My three-day bout with some sort of nasty bacillus-er-other has come to a close. Thank y’all for the many get-well wishes. What ever this thing or things was, presented a new symptom every day. I won’t go into the gory details, but to say, “For God’s sake, don’t Google your medical symptoms.” I did and it really messes with your head.
The body’s natural defenses have to get rid of all those nasty bugs so it’s natural that things smell differently at some point. I plugged in “odor” into Google and its handy “I’m guessing what you’re thinking based on things other people searched” feature filled out all sorts of weird guess. Just a side note, people who use Google, and that means everyone, are curiously dreadful people, including me.
After visiting a couple of the the top hits, I determined that I have one of the following:
Celiac Disease though I’ve never had it before and it’s a genetic disorder.
Advanced, Stage 3 liver cancer though you’d think I’d have noticed some other symptoms before now.
Any one of several heavy metal poisonings from eating large amounts of certain fish which I don’t eat.
Am possibly pregnant. Call the National Enquirer.
For now, I’m going with “it’s just my body getting rid of all the nastiness.” But all this got me thinking. It sure would be helpful if there were people out there who could make heads or tails out of all this mess. Sure, it might take a little more college to learn this stuff, possibly four years or more. In the end, these people would be able to help us figure out what’s ailing us and maybe even help us get well. They could even dress up in funny costumes like white coats and whatnot. Yeah, probably a pipe dream. Besides, when you’re sick, you don’t feel like getting out to see people anyway.
So kids, learn from my mistakes and stay off the Google for medical advice. If you believe everything you read on the internet, you’ll be doing surgery on yourself with a power drill and Swiss Army knife in your garage out of the fear that some ganglionic mass has taken over your pituitary gland. All because WebMD said you may have Nakajo syndrome. Well House, if you do have Nakajo syndrome, your parents were siblings and no amount of warnings will dissuade you from your self-surgery.
As for the rest of you, be well.
Oh, and if your armpits smell like tacos, the cure for that is “take a shower.” That’s a freebie from me to you.
Last night, my wife breezed through the living room asking for something. I wasn’t really clear what it was. She has a tendency to start our conversations before she enters the room and finish them from the kitchen, usually all while I’m either writing, proofing (ha), or intensely playing poker. Normally, I hear, “Blah…Blah…So don’t forget to buy that.” Huh? What am I supposed to buy?
It turned out to be the September edition of National Geographic. Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. Where did that come from? But being the good and faithful husband I am, I stopped by Books-a-Million while out-and-about today and grabbed the September Nat. Geo. for her.
The woman ahead of me at the cash register was buying something from the tree-killing Twilight series, but the best part of her transaction was the gushing coming from behind the counter. This kid was way, way, way too into Twilight. Then he got all forlorn and misty when he said, “I probably won’t get to see the new movie since I’m going off to basic in October.”
As some of you know, I grew up Army. I have the greatest respect for our men and women in uniform. I wanted to give this kid some encouragement. I wanted to tell him I was proud of his sacrifice. I wanted to give him some sage wisdom to carry with him, maybe even onto some foreign shore some day. Something that might save his life. I wanted to, but this is what came out of my mouth:
“Kid, I want to give you some advice for boot camp. Keep that thing about liking the sparkly vampires under your hat. Trust me on this one. You’ll have a much better relationship with your drill sergeant if you just don’t bring it up. Just keep that to yourself, unless you want a nickname you’ll never shake.” He agreed that was probably the best course of action.
I hope that young lad starts the new phase of his life a bit wiser for meeting me. I hope one day he thinks back on a random meeting with a stranger in a book shop and thinks, “That guy really changed my life. In fact, he saved my life.”
I hope my words prevent him from letting it slip over evening chow in the mess one night, just how great he thinks Twilight is. I’ve got to tell you, once everyone in basic training knows you like sparkly vampires, you’re going to get the sparkly-vampire crap knocked out of you for the next six weeks.
And you’ll never shake the nickname, “Sparkles” or “Twilight Toes”. That crap will haunt you forever. No one ever wants to be in the thick of a fire-fight and hear, “Get Sparkles on the radio! We need fast movers!” or “Lay down some Willy Peter, Twilight Toes! We need smoke!”
So I think I did him some good. I may have save a whole platoon of men. You never know just what effect a butterfly’s wings will have.
Oh, and Nat. Geo.? Totally worth a peek this month.
