Mother Nature's Sense of Humor

Over the years, it has come to my attention that Mother Nature has a sense of, a wicked sense of humor, and one of her favorite targets for a joke is the human body, especially body hair.

Young men, especially teenagers, look upon body hair as a sign of their manhood--the hairier one is the more machismo one has. But does Ma Nature care about the fragile psyche of the male teen? Only to the degree of what kind of jokes she can play on him.

For instance, while attending Jr. High School (7th-9th grades), I knew guys who could grow full beards--the rest of us were seniors in high school before we could grow a mustache and even then it was “baseball” mustache, 9 on each side.

Those guys not only had a thick head of hair, but they also had enough chest hair to make a woman’s wig. Shoot, by the time I had any chest hair I was crowding age 40, fighting my own personal Battle of the Bulge, was a veteran of 17 years of marriage, and had 3 sons. What the heck good did it do me then? But I diverge.

Anyway, the girls flocked to those guys as if they were Chip and Dale dancers. So what cruel little joke did Mom Nature play on them? Well, by the time these guys were seniors in high school, when the rest of us male students (and a few of the girls) could barely sprout the pitiful beginnings of a mustache, the hairy apes of our school were going bald, and it shook their manhood to the core.

It was a pathetic sight to walk into the men’s lavatory at my high school and see guys, who once were the epitome of manhood, sobbing as they looked in the mirror at their rapidly thinning hair.

While we’re on the subject of body hair, when I was a cocky, know-it-all teen, I used to laugh at men with nose hair. I thought they belonged in the freak tent of a carnival between the bearded woman and the snake man.

Well, Mother Nature played another cruel trick on me. That’s right, you’ve guessed it. I now trim my nose hairs every three or four days (it beats braiding them) so cocky, know-it-all teenagers don’t laugh at me, thinking I belong in the freak tent of carnival.

Oh, and let’s not forget the eyebrows. Call it karma, Mother Nature’s wicked sense of humor, what ever you want, but I’m now paying for all those years I made rude comments about old men’s bushy eyebrows. You know the comments: “Man, are there any birds nesting in those brows?” or “Hey, have you seen my dog? Last week he chased a squirrel into your eyebrows and I haven’t seen him since!”

Well, not only am I trimming the length of my eyebrows so as not to look like sheep dog, but every three to four days I have to shave my UNIBROW! Oh how we pay for our past misdeeds.

Mother Nature demonstrates her sick sense of humor in other ways as well. I used to be under the false impression that when one reaches adulthood one quits growing, WRONG! Only parts of the human body quit growing. Some never quit growing until the day we die.

You see, I’ve come to believe that our feet continue to grow even after we’ve reached adulthood—either that or shoe manufacturers have changed the sizing of shoes. I swear, in two years my feet have grown two shoe sizes. I’m not complaining mind you. This has allowed me to catch up to the size of my oldest son’s feet. I just wonder what size of shoe I’ll be wearing when I die, will my feet reach size 30? Heck, why stop there? Why not a size 50? At least it would insure me a place in the freak tent at the carnival (I really have a fear of freak tents, don’t I?) or a spot in a Ripley’s Believe It Or Not building.

And speaking of body parts that keep growing, it wasn’t that long ago that I was a thin as a blade of grass. I’m talking a 28 inch waist at age 32. I could eat as much of anything my little heart desired and I would never put on weight. But now, though Momma Nature has seen fit to curve my body’s ability to burn calories and fat, she hasn’t seen fit to curve my appetite. Now, I ask you is that cruel or what?

Yes, Mother Nature has a warped sense of humor, and if I haven’t convinced you of that yet just wait, because another part of the body that continues to grow until you die is your ears. The older you get the bigger they’ll be, better get used to the nickname Dumbo.

Looks Can Be Deceiving

It’s been said that looks can be deceiving. Uncle Billy Roy Silas learned this lesson one Thanksgiving, long ago.

Uncle Billy and his fiancé Betsy Ann, were married two days before the Thanksgiving holiday in 1931. Because of the great depression, they couldn’t afford a honeymoon. Since neither of them had family close enough to visit, they thought it would be nice to invite some of Billy’s co-workers and friends over for Thanksgiving dinner.

