I can do a mean funky chicken, but I’m not sure that would play well on TV.
After reading Oprah’s wish list for prospective guests, I felt bad that I didn’t fit in. Apparently, I’ve missed out on many cultural boats. I’ve never been fat, never been married to a drug addict, never slept with a family member, not much of an exhibitionist.
I know this sounds pathetic, but the worst that can probably be said of me is that I have a mad crush on Mickey Rourke. So, when Oprah does a show on “Women Who Love Mickey Too Much,” I’m there.

***
Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

Valentine’s day is near,
it’s time to tell those who are dear
just how much we love them
there’s nothing above them
as shown by this cheap souvenir

The Super Bowl is a great game
though sometimes it can be quite lame
turn into a rout
a gigantic blowout
making everyone ask why they came

Groundhog Day tells us if winter
will end sooner or later
As decided by the sun
casting a wan
shadow over some little critter

—Foolish Times reader Bill S., who has some rhyming problems

I’ve gone bowling twice in the past week with my boyfriend, Jonathan. Neither of us had been bowling for thirty years, and it was long past time to give our abysmal heavy ball-rolling skills another shot.
When I was a teenager, I bowled frequently and miserably. The highest score I ever achieved was a 76—and that was my fifth game, at eleven years old. I was pretty proud of this, as my usual scores were in the 20-30 range, with much more frequent double gutter balls than strikes or spares.
The time I got that 76 score, I earned a reputation as “queen of the body fault,” meaning that I flung my body down the lane before releasing the ball, sometimes ending up face down in the alley. My ball often bounced haphazardly—and in that particular game it bounced three lanes down from the lane we were playing in, and miraculously slapped down every pin for my first-ever strike. Unfortunately, that strike was recorded on another player’s score card.
I tried to warn Jonathan that I was an absolutely awful bowler, but he insisted he was worse. He claimed his lifetime high score was 49. I found that hard to believe. I thought he was just trying to make me feel more comfortable about my ineptness so I’d fulfill his misguided urge to re-pursue bowling.
The first four frames, we both hit all double gutters. Our final scores were me: 39, him: 27. The second game we improved by nearly 25%: me: 48, him: 39. The teenagers in the next lane were laughing at us. We, however, were ecstatic over our rapid rate of improvement.
Four days later, we couldn’t wait to get back to the lanes. On that second bowling-go-round, we more than doubled our previous scores, and I beat my old record with a winning 90, while Jonathan scored a career-high 91 in our third game.
We were so elated by our accelerating bowling skills that we decided to play catch in our backyard when we got home, to work off some of our excess energy.
We tossed the baseball gently at first, but with each successful catch, we built up speed and distance. We were good, oh yeah, we were so good together! It grew dark, and I was no longer able to see the ball, being quite night blind. But still feeling zealous, I kept playing, using the sound rather than the sight of the ball to judge where to place my glove and get the catch.
That’s when it happened. The ball came at me so fast that it made a whirring sound on its approach. That’s when my eyeball reached out and caught it.
The dictum, “Keep your eye on the ball” took on a whole new meaning as I detached the baseball from my bloody eye socket.
Jonathan rushed toward me when he heard me scream. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” he said, tears coming to his eyes.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I replied, holding back tears myself. “I’m the one who had my glove in the wrong place. I should’ve had the sense to know not to play catch after dark.”
We hobbled inside, Jonathan guiding my wobbly legs, woozy stomach, and already swollen-shut black eye into the bathroom. He tended to my wounds, gently wiping the blood from my tear duct and eyebrow, and tenderly patting my swollen cheek with rubbing alcohol.
“Wanna play catch again tomorrow?” I asked, mustering a grin and a gleam in my remaining functional eye.
“Only if you promise to keep your eye on the ball, and not the ball on your eye,” he said. “Or maybe we could go bowling and try to break a hundred. But then, the way I bowl, I might end up taking out your other eye. And that’d be really poor form for a boyfriend,” he said. “I’d feel terrible if I blinded you bilaterally.”
“But it’d be great fun if we could both break a hundred some day,” I replied wistfully.
“That can wait for some day when you can see the bowling lane with intact depth perception and not one eye blind.”
“Okay,” I conceded. “Then let’s just make love tonight, quiet and gentle. That I can do blind.”` It was the first time I’d ever made love with an ice pack on my face. Technically, I think I would have qualified for the disabled list, but I felt like I’d scored well over a hundred—far surpassing my batting average.

