Life's Contradiction of Terms, Oxymorons and Ironies

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There are a lot of things in life that are a contradiction of terms, oxymorons, ironies, and the like. Some can be funny and some just down right annoying.

Fast-food restaurants are certainly a contradiction of terms. I don’t know how many times I’ve impatiently waited near the end of a long, slow-moving line of cars at a fast-food restaurant’s drive-through window wondering to myself how these places earned the name fast food to begin with.

Speaking of drive-through windows, shouldn’t they be called drive-up windows? I mean, you don’t really drive through them, do you? No, you drive up to and stop at them to gather the food order you placed, which seemed like an hour ago, through one of those funky two-way microphone systems that garbles up voices so badly no one can understand what anyone is saying. Man, I hate those things.

One time, when placing an order in one of those, I thought I’d give the person on the other end a taste of his own medicine. I put my hand over my mouth and spoke into it when giving my order, thus beginning a long conversation consisting mostly of, “What?” It was good for laughs with the crowd in the car but our order sure got screwed up.

Then there are those express lanes at supermarkets, Wal-Mart, K-Mart, most busy stores out there. How many times have you been stuck waiting near the end of a long, slow moving line of people wondering to yourself how these check-out aisles ever got the name express lane to begin with? When in that situation, haven’t you ever wanted to shout, “Have you forgotten what the word EXPRESS means?!”

Our local Wal-Mart doesn’t even try to pretend that their express lanes are fast. They’ve installed televisions, tuned to their own Wal-Mart channel, in their express lanes to entertain you during your agonizingly long wait in their EXPRESS LANES!

But back to fast-food restaurants, McDonalds, or at least some of them, now give you the option of choosing between their regular menu and their gourmet menu, McDonalds and gourmet? Now there’s an oxymoron if ever there was one. Hey, when I go to McDonalds I’m not going there for gourmet. Heck no! I’m going there for a dripping-wet-with-grease, artery clogging, heart attack causing hamburger, with some greasy, salt-drenched fries. If I want gourmet I’ll go to a gourmet restaurant, thank you very much.

There are other oxymorons in life. There’s Army intelligence (Kidding, folks; it’s just a joke. I actually do support and respect the men and women of our armed services), jumbo shrimp that so many of us love to eat, and the Little Giant ladder, just to name a few.

A bill board I saw the other day provided me with a disgusting sort of irony. Since bill boards are a part of life I think it qualifies as an example of an irony of life. While driving home from my brother’s, I found it ironic that a local Harley Davidson dealership put on their marquee, “Don’t be a gas hole. Buy a Harley,” since that dealership is just a quarter mile or so up, and on the same side of, the interstate from the Holy Land Experience theme park.

With that I think this oxymoron will bid you adieu.

A Lone Island of Testosterone

After growing up in a family of four rowdy, unruly, and somewhat crude boys, and after raising three rowdy, unruly, and somewhat crude sons, marrying a woman with two young daughters is a whole new world for me. It’s like being a lone island of testosterone in a sea of estrogen, the quintessential “fish out of water.”

When I was a kid my brothers and I loved to watch Bugs bunny, Yosemite Sam, the Road Runner, Sylvester, Tweetie Bird, and Johnny Quest, to name a few. They were loud, somewhat rough and tumble for their day (some claimed they were even violent), and perhaps a bit obnoxious.

The boys of my sons’ generation watched shows like He-Man, G.I. Joe, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Again, loud, rough (perhaps a bit violent), and obnoxious.

But my how different TV watching is with girls. For them it’s none of that boyish rough and tumble stuff. No, they watch Caillou, Little Bear, Backyardigans, and Wonder pets—mild, cute, cartoons that teach a life lesson in a warm, fuzzy way.

No self-respecting boy would be caught dead watching those shows. Why, in my day (this lecture sounds eerily familiar) a boy who’d watched those shows might just as well have put on his mother’s dress and high heels and paraded around town; he would’ve been labeled something that today is politically incorrect to say.

In grammar school, the depictions on my lunch pales were G.I. Joe, Lassie, horses, cowboys, etc. My sons had wrestlers, He-Man, the “Turtles,” and the like.

Sweetie’s daughters’ lunch pales have Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty—sounds like I’m writing an advertisement for Disney--on them.

When raising sons I, as did my father before me, would trip over basketballs, footballs, baseball bats, skateboards, Lincoln Logs, Tonka Trucks, plastic army men, and cowboy boots strewn throughout the house.

Nowadays, I find myself tripping over mini kitchenettes, little pink purses, dolls and miniature baby strollers, batons, ballet slippers, My Little Pony horses, and snow globes with princesses in them.

Gone are the boyish things my sons, as did their father before them, left behind in the car. I now have ponytail bands around my gearshift, Snow White encased in a clear plastic container, plastic crowns with plastic jewels encrusted in them, and pink, princess flip-flops (there's the two P's again, pink and princess. Is there a theme going on here or what?) in my car.

But the biggest difference, and the toughest by far, that I’ve found between residing in a household of women compared to residing in a household of men is the curtailing of my crude side. No more flatulence contests (my brother onced echoed one off the walls of our basement. He won of course). Nope, now I hold it in until I resemble something like a human zeppelin, and I do believe there've been a few times I’ve come close to floating away right out of the house.

Now there’s no more making an art of burping—seeing who can hit middle “C” with his burp or who can say the alphabet in one big belch. There’s no downing several sodas at once and then trying to out do your comrades with the loudest and/or longest burp. Yes, I now bare the pain of holding in a burp to forgo the shame of letting one rip out loud.

There are also no more jokes about bodily functions, boogers, innards, and body parts. Now it’s just calling Cinderella Cinderfella, Snow White Snow Grey, My Little Pony My Little Phony (I have no idea why those last two are funny), and the funny little nicknames like Squirt and Sport that I’ve given the girls, which makes them giggle like someone's tickling their feet with a feather.

Yes, it’s different living a house full of females, and sometimes I do feel like an island of testosterone in a sea of estrogen. But life’s all about change isn’t it?
Change helps us to learn and to grow.

Speaking of which, it’s time to end this little chat. The Backyardigans are on and, um, oh yeah, I promised the girls I’d watch it with them. Yeah that's it, not that I actually like the show or anything mind you.

Welcome to Floriduuuh

Now, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy living in Florida, but we seem to be a magnet for idiots. Just look at our record. It hasn’t been good.

Remember the “bear tunnels” I wrote about, the ones built under busy thoroughfares to keep the bears from crossing the roads (roads built across paths that bears had been roaming for eons) and getting hit?

Of course the bears, being the creatures of habit that they are, ignore the tunnels (and the signs strategically pointing them out) built for them and continue to cross interstates and turnpikes, occasionally getting killed. Yet the tunnels continue to be built . . . with our tax dollars! Who was it that said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting to get a different result?

And let’s not forget the state senator who, just a couple of years ago, tried to pass a law making it criminal for restaurants to run out of toilet paper. Yes, he spent tax payer money to draw up and try to pass a law making it criminal for eating establishments to run out of pooper scooper. Fortunately, the proposal didn’t get any traction and was never seriously considered. Hmmm, got to be a metaphor in there somewhere, don’t you think?

Anyway, it makes one wonder what the name would be of a department charged with enforcing such a law, the Poop Patrol? I don’t even want to know what the punishment would be for violating the law.

Now who can forget the presidential election of 2000, when our fair state held up the election of a new president because people who seemed to have had no problems punching bingo cards had difficulty punching election ballots? I’m surprised the term hanging-chad isn’t in the dictionary as a new word—when teaching school, I had a Chad or two I would’ve loved to have hung, but that’s another story for another time.

Want more proof that I Florida attracts dummies? Look at what some genius did when tropical storm Fay swung across, through, up, down, etc., our lovely state. Some of you might’ve seen a video clip of this on the news or online.

In Fort Lauderdale, a young man in his mid-twenties decided that tropical storm winds would be ideal conditions for windsurfing. So when Fay whipped on by, he was at the beach ready and waiting for her.

Fortunately for us (I have to admit, when I saw this on TV I literally rolled off my bed from laughter; hey, when guys witness something painful happen to other guys, short of death of course, we go into hysterics, practically wetting our pants.), a news crew was setting up to report on the storm just as this knucklehead went flying through the air. It was all caught on tape.

Well, this windsurfer dude was whipped up into the air about 20 feet or more, flying at a very fast rate of speed, when all of a sudden the wind slammed him face first into the sand. The wind whipped him up into the air about 20 or more feet again, and at a fast rate of speed sent him sailing several yards . . . right into the side of a building.