My wife is a believer in dreams. I don’t mean she has lofty aspirations or inspirational goals. I’m talking about the fuzzy images her brain generates while she is asleep. Many the morning I’ve awakened to cold, peering eyes watching me from her side of the bed. Those are the mornings when I know, some how, some way, I’ve been up to no good in her dreams … and I’m about to hear about it.
A common scenario involves her dreaming that we are both back in high school, wherein my dreamy doppelganger is ignoring her and is putting the teenage moves on some other girl. On those mornings, my coffee is less tasty while I hear about what a cad I am … er … was in high school. Not the high school of 30 years ago, but the high school of 30 minutes ago when she was dreaming. It’s all very confusing for me.
I only know one thing. At some point during my shower that morning, the water will suddenly burst forth in a jet of steam when my wife exacts her revenge by flushing the toilet for no other reason than to scald me … er … my dream self … er … but my flesh self still has first-degree burns. It’s all very confusing for me.
My sly male brain concocted a plan. I would tell her I had a dream. Her strong belief in the validity of dreams would compel her to follow up on my dream. It was a perfect plan, until I put it into action.
I set it up one morning with, “G’morning, Dear Heart. I love you. Wow! I had a dream last night.” Step one. Interest piqued.
“What did you dream?” Her reply fell right into my trap.
“It was a wild sex dream.” Bait dangled. Of course, she must know if she was part of my dream.
“Was I in it?” Bait taken. Now to snuggle up close and seal the deal.
“Of course sweetheart. Who else would be in my sex dreams but you?” Get ready to call work and tell them I’ll be late…
“That counts then. We’re good for another week.” Damn you, twisting female logic! At least I could take my shower as cold as necessary after my failed plan.
Today’s lesson: reach for your dreams with an open hand in case you have to pimp slap a brother on the way.
Was down in the back yesterday? Naw. No one cares about a old, broken man’s lumbago.
Buttheads in Berkeley, CA banning the Marine recruiters? Naw. You heard that on the vast-right-wing-conspiracy, radio talk-shows.
My trip to the drug store? Naw. It was funny when I convinced the young lad at the register to card the lady behind me for her cans of Chef Boyardee. That laugh got me all the way to the car and I’ll get more mileage out of it at work tomorrow when I see my victim, Jill.
No. Today I think I will blog about the first time I saw my name in print. Yep. I’m “published,” as they say. Okay, it was only my name in the liner notes of a CD, but still, I couldn’t wait to show anyone who would look. Here’s the long and sordid tale.
In March 2007, it received and advance copy of Chris Berry and the Retrofitter’s Emerald River Project. Chris had approached me for a review and, never one to pass up free music, I gladly accepted. It turn out much better than the time I agreed to review Tubesock and the Magnificent Brass Band Rejects. Chris’ album was full of bluesy tracks with Western spices dashed in for a kick. The details are all in the original review. It’s a damn fine read, if I do say so myself.
Due to the aforementioned back problems, I didn’t waddle my fat ass to the mail box yesterday. As I pulled out for work this morning, I snagged a fat hand full of fliers, coupons, bills, and one fat, bubble-pack of blues. Chris had mailed the polished copy of the Emerald River Project with a message, “Read the liner notes.” There he thanks:
His lovely wife (Total assumption on my part. She may be a complete tramp if track 8 is auto-biographical.)
Some chick in Nebraska who is president of the band’s fan club. (Probably also a total tramp. You know how groupies are.)
A brilliant, insightful writer who loves music and reviewed the pre-release back in March.
There it was. My name as third banana in the “thank-yous” of the liner notes of a CD which you may or may not find in stores, but can always order directly from the artist by emailing chrisberryandtheretrofitters@hotmail.com. That started my day out perfectly. Nothing could touch me after that. I was bullet-proof. Twelve cups of coffee and five stupid users later, I was still smiling. Damn decent fellow that Berry.
Those are good, but, aren’t even the very best tracks. So order the CD by dropping an email to chrisberryandtheretrofitters@hotmail.com. I get no cut of the profits. In fact, all proceeds go to…um…saving babies…er…baby seals…yeah, that’s the ticket. Urban legends have it, every time you don’t buy a CD, a baby seal is clubbed to death. I don’t know if that’s true, but I have my copy and my conscience is clear.
I’ve been itching to start a place where comedy lives. A place where writers and comedians can share their experiences with the art and science of humor. I took the big plunge and started a social-disease-networking site at Ning, ironically named AmishOnLine.