“Holy crap!” The words slipped out of my mouth before I had time to think.
“Holy crap?” my wife repeated back to me. “That’s what you have to say about us having another baby?”
I couldn’t help it. It’s the only thing I could muster through the shock. My mind and body had suddenly gone completely numb. Under the circumstances, I think I was doing pretty well just to maintain consciousness. This was, after all, our third child and our little girl is still just a baby as far as I’m concerned. Taking care of two is enough of a challenge. Did we really need to stack the odds against us by having a third?
“Now babe, I don’t mean to seem unsupportive. I’m just trying to absorb what this means,” I replied sympathetically.
“I know. It’s a lot to take in for me too,” my wife said calmly.
“I mean, have you considered the fact that once the new baby arrives we’ll actually be outnumbered by our children?” I continued. “How long do you think it’ll take before Cody starts using that situation to his advantage? I’m afraid we may well have unknowingly sowed the seeds of an impending civil war.”
“Why must you exaggerate everything? Cody isn’t going to start anything with us. He’s going to be the best big brother ever,” my wife stated with a matter-of-fact tone in her voice.
“I have no doubt about that. But where you and I fit in the picture is still up for debate. At least we have a little time before his newfound infantry learns how to walk.”
“Yes. Thank heavens for that,” Shannon replied sarcastically. “I don’t know why you can’t drop the joking for even a minute. The pregnancy test is still in my hand, for goodness’ sake.”
“That reminds me. When I picked that up at the store for you today, I noticed the box indicated an effectiveness of over 99%,” I said inquisitively.
“That’s true, the home tests are extremely accurate nowadays,” she replied.
“Right. Then I noticed they were usually sold in packs of two. Kind of strange, don’t you think? If the manufacturer actually believes their own claim, less than one in a hundred women would need a second test. Unless, of course, the other one is included to give the mommy-to-be a head start on a new scrapbook. You didn’t happen to see any stickers fall out when you opened the box, did you?”
“You really can’t stop, can you? Just for a second I wish you’d be serious.”
The truth is, my baby factory of a wife was making a very good point. It appears there is actually a time when sarcasm may be inappropriate. Who knew? I was a word-wielding force of destruction upon learning about her first two pregnancies. But Shannon, for some reason, seemed more concerned about this one. So I backed off, at least for the moment.
“I’m just a little scared right now that’s all,” my wife said, revealing her feelings of vulnerability to me.
“I know, babe. It’s going to be an adjustment, that’s for sure. But you know, it does answer my question about what the future holds for the little tots.”
“It does?” she asked, somewhat confused.
“Sure. Think about it. We obviously have a trio of future Olympic medal winners on our hands,” I stated with the utmost confidence.
“Oh Lord, I’m afraid to ask. What on Earth do you mean by that?” Shannon said unenthusiastically.
“Let’s see. For all three babies I barely touched you. As a result, my success rate has to set some kind of record or something. That means my little swimmers must be simply amazing. Imagine what they can do when they get to the one hundred meter breaststroke!”
“Please stop talking now,” my wife said as she tried in vain to avoid my ridiculous explanation.
“Babe, you know how much Cody loves the water. I think we need to get them swimming lessons immediately. Though it looks like they don’t need any, just a few years of practice. Then it’s gold medal city, baby!”
“You are absolutely insane,” she said.
“You married me,” I replied.
“Don’t remind me,” Shannon shot back, ending our banter temporarily.
After I got the joking completely out of my system (it took a while), we settled into a nice embrace as we thought about having a new baby in our future. I’ll admit the idea is scary. There is no telling what’s in store for us around the bend. But that really isn’t much different from yesterday, is it?
So, we’re going to roll with the changes and provide the newest addition to the Basham clan with as much love and support as humanly possible. We have to do something to prevent him/her from joining Cody’s growing army of infants. He gets stronger every day. Heaven help us.
* * *
“Got a Minute?”
An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.
Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

Editor’s note: Because of Valentine’s Day, we’re rerunning this popular Rex story from a few years back.