The man was rushed to the hospital where he was reported to be in critical condition. His mother later said that he was doing better, had some cracked vertebra and swelling of the brain. He couldn’t remember the incident at all. Momma should show him a video of it to discourage him from entertaining any more bright ideas (update: brilliant windsurfer man was interviewed the other day by the media and says he’d do it again. He'd just stop a little earlier—-yeah, like when the wind smashed you face first into the beach, before slamming you into a building?! Stupie).

As a final bit of proof that our fair state is a magnet for idiots, I offer you what the aforementioned news crew saw while finishing the setup of their equipment, right after this incident took place . . . more people on the beach attempting to surf the winds of tropical storm Fay!

So, ladies and gentlemen of the jury as you consider these five separate incidents as proof that as a whole the population of Florida is at least one clown short of a circus, keep one more thing in mind; I live here.

Have you read any of my posts? I rest my case.

Hey, Hey, Hey, Here Comes Fay

Well, ‘tis the season—hurricane season that is. And the first storm, Fay (she’s still a tropical storm but soon to be a hurricane) is only hours away from hitting our fair state.

So as you can imagine, this will be a very short post as we prepare for her effects on our area of the state, and I believe sweetie and I about have everything ready: bottled water, batteries for flashlights and radio, non-perishable food items, vehicles fueled, a little cash on hand, etc. Now it’s just sit and wait for Fay’s arrival.

People often ask, “How can you live in an area that is prone to hurricanes?”

Hey, there’s earthquakes, fires, mudslides in California and various other places in the U.S., avalanches in the Rockies, tornados in the mid-west, etc. I figure pick your poison.

Besides, a hurricane party now and again doesn’t hurt—chips and dip, cookies soda, sandwiches, games, etc, all while you keep an eye on the television reports of the storm, until the power goes out of course.

A lot of people don’t realize too that with hurricanes it’s not just the wind and rain. Hurricanes spawn tornados too. Lovely addition to an already nerve racking experience, don’t you think?

Also, it’s interesting (and a little eerie) to see everybody scurrying around town for supplies, and seeing rows upon rows of houses boarded up in anticipation of the storm. I once saw a man boarding up the windows of his mobile home! Now there’s a lesson in futility if ever there was one. They’re called mobile for a reason! His house will be blown away but by golly his windows will be intact.

It’s a bit haunting also to walk into a supermarket for something you forgot to buy only to find the isles empty of people and the shelves empty of supplies. It’s sort of a surreal experience.

But now I hear the winds picking up outside, rain is soon to follow, and I need to secure the pontoons to my mobile, um, manufactured home. Hey, with an outboard motor attached to it as well, we’ll have us a regular ole redneck party yacht.

I think before the next hurricane approaches, I’ll look for a two-story mobile home-- turn it into one of those gambling cruise yachts. Now that’s an idea!

Not My Fault

Ever gone through a period of time when accidents happened to you that weren’t your fault? I went through one of those periods awhile back, and because of it, for a while, family and friends acted weird every time I got behind the steering wheel of a car.

In fact, it got so bad that any time it was suggested that I do the driving they’d all break into a sweat, shake like a diabetic coming off a sugar high, and start reciting the Lord’s Prayer, while firmly grasping a rosary . . . and some of them were atheist!

They said it was because I hadn’t been doing too well avoiding accidents, and though I kept telling them that, no matter what the police said, the wrecks weren’t my fault I was never able to calm their fears.

Now, the first wreck happened while driving across a bridge in Branson, Missouri. I was driving along in my truck when the tape I was listening to (yes, this was back in “olden times” when we listened to cassette tapes in our vehicles) ended. After the tape was ejected from the deck, I decided to put it back in the cassette storage box, where it belonged.

So, reaching over to the passenger side of my pick-up to get hold of the box, I momentarily lost sight of the road (Translation: I had to reach so far across the truck for the cassette holder that my head dipped below the dashboard).

Now, it couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds to sight the cassette box, reach for it, grip that sucker, and bring it closer to me, but that’s all the time it took.

BAM! I rear ended a soda truck.

Of course, the truck I hit wasn’t even scratched. Mine, on the other hand, had over $2,000.00 worth of damage.

Why wasn’t this accident my fault you ask? Well, as I told the investigating officer, the accident was an act of God. No, really.

You see, I’m genetically impaired: my arms are too short for fetching tape holders clear across my automobile. With longer arms I would have been able to reach that confounded case, while at the same time keep my head high enough to see out of the windshield. I rest my case.

The second accident during that period of bad luck wasn’t my fault either. It was the fault of my mamma and middle son.

Middle son and I were out running errands. As we pulled up to a stop light at a busy intersection, middle son and I were carrying on a conversation. Well (and this is where my mamma’s part in all of this comes into play), mamma taught me to always look people in the eye while conversing with them, and that’s exactly what I was doing, looking middle son right in the eye. . .as I drove right through the red light in said intersection.

BAM! We were T-boned by a van traveling at about 50mph.

“I wondered what you were doing, running that red light and all,” said middle son, as we commenced to get out of our now inoperable truck.

“If you saw I was about to run the light, why didn’t you say something?” I asked.

"Because,” he answered, “you don’t like to be told how to drive. So, when I saw the van coming and realized you weren’t going to stop I closed my eyes.”

He sure picked a fine time to start caring about things that bug me.

Anyway, when the police officer asked me what happened, I told him the accident wasn’t my fault. I mean, if mamma hadn’t been so persistent in teaching me proper etiquette and if middle son wouldn’t have so tight-lipped about me running the stop light (not to mention closing his eyes when he saw the van approaching), there wouldn’t have been a wreck--Mr. policeman didn’t see it that way.

Ooooh but I had another good reason the wreck wasn’t my fault. You see, since my head was turned toward middle son just before the wreck, you could say the son in my eyes.

Slob Olympics II

Ahhhhh, the Summer Olympic Games start this week. For many of us, the games provide an exciting diversion from our otherwise dreary, uneventful lives.

But as much as I enjoy them, I'd rather see an Olympic tournament the average person could not only relate to but could participate in, something along the lines of the Slob Olympics. That would be an Olympics I could really excel in, might even bring home the gold as they say.

So, let the games begin!

One of the first contests to be held at the Slob Olympics will be the Undergarment Marathon, a competition inspired by men (and some women) around the world, who hate doing laundry and often wear the same dirty clothing for days, if not weeks at a time.

The contestants competing in the Slob Olympic version of this game have just one goal: wear one set of underwear longer than their opponents--bonus points will be given for wearing the one set of under-drawers the duration of the Games.

If a tie should occur there would, of course, be a simple tie breaker--if one’s underwear is crusty enough to stand on its own, that’s your winner.

Now, if more than one pair of undies can stand on its own then the 2nd tie breaker will be the sniff test; the underpants with the most rotten smell takes home the gold.

Another popular game to be played at the Slob Games will be the Flat Surface Fandango. This game is similar to the home version.

The object of this event is, in the time allotted, to pile as much stuff as possible (papers, pens, pencils, crayons, scissors, books, check stubs, hats, paper clips, etc) on an end table without any of it falling to the floor. Points will be deducted if that happens. Of course, he who builds the highest pile wins. It’ll be a pretty straightforward game but will be fun to watch, don’t you think?

A competition new to the Games this year will be the Dreaded Toilet Paper Limbo. There will be several stages and scoring components to this particular contest. Here’s how it will work.

Contestants will be given a whole of bottle of castor oil to drink. Anybody who’s ever had the “remedy” knows just how wonderful it tastes. So, contestants gain points not only for the speed at which they chug-a-lug this awful stuff down, but also for the faces and sounds they make while doing it. Obviously, the most grotesque face and sound a contestant makes the more points earned.

The next stage of this game will begin when the castor oil actually kicks in. As the pressure and gurgling builds in the stomachs of each contestant, and they begin to bloat like a bovine loose in an alfalfa field, points will be given for the length of time each can hold out from making a mad dash to the bathroom. That mad dash will also be timed and points given accordingly.

Once the contestants reach their respective commodes a surprise awaits them—an empty toilet paper roll. And thus the 3rd stage of the Dreaded Toilet Paper Limbo begins. The keys for scoring points in this stage will be ingenuity and creativity.

Typical house-hold bathroom items will be scattered about each room. Contestants will be free to use any or all items in the room to rescue themselves from their situation. The most original and creative use of these items will earn the most points.

Needless to say, the contestant with the most experience of being stranded on the commode with an empty toilet paper roll, and no one around to help, will have a huge advantage over the others.

Another exciting contest will be the Over-Looking-A-Much-Needed-Object game. This will be an exciting contest of teams consisting of athletes and their mothers.