If you’re an established or budding humorist, satirist, comedian, cartoonist, or just slightly off-kilter, I encourage you to join. We’ll laugh, maybe at you or just near you, I don’t know which. It’s hard to tell who is pointing and giggling online.
Just follow the link and tell us a little about yourself. It’s brand-freaking new, so there’s not much there, but the upside is, as an inaugural member, you can help shape the site. Brothers and Sisters, I urge you to join the modern movement that is AmishOnLine.
I’ve been asked a few times this week, possibly because of this suicidal rant, “Are you like this in real life?” I translate this question as, “Do you have no shame? Do you just say whatever pops into your head out loud? Would you say these things to someone standing in front of you?” I’ll answer this with a true-life account.
Exactly two Thanksgivings ago, the following transpired. No names have been change because I am the only guilty party.
November in Alabama isn’t known for its cold weather. This particular Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving was no exception. It was tolerable. Long sleeves were appropriate for dress. Short sleeves if you were exerting any energy. My new neighbors were expending their energies.
This young couple only knew me as the helpful guy who owned the house next to the one they purchased 2 months ago. He and I had talked, but she and I had only waved. This left her unprepared for that Wednesday when I returned from work to find her holding a ladder and him stringing Christmas lights on their virgin home.
I whipped into my driveway, slammed my car door loudly, checked my mail loudly and marched single-mindedly down the sidewalk and up their driveway to announce loudly, “Hi! I’m not only your neighbor, but I’m also with the Neighborhood Watch Committee. I MUST inform you, the rules of the neighborhood FORBID the hanging of Christmas lights before Thanksgiving. I know y’all are new, but I must INSIST you take these lights down. I’m happy to help you take this all down, if necessary.”
Her protest began immediately. “Are you serious?”
“Yes’um. The neighborhood rules are quite firm on this,” I deadpanned.
“But we’re going out of town tomorrow to spend Thanksgiving with my parents. We won’t be back until Monday and we just wanted to decorate before we left.” Her husband was sliding down-ladder like a sailor onboard a ship. His motion was an involuntary, instinctual movement brought on by stifled laughter.
“Honey, I think he’s kidding,” he said trying to hang on to his hammer.
“No. This is a serious offense. We can’t let the neighborhood get out of control,” I said as he and I exchanged glances.
Her confused and questioning eyes darted between her husband and her new, obnoxious neighbor about half-a-dozen times before we men could not contain our smiles any longer.
In answer to the question, yes, I’m just like that in real life. I take every opportunity to laugh, love and enjoy life. I believe I could make chocolate out of mud, if I gave it a good effort.
Email is the blessing and bane of daily life. Get too much and you can’t get any real work done because you are just replying to emails. Get none and you start wondering if the pink slip is the next message you will receive. When emails start to drive you mad, take your revenge creatively with these suggestions.
Fun with acronyms
Every industry or company has their own language. One of the unfortunate side effects of jargon is that common phrases turn into acronyms. Honestly, most people in the company have no idea what 99% of the acronyms represent. So make some up and put them in the signature of your emails.
I once managed a mailing list of about 300 people that used a particular computer system. Monthly or weekly communications were my responsibility and I would sign every email with “MOBTAS LOAIS” under my name. After 18 months and hundreds of emails, only one lady ever asked me what the acronym meant. Everyone else either ignored it, thought it was some project code, or was too proud to admit they didn’t know. The lady that finally called me on it had a good laugh when I told her it stood for “Master of Both Time and Space. Lord of all I Survey.”
Be creative, but not crude with your acronyms. A wonderful alternative to this is to remove all vowels from your emails completely. Oddly, they remain readable.
Fun with Languages
Use a free on-line translation service like BabelFish or FreeTranslation to translate your text into a foreign language. I like to use Dutch or Norwegian. Don’t use Spanish or French since everyone learned a little of those in high school. Non-Latin alphabet languages don’t work well for this game. You might try sending one to yourself just to check the font.
When the bewildered response comes, translate your reply again. When you finally get the inevitable phone call from the befuddle recipient, insist that you are sending plain English and the problem must be on their end. Tell them to check their software settings. Recommend they uninstall and reinstall their software or operating system. Be adamant that they must have some strange font installed on their computer. When they say, “But it only happens to your emails,” tell them it must be a virus that soon will spread to other emails. Convince them to unplug from the network until help arrives.