“Y’all just wait,” Uncle Billy told his buddies. “Why Betsy Ann is the finest cook this side of Dixon County. My mouth’s just a waterin’ thinkin’ about all the good food we’re gonna eat.”

Billy Roy knew what he was talking about too. Before they were married, he’d hop the train on the weekends and endure the two and a half hour ride to Hawk Hollow just to visit Betsy and her family. While he was there, Aunty Betsy did all the cooking for the clan to try and impress Billy. It must have worked for within three weeks after his first visit they were engaged and two and a half weeks later, they were married. Yip, ole Billy loved to eat, and Miss Betsy and her momma cleverly lured him into wedded bliss through platefuls of collards and greens, fried chicken, fat back, grits, cakes, etc. The only thing that puzzled Billy Roy was that Betsy’s momma seemed to disappear shortly after he arrived and said his hellos, and she didn’t return until dinner was about to be served. Other than that she was very friendly toward him but it left him wondering if he met with her approval.

Like I mentioned earlier, Uncle Billy and Aunt Betsy were married just a couple of days before the Thanksgiving holiday, and luckily, they had received a lot of food stuffs from their families to help them get their new life started. So, Betsy really didn’t have to do much cooking those first few days of marriage, and she could concentrate on preparing a nice holiday dinner for her new husband and their guests.

Company began arriving at 11 a.m. that Thanksgiving morning. Betsy Ann was fluttering around the kitchen and dining area putting the finishing touches on the much bragged about dinner; she wanted everything to be just perfect for the gala event.

On the table was a nicely sliced, buttered golden-brown turkey, a two layered cake, apple turnovers, cranberry sauce, dressing, and many of the other standard eats for the occasion. After they all sat to the table and grace was said over the meal, the food was passed around.

It was about halfway through dinner when in mid conversation, Uncle Billy began acting strange. “You know yesterday …ack, cough, gasp!” Billy grabbed his throat with one hand while frantically sticking the index finger of his other hand deep into his throat. At first, the group thought Billy Roy was clowning around, but by the time his complexion turned from pink to purple, they realized this was no joke. Everyone jumped from their chairs and rushed over to help Billy open his airway, but before they could all get their fingers down his throat, Uncle Billy had dislodged the blockage.

You see, back in those days, before you cooked a turkey, you used twine to tie its legs together. Evidently, Aunt Betsy forgot to untie the legs before she sliced and served the bird, and Uncle Billy learned of her mistake the hard way by swallowing the twine, which caught on his tongue and cut off his airway.

With the near fatal accident behind them, dinner resumed. When it came time to eat the enormous turnovers, Billy couldn’t resist bragging about his wife’s cooking one more time. “Wow!” Look at the size of them thangs, would ya fellers?”

“Yeah boy,” responded Billy’s best friend John Robert, “and from what you be a sayin’, Billy Roy, I’ll bet they taste as good as they look.” And with that, John stuck a fork into the one Betsy had just served him. Poof, the turn over deflated—it was all air.

A little red faced, Uncle Billy tried to salvage some pride by quickly serving the cake. He grabbed a knife to begin slicing the chocolate delight. The knife sailed through the first layer of cake just fine. But when the knife hit the second layer, it would go no further. Cut as he might, all Billy could do was smash the bottom half of the cake with the knife. “What the heck?!” For the life of him, Billy couldn’t figure out why that silly knife wouldn’t slice that bottom layer of cake.

It was about that time when Betsy hollered from the kitchen, “Hey Billy, have you seen two brown and white hot pads? I can’t find them anywhere!”

Mumbling some indistinguishable words, Uncle Billy tore into the cake with his hands. Yip, Aunt Betsy had somehow left the hot pads between the two layers of cake.

Billy went to bed that night mystified at the change in his bride’s cooking. It makes you wonder where Betsy’s momma quietly slipped off to those weekends long ago when Billy Ray came a courtin’, doesn’t it?

Cheap Entertainment

If you were to ask, most people would agree that uninvited sales calls should be a federal offense, the penalty for which would be listening to rap music for 36 hours straight at a volume that would make the noise from a shuttle launch sound like a Lawrence Welk concert.

Now, I know we have the “no call” list and in my opinion it’s one of the greatest things government has done since raising the speed limit back to 70 mph on the interstate.