Each athlete will be given a container of miscellaneous items, items similar to the articles used in the Flat Surface Fandango, to scatter about the house. After scattering the contents, the athletes will then holler to their mothers ("Maaaaaauuum, have you seen my notebook? Or, "Mother, what did YOU do with my socks?") for help in finding one of said items.

Once that helpless, pathetic holler is made, the mother of the athlete will have 45 seconds to locate the particular item her son or daughter can't find. Since the contestants' moms have been in training all of their children's lives, and since most of the items that are lost are actually in plain sight, most mothers will finish their task before the allotted time runs out.

It goes without saying the mother with the fastest time in finding the lost object will win the most points. But points will also be given for the best holler: woeful tone of hopelessness, projection, quality of whining, originality of one's holler, etcetera. So there will be opportunity to make up points in one section of the contest if one scored low in the other part.

The final example of the type of games that will be played in the Slob Olympics is the Greasy Grime Cook Off. This is a simple contest consisting of a portable electric grill set on a kitchen counter and an infinite amount of raw, non-lean hamburger.

The object for each contestant will be to build as much grease on the kitchen counter as possible by frying hamburger patties on the open grill. The thicker the grease buildup the more points a contestant will receive.

A grease fire, of course, earns bonus points. Bonus points (and free medical treatment) will also be given to any contestant who tries to squelch said grease fire with water. Burns will be awarded points according to their severity.

So, there you have it, a few examples of the games that will be played in the Slob Olympics. And just in case my dream of these games comes true, I'd better start practicing for the event I most excel in, The Bathtub Bravado. I'll leave it up to your imaginations as to what that will involve.

Justice Gone A-duck

Every now and again incidents take place that leave one wondering if some of our officials, local and otherwise, have been sniffing duck droppings. The display of their lack of judgment can be astounding to say the least.

On a particular talk show, a lady was telling about how she caught her next door neighbors video taping her lounging around the house in her lingerie. Her neighbors went as far as poisoning and killing their own bushes to provide these pervs with a less obstructed view of her.

The lounging lady called the police and, to make a long story short (in other words I’m not sure how it happened), the cops got hold of the neighbor’s tape and, now comes the absurd part, arrested the lounging lady for lewd conduct.

Arrested for lewd conduct?! The worse thing this lady was guilty of was not closing her blinds while strolling around her home in her underwear. I mean, how lewd could that have been?

Several times the talk show she was on played her neighbors video, and I got to tell you I’ve turned off a lot worse things on my television than what I saw on that video; yet, she was arrested for lewd and obscene conduct. Give me a break!

And what happened to the voyeuristic neighbors? As far as I know, nothing.

Oh, and for the state where this little incident happened, I have some suggestions for a new state motto. Yeah, like the sign announcing you’ve just crossed the state line could read: Welcome to Blah, Blah, Blah, The Wrong Is Right and Right Is Wrong State.

Another incident that has caused many people to question the competence of our officials took place in a high school in one of our fair Midwestern states.

It seems two students were suspended from this particular school, which is nothing unusual by itself. But from the details of the story it becomes obvious that this is another example of authority gone haywire. This is what happened as I understand it.

One of the two boys was feeling ill at school. So, the other offered the sick kid an anti-depressant. How an anti-depressant was supposed to help the sick kid feel better, I don’t know.

Anyway, the ill boy didn’t swallow the pill. Instead he took it home and showed to his mother. Mom, of course, pitched a fit and called the school. What happened next defies logic.

Both boys were suspended from school. That’s right. Even the boy who rightfully turned the evidence (the pill) over to his mother was suspended from school because he accepted the anti-depressant from the other boy.

The bright side (if there is one) to this is the kid who accepted the pill ought to be glad the other boy didn’t give him something even more serious . . . like some devious plot to harm others. Who knows what would have happened to the boy for turning that over to the authorities?

Finally, when speaking of officials not using good judgment, I offer you what happened in Branson, Missouri when I lived there.

The Army Corp. of Engineers decided that when Table Rock Damn was built some thirty years earlier by the Corp., it was built ten feet too short. According to them, if that area was to have the type of flooding the Mississippi had in the early 1990s, the water would be too much for the damn and it wouldn’t hold.

This damn, ladies and gentlemen, is not a small earthen damn. It’s big enough to have created hundreds upon hundreds of miles of shoreline that make up Table Rock Lake. Heck, tours are conducted inside the damn—those would be damn tours by the way, given by a damn tour guide.

Don’t you have to wonder how this little oversight was brought to light? Thirty years after the damn was built, did one of the engineers suddenly wake up in the middle of the night and, in a cold sweat, say in horror, “Oh, oh!”

And there are people who want this same government to run a national healthcare system. Yeah, right.

Imagine getting a call thirty years after receiving stomach surgery and being told, “uh, we’d like you to come in for some x-rays. We lost an instrument during your surgery and the presiding surgeon just remembered where it might have gone.”

Struggle as we might to understand, it’s sometimes hard to figure out the judgment, or lack thereof, shown by some of our officials. Until we do, sniff a duck dropping or two. Who knows? It might help to cope with the chaos.

Things Are Tight

I knew our economy was sluggish and people’s budget’s were tight, but I didn’t realize just how bad things have gotten until a few weeks ago. I was driving home from work when I saw a Chrysler 300 Series luxury car coming the other way with a pizza delivery sign on the roof.

As if that wasn’t enough proof of how just how bad things have gotten, the other day I saw a late model Lincoln Town Car going down the highway and guess what was on the roof; yep, a pizza delivery sign. Now I am scared.

Airlines also are feeling the pinch of a sluggish economy. Rising fuel costs have caused them to "stick it" to the consumer in many ways. Of course airfares have risen dramatically over the last year or so, and some airlines are charging extra for over-sized carry-on baggage as well as extra carry-on baggage. Some are even charging for all baggage, check-in or otherwise.

Some airlines are pulling completely out of small airports, and I saw where at least one is charging extra for any food or drink, except the peanuts. Woo hoo, free peanuts! I’m sure on a long flight when a passenger goes into a diabetic coma because he can’t afford to purchase food his family will be sure to thank the airline for its hospitality. But I divert.

Commuter airlines are taking this whole thing to the extreme. I went to the check-in counter of a littler commuter plane the other day and while checking in my luggage the girl behind the counter asked me how much I weighed.

“And just why do you need to know?” I inquired.


“So we know how much fuel to put in,” she answered.

“Fill ‘er up!” I yelled. “I’ll pay for it; just fill ‘er up! I weigh 800 pounds; fill ‘er up!

It would be just my luck to board a flight with someone who lied about his weight. Can you imagine meeting your maker earlier than planned just because some guy fibbed about how much he weighed?

Check-in person: you got more chins than a Chinese phone book. You sure you only weight 99 pounds?

Four hundred pound passenger: don’t let these big bones fool you [what being big-boned has to do with having multiple chins is something I’ve never been able to figure out], I really am 99 pounds.

Motels are also getting into the act of cutting way back on services to keep the down the cost of running their businesses. Like the one that advertised huge discount rates. I went inside and asked the desk clerk about it. He said in order to get the lowest rate for a room I’d have to make my own bed. I didn’t think that was so bad until he handed me a hammer and saw!

My room had a Jacuzzi, which made me very excited. That excitement was soon quelled when I discovered their idea of a Jacuzzi was me sitting in a bathtub of water, holding an electric mixer. Needless to say, I stayed there only one night.

The economic crunch has hit the Bagley household too. In fact, for her birthday Sweetie wants me to take her somewhere expensive and I'm going to. I’m thinking I'm going to drop her off at a gas station.

Getting Things Off My Chest

First: while driving, if I’m passing you on your right, YOU’RE IN THE WRONG LANE! Now that that’s done let’s move on to some other things.

Note to self: before motorcycling again in wet weather BUY SOME RAIN GEAR! During the raining season here in Florida, just because the weatherman says there’s only a 30% chance of rain doesn’t mean it’s smart to play the odds, unless you have RAIN GEAR!

It amazes me the names manufacturers will give a product to entice consumers to buy it. At work we have a bottle of liquid hand soap the manufacturer of which has labeled Tropical Breeze. Tropical Breeze? It’s hand soap for crying out loud not an exotic vacation package. When washing my hands after using the commode (by the way, why is it OK to use a bathroom but not someone of the opposite sex? Just wondering), what I want to read on a bottle of a hand sanitizing product is something like, Big, Bad, All Germ Killer! Not some fluffy, foo, foo name like Tropical Breeze.