Fun with Sound
Record yourself reading the email text and attach the sound file to the email. This is actually a really helpful tip if the recipient is blind, but it’s fun for the sighted, too. Where does the really fun part come in? Record something other than the email text and attach it.
Imagine an email with very dry, technical, run-of-the-mill facts in the text with a recording of Robert Frost’s “Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening” attached. You might even attach a paranoid, lunatic rant, including Biblical prophetic citations of the end of the world, about how your dog is stealing your girlfriend and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police are tunneling under your house every morning at 3 o’clock.
It really confuses them if you sent a few recordings that match the text and then suddenly attach a recording of Hamlet’s soliloquy to your monthly report. Pairing “fourth quarter sales are up 8%” with a recording of your best falsetto Lady Macbeth’s “out, out damned spot” speech is always a boardroom winner.
Fun with Legalities
Sign all your emails with a paragraph of legal jargon in 4 point type. Make it light gray to make it even more unreadable. You can reproduce a product warning label or use a software programs “terms of use” text as the source.
I get emails every once in a while with “if you are not the intended recipient…” under the sender’s signature. If I’m not, you shouldn’t have sent it to me. Be more creative than that guy. Make your “terms of use” say
By reading this email you acknowledge from henceforth and in perpetuity to:
Wash the sender’s car on alternate odd Saturdays.
Profess to the world on every Federal holiday, the sender’s genius.
Love the sender’s dog even when he has the mange.
Refer to the sender as “Loretta” on Wednesdays
Call random recipients up four weeks in the future and ask them when they are coming over to wash your car. Threaten them with breach of contract if they don’t show up by 5PM, Greenwich Mean Time.
One word of caution if you follow through with these ideas, keep your resume up to date. I can’t be held accountable for your insanity. We all have to find our own, personal madness and make it work.
Having just come off my Columbus Day blockbuster (and by blockbuster I mean AC paid me a couple of bucks for it), I got to looking at some of my older articles with holiday themes for the up-coming season. Here’s what I found, dusted off, and present for your strong disapproval.
Top Ten Gift Ideas for Zombies >> This could work for Halloween or as a guide for Christmas shopping.You know they are coming back…for the holidays. You don’t want to donate your brain, so buy them this!
Anti-Psychic for Hire >> A fun Halloween romp. Learn my dirty secret and how I started a lucrative business. Are you haunted by ghosts? Does unexplainable fear run your life? Are supernatural powers out to get you? Hire the Anti-Psychic today and reclaim your life if not your sofa.
A Handy Guide to Surviving Thanksgiving >> Thanksgiving can be exhausting, but these tips will get you through the day, especially if family is coming. Memories, food, and fuzzy memories await.
New Christmas Songs >> Tired of singing the same old Christmas carols? I’ve rewritten some of the old standbys with new lyrics in the spirit of Christmas, joy, love and in memory of Tom Cruise (inarguably the worst actor ever and a man who supplies endless fodder for ridicule).
Holiday Shopping Hints or How to Serve Your Country >> These are simple rules to make your holiday shopping experience better. Learn why everyone should be compelled to serve their country either in the military, the Peace Core, or behind the retail counter at least once in their life. You’ll learn so much about yourself.
And just for some non-comic relief:
When Veteran’s Day is Personal >> Soldiers are a breed apart. We would not enjoy our freedoms without their sacrifices. One day of remembrance each year is not enough. I remember my soldier 365 days a year. Here is why. Nothing humorous to read here. But since Veteran’s Day is also coming up, I thought it proper to include my very personal ode to Dad.
I laughed myself silly at this. Not far to go, I know.
Ventriloquist aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, but this twist had me crying with laughter. Paul Zerdin brings a volunteer on stage, outfits him with a remote-controlled mouth and has his way with the subject. The outstanding part is how well this guy plays along. He does a great job anticipating Zerdin’s quips. The “dummy” in this routine deserves a contract of his own. Notice the “sexy” wave. Then notice the dance moves that don’t happen.
Sorry about the sound quality. You have to turn up the volume and the laughter gets loud, but you’ll be laughing along with it, so enjoy.
Become the Scourge of the Neighborhood in 3 Seasons
I tried turning on the flood lights at 9pm and working under their soft glow. Someone once told me “Gardening at night is never work.” My neighbor told me, “If you do that again, I’m calling the cops.” Don’t worry. He’ll find a pine cone in his yappy dogs butt next weekend. >>read the rest. it’s the best >>
Like mom's fridge 