But where’s the fun in being on that list? Besides, being the sneaky little boogers that they are, “cold” callers continue to find ways around the law: “survey” calls—they tell you they’re taking a survey, which somehow mysteriously winds up being a sales call by the end of the survey; the “This is so and so with such and such company, returning your call (of course, you’ve never heard of the company let alone called them),” or they call you on your cell phone, which evidently isn’t covered under the “no call” list.

But I have an amusing way of striking back that can provide many a fun filled minute of entertainment. I call it my annoy the annoyer strategy, and it’s so much fun because for them time is money--the faster make a sell the more money they make per hour, and wasting time on a call that’s going know where is like digging a dry well, it’s nonproductive. Think about the following scenario for a minute and I’m sure you’ll get my drift.

You’re dozing away in bed, in the middle of one of the best dreams you’ve had in a long time, when suddenly you’re rudely jolted awake by the ringing of your phone.

It’s a sales call, and 0nce you finally get the guy’s name and the company he represents out of him, do what I do.

“Hello,” I say in a tone of voice that gives the caller more than a hint that he’d just awakened me from a deep sleep.

“Hi Doug [don’t you hate it when they call you by your first name, as if you’re life-long buds. It makes me want to stuff mini-Tootsie Rolls up his nose]. “How ya doing this morning?”

“Uh. . .”

“This is Phil Potlicker with the ALMOST A DISASTER HOME IMPROVEMENT STORE. The reason I’m calling is we’re offering 20% off all of our products this month to all homeowners because we care.”

“Yeah, that’s nice. I don’t need anything right now. . .”

“Are ya sure? We’ve got. . .”

“Say, you ought to call my uncle Tuck. Really his name is Tucson, but we call him Tuc for short.”
“Good for him.”

“Yeah, actually he’s owned several homes, all on the same lot, what with the fire, the tornado, the floods and all.”

“Hmmm. That’s interesting. But what I need to know is do you. . .”

“Say, you don’t sell insurance too do ya? Uncle Tuck could sure use some. His last insurance company dropped him. They told him. . .”

“Well, that’s all very interesting, but the reason for my call is to. . .”

“You know, you really should contact my uncle. After hurricane Happy Bottom, I mean Gladys—little family joke there—he needs all the home improvement stuff you have.”

“Uh, huh.”

“Of course, you’ll have to wait ‘til he’s allowed to leave the asylum. Poor guy, the last disaster just broke his spirit all to pieces.”

Click!

Works like a charm.

Yes, sales calls are annoying, and they seem to always come at the most inconvenient time (as if there’s ever a convenient time for them to come), when you’re sleeping, reading, half way out the door and running late, hovered over the commode regurgitating breakfast due to the flu, or when you’re about to use the bathroom because your bladder is so full your back teeth are floating. And I’ll admit I’ve been tempted to put my name on the “no call” list like so many people have done, but that’s like taking Beano before participating in a chili eating contest. It takes the fun out of the whole experience, and hey, a guy’s got to have a little entertainment now and then, doesn’t he?

Bumper Stickers and Personalized Plates

Bumper stickers and personalized license plates (or tags as we call them out here) are fun to read. You can also learn lot about people by what their bumper stickers and personalized tags say.

I once saw a personalized tag that read, Pray4U. The first thought that came to my mind was, is this a warning about the guy’s driving ability? I mean, is he such a lousy driver that even he prays for the safety of others? Let me give you a free piece of advice. If you see a car with Pray4U on its tag, GET OUT OF THE WAY!

And speaking of religious statements on vehicles, I also saw a tag that read, I Pray. Isn’t that nice? I just hope the driver of that car doesn’t close his eyes while praying and driving at the same time. Although from the erratic way he was driving I suspect that's exactly what he was doing.

Then there’s the tag on a truck that simply says, Booger. Do you suppose the idea for that came from a bad habit the driver never broke? I know, I shouldn’t pick on the guy, so let’s move on.

Reading bumper stickers can also provide much amusement. There’s the bumper sticker that reads, Honk If You Love Jesus. Someone honked. The honkee gave the honker the one-finger Florida Howdy, or as we lovingly refer to it, the state bird. And isn’t that how it usually goes? Those who displayed their religion on their cars are usually the rudest people on the road.