Since we’re on the general subject of disinfectants, I know I’ve mentioned this before but I continue to see the ads and read the label for this one particular air freshener. The manufacturer states that it kills 99.9% of germs. That’s pretty darn good, but what scares me, and it ought to scare everybody, is that 1/10th of a percent of germs that it doesn’t kill! They’ve got to be some pretty tough hombres and are the ones we should be worried about not the other 99.9%. You want to make me happy manufacture an air freshener that kills 100% of all germs.

During this great political season, as always, we get promises from the candidates about all the good things they’re going to do for us but really never see their plan on how they’re going accomplish these tasks. I think if I ran for office my platform would be simple and honest: my fellow Americans, I’m not going to make any promises to you that I both know I can’t fulfill. I can only promise I’ll do my best to do right by the American people.” That might even entice me to vote for myself.

Have you ever wondered where certain sayings come from? One that I’ve always wondered about is “butt load.” I’m sure we’ve all heard someone say, or have said it ourselves, “I got a butt load of work to do,” or “I got a butt load of studying to do tonight before finals.” Just what constitutes a “butt load” of anything? Check that, maybe I don’t really want to know, being how I suffer from I.B.S. (Irritable Bowl Syndrome) and all.

Staying on the subject of derrieres, aren’t you glad we don’t identify each other in the same manner dogs do? Hey, I’ve put some thought into this subject. Look, if we can’t stand each other’s halitosis, how in the world could we stand sniffing one another’s rumps?

And then to complicate matters we have scented toilet paper. Think about this scenario, you see someone you think you know, maybe a relative. You walk over to sniff that person’s hind quarters but that person has been using scented toilet paper. You don’t recognize the scent and you think to yourself, “I could’ve sworn that was Uncle John,” and you walk away, missing the chance to say hello to your favorite uncle.

There are pluses and minuses to this of course. If there are people you want to hide from all you have to do is make your rear-end smell like a Carolina pine forest.

On the other hand (there’s always another hand, isn’t there?) there is a downside to this that’s worse than missing the opportunity to greet your favorite uncle.

Say you’re feeling a bit romantic one night and you put the moves on your wife but have forgotten you’ve used scented toilet paper earlier in the evening. You could find yourself arrested and thrown in jail all because you threw your scent off and your wife didn’t recognize you.

Well, I don’t know about you but I certainly feel better for getting these things off my chest. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a butt load of company here and I have to, well, go sniff some.

Hunting Houses

The government requires a license to deer hunt. It requires a license to hunt geese and ducks. The government requires a license for hunting bear, moose, and elk. It requires a license to hunt just about anything. It’s my opinion that house hunting should require a license as well. And just like you have to take hunter safety classes to learn how to safely hunt animals, you’d have to take hunter safety classes to learn how to safely hunt houses.

You see, recently, Sweetie and I were house hunting. She found this one particular yellow house on the internet that seemed like it might be perfect for us. It was a lease-to-own, 2,100 square foot, four-bedroom-home. From the photos posted on the website the house looked magnificent and we were very anxious to see it.

Our plan was to first drive by the home. If we liked what we saw from the street and if the neighborhood checked out, we’d stop and peek through the windows to see what we could. If still interested after that, we’d call to make an appointment to actually go inside the home for a closer look. But plans don’t always come together, do they?

According to a local map the street the house was on (Groveland Farms Road) was only about six miles down the highway from our home. We had a little time before we had to be somewhere else so we hopped in the car and took off. We drove up and down the highway but the street was no where to be found. Oh well, we’d try later, after I looked up the exact location of the street on the internet, where I could get an actual satellite photo of the area. This would give me landmarks as well as exact mileage from our house to the one we were hunting.

A few days later, off we were again hunting for the house. But even with land marks (lakes, orchards, a restaurant, etc.) and exact mileage, we couldn’t find the road. You could plainly see the road on the satellite photo, but in person its entrance was invisible to the naked eye. Where the street should’ve been it wasn’t, just a dirt driveway to a home. So, back home we went for more satellite viewing.

“How about we try entering the subdivision from the opposite direction?” I asked sweetie.

“Sounds good to me,” she said.

I cranked up the computer and started searching a way into the subdivision from the east side. I found it and the first chance we got, off we went again to look for the elusive Groveland Farms Road.

Searching for land marks and street signs, we found that east entrance without much difficulty. We made a right turn onto Groveland Farms Road and started searching for the house. For the next few minutes the conversation in the car consisted of, “No,” “Uh,uh,” “Not,” or, “Nope.” It sounded more like a bunch of foreigners learning English at a Just Say No group therapy session than a family looking for a house.

Soon, the street went from asphalt to a hard, sandy, rough, washboard of a road. Sensing sweetie’s nervousness about this I assured her there was nothing to worry about. The road was maintained by the county and was safe to drive on.

But another mile or so of driving and I noticed the scenery was getting more rural and a bit swampy (think gators, folks). And that bumpy, sandy road was narrowing . . . and narrowing . . . and narrowing. Just after it narrowed to less then one lane, the hard-packed sand became soft and the road became rutty. It was then that I noticed the sign, “End Of County Maintenance.” That should’ve also been a sign for me to back up to where I could turn around and get the heck out of there. But I’m a guy. Guys rarely read signs let alone contemplate their meaning.

Finally, the ruts got so deep that if I tried to stay in them I’d high-center the car. So I did what any guy would do; I ignored that little voice in my head, the one that tells you not to do something because you’ll regret it later. The machismo in me, as it often does, drowned out that little voice. The machismo said, “You can make it. Don’t wimp out. Show your wife what a stud you are.”

I gunned the car and drove over the ruts, driver side wheels on the very edge of the road, passenger side wheels on the high center of the road. It was a good plan except for one problem; I was driving on soft sand! The weight of the car pushed the sand under the tires right down into the deep ruts and the undercarriage of the car was buried in the sand up to the engine block. We were stuck, stuck in the late hot afternoon Florida June sun in a rural area with prime swampy gator and snake habitat very near both sides of the road.

To make an already long story short, I called eldest son, gave him directions to where we were, and he and daughter-in-law--along with little Jayden, the cutest little grandbaby in the world—pulled us out of our predicament with their S.UV.

Later, after chatting with the owner of the house, we learned that there are TWO Groveland Farms Roads in Groveland. Two roads in the same town with the same name, are you kidding me? And of course, we were on the wrong Grovland Farms Road! As it turned out, once we finally found the house we didn’t like the house anyway.

Yes, there definitely should be a law requiring a license for house hunting. But then again, if the authorities learned of my latest fiasco in hunting houses, my application for a license would probably be denied.

Moved In

Moved to new home last weekend and am now finally hooked up to internet. Funny post on house hunting coming Monday. Thanks for your kind words about my Father's Day post.
Doug

A Thought for Father's Day

It’s a sad fact, but often it’s not until we nearly lose a loved one that we realize just how much that person means to us. We take for granted that he or she will always be around. This lesson was brought to light in my life just a few years ago.

One morning, while living in Branson, Missouri, I received a phone call from Orlando, Florida. The call was from my older brother who informed me that my dad had just been taken by ambulance to a hospital. It appeared dad had suffered a heart attack. At that time, the only other information my brother had was that dad was stabilized and being transferred to another hospital that specialized in treating heart patients.

A few hours later the phone rang again. This time it was my oldest brother, who lived out west, on the line. Mom called and asked him to relay additional information.

Dad had indeed suffered a heart attack. The doctors found that one of his coronary arteries was 99% blocked. Another was 50% blocked. Dad’s heart had only been getting 60% of its normal blood flow, so the doctors were going to perform an angioplasty to try and break up the blockage.

That afternoon I received a third call concerning my father’s status. This time, the call was from my mother. Even though each call concerning my father brought news that was worse than the previous call, I was still dumbfounded by mom’s update.

Dad didn’t just have a heart attack. He’d had a major coronary. How much damage his heart had sustained was yet to be determined, and although the angioplasty was a success, the doctors had to use the “electric paddles” three times to shock dad’s heart back into a steady rhythm. The next 48 hours would be the most critical for him. All we could do now was pray and hope he’d pull through.

I went into a numbing shock. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t feel, just blank inside.

Dad had always been there for us. He had always been the steady, strong one, the one everybody leaned on, the foundation of our family (even now, as I’m closing in on the 50th year of my life, from time to time I find myself seeking dad’s wisdom and council on important issues). The mere thought of dad not being around anymore was incomprehensible.

So much of who I am, the kind of man I am, I owe to my father. By word and by example he taught me many important things, things like honesty, integrity, and to seek God’s guidance in all my endeavors.

Dad also taught me the meaning of love and sacrificing for your loved ones when, during years of financial strain, I saw him go without many necessities so he could afford shoes for my brothers and me or buy food for us to eat.