“Rex, it’s time to think about a Valentine’s gift for Millie. She’s your main squeeze, so we have to get an appropriate gift for her. Last year’s Valentine was a dud, if you recall. We got her a cow bone to gnaw on, remember? Half a femur, I believe. She felt the ‘cow’ implication was a comment on her size. Females don’t like any gift with the word ‘cow’ involved, Rex. The fact that she’s an English sheepdog and is ‘big boned’ didn’t help, either.”
My canine companion sat next to me on the couch as our conversation progressed.
“I imagine clothing is a bad idea, too. Anything she could squeeze into would have to be a Large or XLarge, and you would just lose more yardage with that, as well.”
Rex looked as if he was pondering the possibilities, but in fact, he was probably wondering how long it was until dinnertime.
“Now Rex, I’ve had my share of Valentine’s with women over the years. It can be a treacherous slope, pal. I once bought a girl a book on Proper Tire Rotation and a set of crescent wrenches. She seemed ungrateful. I was hurt. One word led to another and before I knew it, she kicked me out of her trailer. Lived in my truck until I met Dakota. I wised up and got Dakota a matching can opener-toaster set. She LOVED it. She let me use them to make dinner for her every night I lived with her. Both nights. I guess she could only stand so much canned Dinty Moore Beef Stew and Pop Tarts.”
Rex seemed to take interest in this leg of my marathon, but I realized he was just stretching.
“See, the thing to remember Rex, is . . .” Rex had nodded off. A tactic he frequently uses as hint for me to shut up and feed him. I ignored him. “See, the thing you have to remember is to get a gift that truly reflects your feelings for Millie. Do you want a gift that says, ‘I will love your forever,’ or maybe something less committal, such as ‘Want to look for cat turds together?’ or maybe something more casual, such as, ‘Want to sniff each other’s butts?’”
Rex had rolled over onto his back, wagging his tail, indicating I should interrupt the riveting conversation and scratch his belly.
“No, Rex. Listen, we’ve got to get this Valentine’s thing off your To Do list and not wait until midnight of February 13th, like I did for my girlfriends. The good cards are gone by then. Once I had to alter the last card in the drugstore—a Get Well card—into a Valentine’s card. It was in Spanish, too.”
Rex had put his paws over his eyes—a feeble attempt to close me out of his world.
“Knock it off, Rex. We’ve got to get a gift for Millie. My God, she has everything a guy could want! Silky hair, bright eyes, pleasant disposition. Shoot, if she wasn’t a dog, I’d ask her out myself!”
Rex uncovered his eyes and stared at me. I think I had crossed a line with him I shouldn’t have.
“Well, you know. I was just speaking figuratively. Don’t get your hackles up. How about a nice dog tag? ‘With Love from Rex?’ ‘Rex and Millie Forever?’ ‘You’re a Fine Canine?’ Hmmm?”
Rex was hanging his head upside down over the edge of the couch. His chops hung open in total abandonment. He half-closed his eyes and was making choking noises.
“Forget it, Rex. I know you’re faking it. You’re not choking and I’m not going to give you the Heimlich maneuver like I did in the McDonald’s parking lot. Behave yourself. I’m trying to help you. Oh, forget it.”
I got up and left him to his silly diversions. He could get his own gift for Millie. I’ve got to hand it to him, though—at least he has a girlfriend. Me? Maybe next year.
* * *
Tom and / or Rex can be reached at burns100@earthlink.net.

“Jokes for the Grandkids”

Why did the boy study in an airplane?
He wanted a higher education!

What kind of hair does the ocean have?
Wavy!

What runs but never walks?
Water!

How do you make a milk shake?
Give it a good scare!

Why did the clock get sick?
It was run down!

Riddles

Test your brilliance. Answers follow below.

1. If a plane crashed on the border of England and Scotland, where would they bury the survivors?
2. You’re a bus driver. At the first stop, 4 people get on. At the second stop, 8 people on, at the third stop, 2 people get off and, at the fourth stop, everyone gets off. The question is, what color are the bus driver’s eyes?
3. What never gets any wetter, no matter how much it rains?
4. A man went outside in the pouring rain with no protection, but not a hair on his head got wet. How come?
5. David’s father has three sons: Snap, Crackle, and _____ ?
6. What has a mouth but doesn’t eat, a bank with no money, a bed but doesn’t sleep, and waves but has no hands?
7. A cowboy rode to an inn on Friday. He stayed two nights and left on Friday. How could that be?
8. If the red house is on the right side and the blue house is on the left side, where’s the white house?
ANSWERS
1. You don’t bury survivors.
2. The same as yours, you’re the bus driver.
3. The sea.
4. He was bald.
5. David.
6. A river.
7. His horse was called Friday.
8. Washington, D.C.

New Virus Alert!