Another bumper sticker I saw on a car read, Our Other Car Is A Rolls Royce. Liars, liars, liars, the car was beat up, its bumpers were tied on, the hood was secured with bailing wire, and it didn’t even have a roof. If you believe their other car is a Rolls Royce I have some swamp land here in Florida I’ll sell you.

A while back, I saw a sticker on the bumper of a truck that read, Men Are Idiots And I Married Their King. Now there’s a marriage that’s going to last, isn’t it? I’m surprised there wasn’t a procession of divorce attorneys following her around.

Some of my all time least favorite stickers are the ones that brag about a person’s family members. Ask Me About My Grandkids is one of the worst in my book. Get a clue people, it’s the same with your kids (grandkids) as it is with your dogs—nobody thinks they’re as cute and wonderful as you do, so quit shoving them down our throats!

I saw a bumper sticker made just for this type of grandparent: I Don’t Give A D### About Your Grandkids!

There is one bumper sticker concerning one’s kids that I wouldn’t mind having, wished I’d thought of it myself: I Never Really Learned To Swear ‘til I Had Kids.

So there you have it, my thoughts on personalized tags and bumper stickers. No doubt they can be fun to read and they usually reveal a thing or two about the driver’s personality. I guess that’s why I’ve yet to put the bumper sticker on my car that my sons gave me for Father’s Day--Momma Didn't Raise No Fool . . . Just An Idiot.

There Ought to Be a Law

There ought to be a law against anyone attending a fishing trip who doesn’t understand the seriousness of yelling, “moose!” around a temperamental young bull of said species.

You see, when I was 14 I attended a camp owned by the corporation for which my father worked. One warm summer afternoon, Tom, a boy my age; Vern (Tom’s dad), Bob and his 3-year-old son, were lazily fishing in a canoe on the Little Snake River in the state of Idaho. The fishing was lousy and our attention span, along with any hopes of catching fish, withered in the heat of the sun.

Tom had just finished telling a joke when I spied something downstream.
“Hey, look,” I said. “There’s Bullwinkle.”

A few yards from us was a young, but very large, bull moose, standing knee-deep in water, feeding off the river bottom.

“Bullwinkle, where’s Rocky?”

With that remark, my companions burst into laughter, and silliness overtook us.

Our jocularity caught the attention of young Bullwinkle, who stared back at us.

“We’d best quiet down,” suggested Vern. “We don’t wanna rile the big fella.”

We hushed, and Bullwinkle went back to eating. But before long we were acting giddy again, when suddenly Tom lost the smile on his face. “Look!” he bellowed.

Bullwinkle was shaking his antlers at us.

“Hush up now, or we’ll be in a heap of trouble,” Vern said, and this time there was more than a hint of concern in his voice.

Just as we finally quieted down again, our 3-year-old partner pointed downstream and hollered, “Moose, Daddy!”

Bullwinkle again shook his antlers at us.

Turning ghostly pale, Vern bestowed upon us the wisdom of age, “Let’s get the #### out of here!”

As if on cue, Bullwinkle began swimming toward us.

Bob and Vern slapped the water with their paddles, moving the canoe toward shore. Now I must interject something here. Just before this incident occurred, I had read an article about a fisherman who had been treed 12 hours by a moose. So it shouldn’t seem odd that when we were a couple of feet from shore, Tom and I leaped from the canoe (we both swore we heard Vern and Bob yell “jump!”), which pushed it back to the middle of the river.

Once on shore, I ran straight up the river’s embankment, looking for a tree to climb. You know, it’s a strange feeling when you are being chased by a moose and suddenly realize that the only trees big enough to climb are rotten and will collapse under your weight. Luckily, I spied a Jeep Cherokee not far from me. If Bullwinkle was still on my heels, I figured on climbing that Jeep and sitting on the roof. I didn’t see the moose, but what I did see was astounding.

To the right and a little behind me, Bob (all 300 lbs of him) had his son by one arm and was running up the steep embankment. Not far from Bob was Vern, running stride for stride with Bob.

Vern had been in a motorcycle accident years earlier and had seven compound fractures in one leg. These injuries left him with a permanent limp. Yet, he was running faster than the rest of us.

The following spring Tom called me to ask, “Hey, going to camp this summer?”
I hope I didn’t damage his hearing when I slammed the phone down onto its receiver.