As I witnessed my father conquer many of his weaknesses, I learned that it’s never too late, you’re never too old to improve yourself.

I owed him so much. I had so many unsaid “thanks,” “I love you,” and “I’m sorry,” that his time on earth just couldn’t be through.

You see, when I reached my teenage years my dad and I had some heated disagreements. I was hotheaded, strong willed, and stubborn. I was very disrespectful.

Yes, the thoughtlessness of youth convinced me that dad knew little concerning life, especially a teenager’s life. But time and the experience of parenthood taught me just how wrong I was.

I found myself more than ever regretting the times I mistreated dad. I just had to have one more chance to tell dad that I loved him, that I respected and honored him, and that I was so very sorry for giving him such a rough time when I was younger.

Then shame filled my soul. I felt so sad that it took a tragedy like a major coronary to make me realize how much I took dad for granted. And as I thought about having never really expressed to him what he’s meant to me all of my life, and that I may never get the chance to tell him, I felt a heavy weight upon my own heart.

Thankfully, I was given the opportunity to express my love to my father. He recovered, albeit with quite a bit of damage, from his heart attack.

But what about those people who aren’t so blessed to have another chance to tell and show their loved ones how they feel about them? How do they cope with knowing that because they took for granted, as we all do, that their loved ones would always be around, they passed on opportunities to express their love for them?

And therein, my dear readers, lies the lesson; don’t wait to tell the people you care about what they mean to you. Who knows, the next chance you get might be your last.

Surviving the Bus Ride from Hell!

SURVIVING THE BUS RIDE FROM HELL!

When I die, I’m not afraid of going to hell—I rode public transit while attending college.

Old Route 55 to Weber State University and back did more than prepare one for an eternity of hellfire and damnation; it helped one get there a little sooner.

One particular ride, while headed home from school in a torrential rainstorm, we noticed the windshield was fogged up. The bus driver stopped, wiped it down, and then adjusted a little fan above the glass so it would blow air on to the windshield to keep it clear. The driver also had to open her window so the outside air could be drawn in to assist the fan. This should have tipped all of us on the bus as to what kind of ride we were in for.

Our chauffeur hadn’t driven one mile when she had to pull over again, step outside the bus, and unstick the windshield wipers. By then, some of us were feeling a renewed interest in the "after life."

Things went downhill from there. After we finally put a few miles behind us, a lady sitting near the front could feel water dripping on her head. Yep, you guess it, the roof of the bus was leaking.

It wasn’t just a little leak, either, and we could see this lady was about to open her umbrella. Now, I’m not a superstitious person, but why ask for more trouble than we already had? Much to my relief, we talked her out of opening her umbrella indoors.

By now most of the others on the bus had closed their eyes and begun reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Me, I had to go looking for more things to worry about.

Examining the interior of that prehistoric vehicle, I noticed that not only were the side windows cracked but there was cardboard stuck between the sliding glass pieces in each section. After pointing this out to my fellow riders it was decided we’d be better off not knowing the reasoning behind this good old American ingenuity.

The peak of our worries came when our driver only laughed response to a question concerning the tread on the tires.

It was about this time, with rain dripping on us, the windshield steaming up, and no assurance about the tires, that the man sitting to my left confessed he was agnostic, but since the time we had left the bus stop he had learned to pray and hoped there was something to this life-after-death stuff.

Needless to say, I made it to my stop alive. As for those who still had a way to go? I don’t know how they made out, for you see, I drove the next day.

A Few Observations

The other day, while visiting my parents, CBS ran a commercial for a program it was airing in the coming days: HEAVEN. Everyone talks about it, but do you know how to get there? We’ll tell you how. Tune into CBS on blah, blah, blah.

Dang! All these years wasted going to church meetings, paying my tithes, donating my time to teach classes and perform other responsibilities, when all I had to do was tune in to CBS. And to think my grandfather used to say that CBS stood for Certified Bull S_ _ _. Bet he’s in Hell right now saying to himself, “If only I’d watched more T.V!”

Who came up with the term “a pair of pants?” Nobody wears a pair (two similar things used together) of pants. We wear a pant with a pair of legs, but that’s far different than wearing two pants (with or without legs, although, what would be the point to wearing one or more pants if they didn’t have legs?) at the same time.

We don’t wear a pair of shirts. We wear a shirt with a pair of sleeves. So how come we wear a “pair of pants?” It’s bugging the heck out of me.

In the news this morning there was piece on a six-foot alligator that was captured last night at a metro bus stop in a very busy part of town. Oh there was footage of the gator, its capture, interviews with the trappers, etc. But nobody addressed the most important issue of all, WHERE DID HE COME FROM?!

Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad the gator was captured before any humans were hurt by him but, WHERE DID HE COME FROM?!

I doubt that he was an only gator in the pond, WHERE DID HE COME FROM?!

Where Mr. Gator was waiting for a bus are hotels, shops, restaurants, a huge water park with a lake (hmmmm, that’s a scary thought, isn’t it?), and Universal Studios just down the road—the street where they lassoed the alligator was Universal Boulevard! We’re talking people, people everywhere—we’re the number one tourist destination in the United States and one of the top destinations world-wide. Didn’t anybody involved with the capturing of this animal wonder, WHERE DID HE COME FROM?!

I work just down the road from that bus stop; WHERE DID HE COME FROM?!

I’ve driven my motorcycle past there a time or two (mating season is coming upon us and gators get a little cranky during that time—been known to attack moving vehicles); WHERE DID HE COME FROM?!

As many people know, I grew up in a household of males, 4 sons, no sisters. The former Mrs. Bagley and I have 3 sons, no daughters. So here I am, married to the best thing that’s ever happened to me and she has two young daughters, ages 4 and 5. I am so out of my element!

I’ve been invited to more tea and princesses parties than, well, I never have until now. My car still has Yosemite Sam hanging from my mirror but the console and back seats have pink and powder blue barrettes and pony tail bands (I think that's what they're called) all over them.

We have Cinderella, Murielle (just learned it's Ariel not Murielle--I believe that's what's known as a "case in point.") and other princess coloring books lying around the house. We have lotion with glitter in it, pens with fluffy, furry stuff hanging out of the tops, Barbies, and I hear lots of “Doug isn’t that _____ [fill in the blank with just about anything] beautiful?” No footballs, basketballs, Lincoln Logs, tanks, plastic cowboys, Tonka Trucks and Dozers, etc, to be found.

A few weeks ago, I found myself in a store, by myself, shopping for a birthday present for a 4-year-old girl. What the heck do I know about buying gifts for 4-year-old girls? I can’t even begin to describe the awkwardness I felt as I perused the snow globes with princesses in them (do you see a recurring theme here?), girls T-shirts and shorts (yes, with princesses on them), tea sets, dolls, etc. I ended up buying her a dining set of plates, silver wear, and cups all with three Disney princesses on them.

Put me in a store where there’s W.W. Whatever Wrestler toys, G.I. Joes and/or plastic army men, plastic sub-machine guns, plastic horses with saddles and plastic cowboys to ride them, along with rifles and the like, and I can shop, no need for any assistance at all. I know what to do.

It’s happened. Oh my gosh it’s happened! I’m officially old. The other day my brothers and I were visiting. My sons were there. Some time into our discussions of this and that and whatnot, youngest son blurted out, “Just shoot me when I get to the age where I’m discussing liver spots on my arms!”

Up to that point I hadn’t realized we’d been talking about my older brother’s high PSI (think prostate, folks) count, clogged arteries, sun and age spots. Of course, I chimed in about my maladies as did younger brother.

Now, that’s exactly what I swore I’d never do when I was youngest son’s age, and as I recall, when overhearing my parents discussing their ailments with their siblings, I said about the same thing that my son said to us--my how time is an all mighty equalizer.

Well, it's time to end this rambling and get to bed—I need my sleep so I can think of more silliness about which to write (Whoa, I almost sounded Shakespearian there, didn’t I?).

Why Just One Day a Year?

What’s up with this one day of the year celebration for mothers? Shouldn’t we celebrate our mothers every day of the year, if for no other reason than they gave birth to us? Listen, I was there for all three births of my sons. It’s not called labor for nothing—I often wonder if women really new ahead of time the pain and strain to their body that child birth is if they’d go ahead and get pregnant anyway.

What's amazing to me is that many women, after going through the stress, inconvenience, and pain of pregnancy and childbirth, choose to have more babies. After the first child, most men would rush right out to the nearest clinic and get themselves snipped. “Ain’t no way this is going to happen again!” most of us guys would whine.