It seems there’s a virus called the “Senile Virus” that even the most advanced programs of Norton and McAfee cannot take care of… so be warned! The virus appears to affect those who were born before 1960.
Symptoms of the Senile Virus:
Causes you to send the same e-mail twice.
Causes you to send blank e-mail.
Causes you to send e-mail to the wrong person.
Causes you to send e-mail back to the person who sent it to you.
Causes you to forget to attach attachments.
Causes you to hit “SEND” before you’ve finished the e-mail.
At least, I THINK that’s what they told me…

Oxymorons

1. Is it good if a vacuum really sucks?
2. Why is the third hand on the watch called the second hand?
3. If a word is misspelled in the dictionary, how would we ever know?
4. If Webster wrote the first dictionary, where did he find the words?
5. Why do we say something is out of whack? What is a whack?
6. Why do “slow down” and “slow up” mean the same thing?
7. Why do “fat chance” and “slim chance” mean the same thing?
8. Why do “tug” boats push their barges?
9. Why do we sing “Take me out to the ballgame” when we’re already there?
10. Why are they called “stands” when they’re made for sitting?
11. Why is it called “after dark” when it really is “after light”?
12. Doesn’t “expecting the unexpected” make the unexpected expected?
13. Why are a “wise man” and a “wise guy” opposites?
14. Why do “overlook” and “oversee” mean opposite things?
15. Why is “phonics” not spelled the way it sounds?
16. If work is so terrific, why do they have to pay you to do it?
17. If all the world’s a stage, where is the audience sitting?
18. If love is blind, why is lingerie so popular?
19. If you’re cross-eyed and have dyslexia, can you read all right?
20. Why is “bra” singular and “panties” plural?
21. Why do you press harder on the buttons of a remote control when you know the batteries are dead?
22. Why do we put suits in garment bags and garments in a suitcase?
23. How come “abbreviated” is such a long word?
24. Why do we wash bath towels? Aren’t we clean when we use them?
25. Christmas: What other time of the year do you sit in front of a dead tree and eat candy out of your socks?

Little Johnny’s chemistry teacher wanted to teach his class a lesson about the evils of liquor, so he set up an experiment that involved a glass of water, a glass of whiskey, and two worms.
“Now, class. Observe what happens to the two worms,” said the teacher, putting the first worm in the glass of water. The worm in the water moved about, twisting and seemingly unharmed.
He then dropped the second worm in the whiskey glass. It writhed in pain for a moment, then quickly sank to the bottom and died.
“Now, kids, what lesson can we derive from this experiment?” the teacher asked.
Little Johnny raised his hand and responded, “Drink whiskey and you won’t get worms!”

*The Crown & Anchor Pub
(Franklin Street’s Favorite Pub)

Having never kept an actual journal, Mollen writes these columns in retrospect. For each column, he chooses a different day in his lifetime, and writes about it as though it were today. A particular entry may be about a day last week, or Halloween 1980, or the day he was born. Some of you may be asking, “But how would he have been able to write a journal entry on the day he was born?” To you, Mollen says: “Lighten up. It’s a humor column.”

A Child’s View from the Pew
Journal entry: September 21, 1972 (age 3)

It’s Sunday again, and I know what that means. Mom is going to put me in a red plaid suit coat and a red velvet bowtie for church. I’m going to look like the world’s youngest used car salesman.
We go to St. John the Evangelist Catholic Church. The church is nice, and the priests and nuns are nice, but on Sunday mornings I’d rather be home getting my cathechism straight from the source—the animated TV show “Davey and Goliath.”
I find other ways to amuse myself in church. Mom and Dad keep telling me not to look around at the other churchgoers, but it’s hard not to. Everybody from my neighborhood is there, and they’re all wearing goofy clothes. Some of the women wear big, floppy hats. I don’t understand why they get to wear hats, but I can’t wear my Scooby-Doo Halloween mask.
For some reason, it’s OK to look at other people when they are on their way to or from Communion, so that’s when I get my people-watching in. Everyone looks so serious, like they are coming forward to receive a medal or something. Communion must be really good.
Speaking of Communion, last week I got to be in the line with everybody else. I was crying because my brother Dan wouldn’t stop looking at me. Plus, he kept putting his finger about an inch from my face and whispering, “I’m not touching you.”
To separate us, Mom carried me with her to get Communion. I got really excited when I saw that we were in the line that was receiving the sacrament from Father Queen. I had wanted to ask him an important question for a really long time, and when we got to the front of the line, I had my chance.
“Are you the Godfather?” I asked.
My mother gasped, and Father Queen looked blankly at me for a moment. Then he chuckled and said, “No, I’m not.” Back in our pew, I asked Mom why he had laughed at my question. Her face was still red, and she just shushed me. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable question to me. I had heard people talking about someone called “the Godfather,” and I figured he was probably one of the “Fathers” who lived at God’s house.
Today, I promised Mom and Dad I wouldn’t talk at all during Mass. I think I can do that. But I might not be able to keep from laughing at the end of Mass. Every week, the priest says, “This Mass has ended,” and the entire congregation says, “Thanks be to God.” It can’t be wrong to laugh at that. It’s meant to be funny, right?
* * *
Tim Mollen is a syndicated humor columnist. He is also fond of jam. You can contact him or read more of his work at www.timmollen.com.