My own mother came as near to death as one can get during childbirth when I was born (I was a trouble maker right from the get go—I was also just an ounce under 10 lbs, which I’m sure didn’t make mom feel any better). I was a placenta previa and my mom almost hemorrhaged to death bringing me into this world. Both of her doctors told her it was a power beyond theirs that saved us both.

If that isn’t enough of a reason to pay tribute to my mother every day of the year, she also, along with dad of course, raised 4 very rowdy, rebellious, stubborn boys. Believe me, as I think back on some of the things my brothers and I did, some of the pranks, mischief, and trouble we got into, my mom deserves a medal, maybe even a statue.

I know there must be many other good mothers out there who also deserve accolades for the sacrifices, prayers, and worrying they did over their children, trying to instill in them and guide them down the paths of virtue, morality, honor, etc., as their they grew to adulthood.

Some mothers have to do this alone, without help from their children’s father. Either through divorce, abandonment, whatever, they’re left trying to not only raise their children to be good and decent, but they’re left doing it while they also struggle to put food on the table, clothes on their children’s backs, and shelter over their heads, sometimes working two jobs to accomplish this. They ask for no handouts, no acknowledgement, or rewards from society. For them their reward is watching the fruits of their labor come to fruition--their children grow up to be good and decent human beings.

Because of the economic downturn, many mothers who are now grandmothers and great grandmothers continue to give and sacrifice for their children. They keep their grandkids and great grandkids for free while the children’s mother and/or father work, helping them save a little money by not having to pay for daycare.

Many mothers don’t even like the holiday that’s set aside for them. In their words, “Why should I get acknowledgement for something I’m supposed to do?”

Other’s feel like, “Hey, if you can’t appreciate the things I do for you every day of the year don’t insult me with a once a year celebration.”

Yet for others, the Mothers’ Day holiday makes them feel incompetent, inferior, and failures as they sit in church and hear talks from people speaking of their perfect, super moms, who did everything right in raising them.

So why do we only celebrate mothers just once a year? It seems to me that most of us should celebrate them, honor them, and show our appreciation for all they have and do for us every day of the year. And the best way we can do this is to be the adults they hoped and prayed we’d turn out to be.

So to all the mothers in the world, I salute you.

And mom, I love you.

The Masochistic Adventure We Call the Family Vacation

The time will soon be upon us when families across America will embark on that masochistic adventure we call, The Family Vacation. I remember one such adventure my family took a few years ago when we lived in Branson, Missouri.

The torment began once our vacation plans were made. I mean complete pandemonium broke out in our household. With the hyper of a sugar a junky turned loose in a candy factory, there was running in all directions, bouncing off walls, jumping on and over the couch, leaping over chairs, all with screams of delight—and the kids were even worse!

Of course sons and I were too hyped up with anticipation of our trip to pack early, so we ended up doing the panic packing thing. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the panic-packing technique, it’s when the packers wait until 10:00 pm (or later) the night before they’re supposed to leave to pack their suitcases.

One of the results of this procrastination is the packers, in their blind panic to get ready for their trip, can’t find half of what they need. So what do they do? The instinctively, and desperately, turn to the matriarch of the family for help. Have you noticed this? Why is this? It’s like we think moms and wives are born with this built in radar ( which, incidentally, kicks in the minute a wedding ban is sipped onto her finger) for finding miscellaneous items that we’re to inept to find for ourselves.

It never fails. Whether it’s packing for a trip, getting ready for school or work, whatever, when somebody can’t find something, the first thing the lady of the house hears is, “Mom, do you know where my ____ [fill in the blank] is?” Or, “Honey, I can’t find my ____.”

So there the boys and I were were, late the night before the trip, frantically scurrying about the house, searching for those elusive can’t-find items we so desperately needed to finish our packing, when a hollering contest soon ensued as we vocally competed for the use of the former Mrs. Bagley’s item finding radar.

Finally, just before she got to the point of pulling her hair out by the fistfuls, she made it very clear (the kids and I had no idea that soft-spoken woman could propel her voice to such deafening decibels) that she was going go bed and under no uncertain terms was she to be disturbed. We were on our own.

Finally, everyone was packed and after a few hours sleep we loaded our vehicle and were ready for our trek to Tullahoma, Tennessee, normally a 9 to 10 hour drive . . . unless, of course, you’re on a family vacation.

Just before everyone headed out the door to get into the car, the children’s mother and I asked the pre-takeoff question that’s been asked since the caveman first discovered vacations, that pre-takeoff question that annoys every child to no end (after all, what do we think they are, children?), “Has everybody used the bathroom before we leave?”

And the boys gave us that pre-takeoff answer that children have been giving their parents since they first discovered the right answer meant leaving sooner, “Yeah!”

“OK then, let’s go!” I excitedly announced. And off we went.

Between the light traffic and my lead foot it appeared we were on track for record breaking travel time. Then, not even forty-five minutes into the trip, from the back of the car came, “Next exit we need to find a rest room. My back teeth are floatin’.” We pulled off the highway and stopped at a restaurant.

Foolishly, I thought we’d just run into the building, use the bathroom, run back out and be on our way. But “Miss Manners” of the world of travel (aka, the boy’s mom) insisted it would be rude to pop into the joint just to use their rest room. We sat up to the counter and ordered what we thought would be quick eats.

See, middle son ordered fries, which of course the place was out of. The waitress assured us to cook up a new batch would only take 5 minutes . . . an hour later we were finally on our way.

Sixty uneventful minutes and, “Keep your feet away from mine!” reverberated from youngest son’s mouth, followed by, “Mom, he’s crowding my side of the seat!”

“Am not!”

“Are too.!”

“Am not!”

And on it went.

That problem solved, harmony once again filter throughout the vehicle, yeah right. A few minutes passed by and the peace was shattered by a barrage of declarations:

“I gotta pee!”

“Dad, I’m thirsty.”

“Mom, I . . .”

ARGH!

And parents enthusiastically repeat this masochistic adventure on an annual basis. There truly must be something wrong with us.

Random Thoughts of a Neurotic Man

Why am I always the one on the commode when the roll of toilet paper runs out and the stash of T.P. in the cabinet is depleted? How I hate yelling at the top of my lungs like a Floridian with arachnophobia (now I’m not saying we grow ‘em big here but when you can count each individual hair on all eight legs with the naked eye, you know you’re dealing some BIG spiders!) for someone to please bring me some pooper scooper!

Since we’re on the subject of “poo” paper, I want to give out a loud at-a-boy to the employees at the end of the assembly lines of all the makers of toilet paper for doing such a good job of gluing that last sheet of paper to the roll. Stop taking your jobs so seriously, will you?! Just a drop or two of glue (and I’m not talking “Krazy Glue" here, or any form there of) will do, thank you very much.

Whew, glad to get that off of my chest. On to bigger and better things as they say (ever wonder just who they are? I mean, they get credit for saying so many things we should at least know who they are, just a thought).

Why is it that I can walk into a supermarket that out of 100 shopping carts has 99 new ones and I'll pick that 100th cart with the one wheel that wobbles in every direction like a drunk driving a motorcycle? Or it’ll have the one wheel that is frozen, won’t spin, turn, etc--it thinks it’s attached to the cart purely for decorative purposes.

The bigger question is why did the supermarket stop buying new carts after purchasing 99 of them? Would it have put them into bankruptcy to purchase just one more cart?

One supermarket advertises that it’s your (meaning you and I) store. Well, since it’s my store then I say buy the extra shopping cart! Oh, and I’ll take some of my cash from my registers; Sweetie needs a new car.

Remember when you were just a child and would hang your arm out an open window of the car and your parents would command you to pull it back in because it was a dangerous thing to do? Remember how, to emphasize this point, your parents would then proceed to tell you about the little child who years ago wouldn’t listen to his parents when they warned him of the dangers of hanging his arm out of a car window and a vehicle coming the other way caught his hanging arm and ripped it right off? For those of us whose parents did this, it’s a wonder the first time we saw a one-armed adult we didn’t run up to that person, while shaking a finger at him, and say, “So you’re the one who put his arm out the window of the car after being told not to!”

And as parents we all say other stupid things to our kids, things like what my parents said to me when I acted up, as did theirs to them and I to mine, “You wanna spankin’?”

Now how stupid of a question is that? I doubt there’s ever been a kid who turned his derriere to his daddy and said, as he pointed to one of his rear cheeks, “Yeah lay it on me, right there.”

There are plenty of other stupid things we say, right? You know, like when you hear someone enter the house and you holler from another room, “Mick!”

“Yeah.”

“Is that you?”

Daaarrrrrhhhhh!

Or how about when you’ve been searching for a lost item/items for a while, like your keys for instance, and after you've retrieve them someone asks you, “So where did you finally find your keys?”

“Wouldn’t you know it,” you answer, “I found them in the last place I looked.”

Of course they were in the last place you looked! Nobody keeps looking after they find their lost property.

“Well, they were in the 3rd to the last spot I looked at, but I was having so much fun I just kept on looking, kind of reminded me of a scavenger hunt.”

One time I managed a regional bookstore. We were required to wear these funky bookstore aprons with our manager nametag on the chest. Well one day, at the end of an opening shift, I was carrying three cash register drawers back to the office to balance out that shift’s sales.

I was heading down a book aisle, toward the office, when a lady walking toward me stopped and asked, “Do you work here?”

“No lady, I’m a thief in disguise. Is it working?”

ARGH!

Well, kiddos, these have been just some of the random thoughts of a neurotic man. I hope they keep you up at night as they do me—I could use the company.

Speak English! Oh, You Are

Some people say the English language is one of the hardest languages to learn. And you know what? They might just be right. But I’m not sure if it’s the structure and mechanics of the language as much as it’s the many different dialects that make it difficult, not only here in the United States but around the world.

Judge shows (you know, Judges Brown, Judy, Martinez, etc.) provide one with many examples of the different English dialects here in the States. I remember a case where the defendant was trying to convince the Judge that the complainant tricked him into agreeing to a deal he now was trying to get out of. He said, and I quote, “She nipolated me ya honor. She’s a nipolater.”

On another show a defendant thought she shouldn’t be held liable for wrecking a friend’s car because her, “insurance had collapsed.”

So does that mean if I should faint you could say I elapsed to the floor? Just curios.

I’ve also learned new words and ways of saying old words from these same shows. One woman, who supposedly had a Masters degree (in what I don’t know, perhaps Shoe Tying), kept telling the Judge over and over that part of the problem was the zellerator in her car wasn’t working properly. It took a while, but the Judge finally figured out the woman was talking about the accelerator of her car.

“I borrowed it to him” and, “So we’re irresponsible for paying back the money?” are just two more ways of phrasing and using words in a way I didn’t know existed.

The airlines, now they have their own style of grammar--Third Person Removed. They always say they’d like to thank you but they never do; “On behalf of the captain and crew we’d like to thank you for flying Wrongway Airlines. . .” or, “On behalf of Wrongway Airlines we’d like to welcome you to Peeonya, Alaska. . .”

I’ m just waiting for the day when they finally finished those sentences, “. . . but you’re all a bunch of morons so we’re not going to.”

People on TV news shows also speak a weird dialect of English, where they never complete a thought or even worse, they speak fragmented sentences. These are supposed learned people, skilled in the art of proper grammar, yet you will often hear them say things like, “A hit and run. . .” or “An unusual bank robbery,” just before they go to commercial break, leaving you hanging.

Mix into this whole dialect problem the English-speaking countries outside of the United States, with their own form and vernacular of the language, and one has to wonder how we communicate with each other at all.

While working at a theater in Branson, Missouri I once had a Canadian ask me where the bubbler was. I wasn’t sure if he was asking about a bidet, a Jacuzzi, or a boiling pot of water on a stove. Turns out he was talking about the water fountain.

And a while back I was helping an English gentleman who was looking for an NBA jersey of any team for a gift to a friend back home. I pointed out a Denver Nugget jersey and he was almost insulted. From where he hails, a nugget is a piece of fecal matter, talk about a quick ending to a long friendship.

Well, I could drone on and on concerning this subject, but I reckon I should cut off the TV, carry the kids to Grandma’s so she can keep them, whilst sweetie and I take in a picture show--that, my friends, is Southern English for, “I suppose I should turn off the TV, drive the kids to Grandma’s so she can babysit them, while sweetie and I go to a movie.”

Raising the Odd Couple

When it came to raising our two older sons I felt like the former Mrs. Bagley and I were raising Felix and Oscar from the old television show, The Odd Couple. Weekday mornings during the school year were a prime example.

At 5:30 in the morning the silence in the house would be shattered by eldest son’s alarm clock. As mentioned in a previous post, the alarm on eldest son’s clock sounded very much like the alarm announcing an attempted prison break. It’s loud screeched could’ve peeled the makeup off the face of Tammy Fay Baker, who, as you may recall, looked like she’d spent six months in intensive care at Max Factor.

Now, eldest son was a good sleeper—the kid could’ve slept through Hurricane Katrina—so naturally he’d sleep through the alarm. Of course, this meant someone (meaning me) had to roust eldest son awake.

Feeling my way in the dark to the hall light switch, I’d stumble over my shoes and crash into our dresser before finding the switch and turning on the light. I’d then clumsily make my way to eldest son’s room, where he was sleeping soundly, not bothered at all by the screeching alarm clock sitting within arms reach on his nightstand.

I’d shake him by the leg and loudly tell him it was time to get up, at which point he’d blindly reach for his clock and push the snooze button. That was my signal to leave him for the time being and go wake up middle son.

Middle son was the exact opposite of his brother. As soon as he heard me call his name he’d jump out of bed, stretch, and head to the bathroom to shower and prepare for the day.

Once middle son was up and going, I’d head back to bed and try to fall asleep. Just as I’d start drifting off to dreamland eldest son’s alarm would sound again. I’d shake the cobwebs from my head and meander back to his room. About the time I’d get there he’d stick his arm out from beneath the covers of his bed and, once again, hit the snooze button.

By now, middle son would be out of the shower and getting dressed. Me? I’d be heading back to bed to try and get a little more rest, but just as my eyes would start to get heavy with sleep I’d hear, BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Eldest son’s confounded alarm again!

By this time I won’t leave his room until he can carry on a fairly coherent conversation. The only problem was he could converse in his sleep very well, so I’d head back to bed only to return fifteen minutes later to shut off that annoying alarm clock once and for all.

Next, middle son would begin the countdown. You see, he was known as the “Time Keeper” in our family and for good reason. About an hour before it was time to leave for some event, he’d start counting off the time, minute by minute.

“It’s two o’clock. We need to leave in sixty minutes!” he’d holler. One minute later and, “It’s one minute past two. We need to leave in fifty-nine minutes,” etc.

School mornings, he’d pause the countdown long enough to crank up the stereo to his favorite Rock station, which is all it’d take to finally roust eldest son out of bed—at that time in his life, eldest son preferred Country Music.

Eldest son would then stagger, like a drunken sailor on shore leave, to the bathroom to prepare for the day.

“It’s six-fifteen! Our ride will be here in 45 minutes!” the Time Keeper would holler.

“Knock it off!” Eldest would retort, while cranking up his radio in the bathroom to drown younger sibling’s Rock Music.

“Hurry up then. You’re going to make us late . . . AGAIN!” would be middle son’s reply. And the conversation between the two always deteriorated from there.

Soon, above the noise of both radios they’d begin arguing over every little thing they could think of: Country Music versus Rock Music, arriving early to an event versus arriving late, who did or didn’t take out the previous day’s trash, whether or not the moon is made of cheese, and snowflakes are really the world’s collective dandruff blowing in the wind (Ok, not those last two. I got carried away, sorry).

At last former Mrs. Bagley, youngest son, and I would be rescued from this morning ritual when, at 7:00 a.m., the two boys’ ride to school arrived.

Middle son would announce the appearance of their ride and, neatly dressed, hair washed and combed, backpack filled with all he’d need for the day, he’d rush out the front door and crawl into the car. Eldest son was, as I’m sure you’ve gathered by now, a different story.

He’d be just exiting the bathroom as younger brother was announcing the arrival of their ride. As middle son was going out the door, eldest son would be scurrying about the house, gathering his clothes from all corners of the abode and hastily throwing them on himself.

And as he walked out the door in a pair of semi-clean blue jeans, a partially buttoned and wrinkled shirt, shoes and socks in one hand, a cup of hot chocolate in the other, and a hat over his wet, matted hair, I couldn’t help but wonder out loud to the boys' mom, “are we raising the odd couple?”

She just smiled and told me someday we’d look back on these times and laugh.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “but probably from within a room at a sanitarium.”

Things That Don't Go Well With Motorcycling

You know, I’ve ridden motorcycles off and on for most my life. Over the years I’ve learned there are a few things that really don’t go too well with motorcycle riding.

I.B.S. (Irritable Bowel Syndrome) is at the top of my list. For those of you whose knowledge of IBS is limited to what you’ve seen and heard on T.V. commercials let me just say this, a more correct term for IBS would be B. B. S., Battle of the Bowel Syndrome, and folks once that battle starts it’s not a question of if you’re going to lose the battle but where you’re going to lose it.

You see, when IBS rears its ugly head food goes through you like Grape Nuts through a goose. It doesn’t even stop to say hello, and once those intestines of yours get to barking, your time for finding the proper facilities to let the enemy “pass” (if you catch my drift) is very limited.

So, when riding down the road on a motorcycle at 55 to 70 mph with the Battle of the Bowels rumbling in your stomach, every bump, every pothole, every crack in the road you run over only serves to irritate the enemy, stir him up as it were, and hasten his attack. When this happens that limited time you have to find a suitable place becomes even shorter.

Of course the term “suitable place” is relative. Desperate times calls for desperate measures and when you’re about to loose the Battle of the Bowels any place that might give you some privacy (and keep you from getting arrested) is suitable: irrigation ditch, deep ravine, thick forest, back ally, you get the idea.

You fail to find that suitable place and, well, you’ll wish you were wearing Depends diapers for adults. And in the words of that great American, if there ever was one, Forrest Gump, “That’s all I have to say about that.”

Next on the list of things that don’t go with well with motorcycling is windshield wiper fluid. There’s nothing like driving down the interstate on a sunny day and someone driving a mini van ahead of you decides to clean his/her windshield—it’s amazing how wind created by a moving vehicle can carry so much liquid through the air 4 or 5 car lengths. Makes one wonder how much of the stuff actually hits the windshield.

I don’t know, maybe these drivers are just trying to help me out. Maybe they look in their side mirror, see my face shield, and feel it needs cleaning so they share their windshield cleaning fluid with me. That’s nice, but you’d think they’d at least toss a hand towel out the window for me. I wonder how far the wind would carry that.

Another thing that doesn’t go well with motorcycle riding is accidently getting high from two over-the-counter medications (medications you’ve taken before but not simultaneously) for sinus drip and cough.

I mean, driving down the highway with blurred vision, swerving in your lane, all the while thinking you could just let go of your bike and fly with the birds, is not an experience you wish to repeat.

Oh, and calling work (after you’ve pulled off the road) to tell your boss you won’t be coming in and why, leaving your bike in the parking lot of a CVS pharmacy and explaining to the manager why, and calling your wife to tell her where you are, asking her to come get you and explaining to her why, are beyond embarrassing. It’s just down right humiliating.

Finally, utility workers and motorcycling also don’t go well together. Sadly, I learned this not too long ago on my way to work.

Traffic in town began backing up more than usual and I figured there was wreck up ahead somewhere, would that it was only that.

As I finally drew closer to the source of the problem, I could see ahead of me what looked like water utility trucks at a gas station. The crew seemed to be working on a problem.

“Water leak,” I thought. Then I drove by the area.

The smell that penetrated my helmet almost knocked me off of my bike. It wasn’t a water leak they were working on. No, it was a SEWER LEAK! From the putrid, almost overwhelming smell of it, I’d say it was raw sewage at that. I swear I was ten miles down the road before that awful stench finally cleared my helmet.

And wouldn’t you know it took a couple of days before the air around that part of town cleared up. Driving past there for those few days, I breathed in so much methane gas I wouldn’t be surprised if I develop Black Lung Disease!

So, with these and the many other things that don’t go well with motorcycling, you might ask, “Why do you continue to ride?” The answer to that is an easy one. Because it’s fun!

What Goes Around Comes Around

Part of being a good parent is supporting your kids’ as best you can in their various activities. Sometimes this can be very excruciating painful. I don’t know how many Cub Scout Pinewood Derbies; grade school, middle school, high school basketball and football tournaments; swimming meets; church and school programs, etc.; my parents attended over the years as they raised four boys, but the number is high, maybe too high to count. Certainly many of the activities in which they supported us were painfully boring, perhaps uneventful, and unintentionally comical. And I’m fairly certain that if they’d had a choice (in their minds they didn’t, for they felt that that choice was made when they decided to raise a family), they would rather have flossed their teeth with piano wire than be in some hot, smelly, musky gymnasium/auditorium or standing on the sidelines of a football field in the sizzling, ruthless, August heat, cheering on one or more of their sons. But being the petulant turd of a child that I sometimes could be, I of course didn’t appreciate my parents’ sacrifices during those times. Heck, I didn’t even see those as sacrifices. In my mind it was my absolute, God-given right to always have at least one parent at all events I was involved in. Anything less was unacceptable. Ahhh but life, karma, the universe, whatever you choose to call it, has a way of evening the score if you will. In a cute little song recorded several years ago, The Statler Brothers expressed this sentiment better than I ever could. See if the lyrics to it don’t put a smile across your face (for the purpose of not spoiling the inpact of the content of the song, I’ve purposely left out its title. It was written, however, by Don Reid of said group). I just spent an unusual evening At a banquet that still won’t digest Watching this year’s high school heroes Get awarded for what they do best There’s a letter for the one that jumped highest And one ran faster by far One broke the 200 meters And one broke her arm on the bar The baseball team took the honors The MVP stole the show The coach looked scared with a tie on Swore next year they’d be 15 and 0 And in tomorrow morning’s newspaper There’ll be pictures that surely reveal Young men looking strange with no caps on And tomboys in dresses and heals And I've stood up there where they’re standing And never once thought I would be Sitting out here where I’m sitting Looking more like my daddy than me Twenty some years from tomorrow These same boys and girls will find An old faded newspaper clipping Yellow and torn up with time Their daughters and sons will be standing Up there where they used to be And only then will they know what I’m feeling When they’re sitting out here with me And I've stood up there where they’re standing Behind the MVP But it’s late; I’m tired and still hungry Acting more like my daddy than me I’m getting more like my daddy than me

A Haunting Message

The following is something I came across not long ago. It's message struck me hard and continues to haunt me as I think about current events. I thought I'd share it with you.

Well, how do you do, young Willie McBride
Do you mind of I sit here down by your graveside
And rest for a while ‘neath the warm summer sun
I’ve been working all day and I’m nearly done
I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen
When you joined the great fallen in nineteen-sixteen
I hope you died well and I hope you died clean
Or young Willie McBride was it slow and obscene

Chorus
Did they beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly
Did they sound the dead march as they lowered you down
And did the band play the Last Post and chorus
Did the pipes play the Flow’rs of the Forest?

And did you leave a wife or sweetheart behind
In some faithful heart are you forever enshrined
Although you died in nineteen-sixteen
In that faithful heart are you forever nineteen
Or are you a stranger without even a name
Enclosed and forever behind the glass frame
In an old photograph, torn and battered and stained
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame

Chorus
Did they beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly
Did they sound the dead march as they lowered you down
And did the band play the Last Post and chorus
Did the pipes play the Flow’rs of the Forest?

The sun now it shines on the green fields of France
There’s a warm summer breeze, it makes the red poppies dance
And look how the sun shines from under the clouds
There’s no gas, no barbed wire, no guns firing now
But here in this graveyard it’s still no man’s land
The countless white crosses stand mute in the sand
To man’s blind indifference to his fellow man
To a whole generation that were butchered and damned

Chorus
Did they beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly
Did they sound the dead march as they lowered you down
And did the band play the Last Post and chorus
Did the pipes play the Flow’rs of the Forest?

Now young Willie McBride I can’t help but wonder why
Do all those who lie here know why they died
And did they believe when they answered the cause
Did they really believe that this war would end wars
Well the sorrows, the suffering, the glory, the pain
The killing and dying was all done in vain
For young Willie McBride it all happened again
And again, and again, and again, and again

Chorus
Did they beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly
Did they sound the dead march as they lowered you down
And did the band play the Last Post and chorus

I Got the Fever but Don’t Need No Doctor--a Boulevard Will Do Just Fine Thank You Very Much

Off and on, I’ve been afflicted with the fever for the better part of my life. But it’d been years since I was plagued by it, so naturally I thought I was cured. I was so wrong.

Now, the fever never really goes away, not even if you expose yourself to its cause in hopes that your immune system will build a resistance to it. No, it just lays dormant, plays possum with you, waiting for something to stir it back to life.

It was just a couple of years ago when that aforementioned something happened to me. Younger brother phoned me, seeking my help with an important task. I declined. He’d caught the fever too and I was afraid any contact with him would awaken that sleeping giant of a fever within me.

But that night younger brother showed up at my place and I stepped outside to greet him. In retrospect, I should’ve locked the doors, pulled the blinds, and acted like I wasn’t home.

You see, as soon as I saw that brand new motorcycle strapped to the bed of younger brother’s truck, well, as the saying goes, “that was all she wrote.” Bike fever reared its ugly head and I just had to take his bike out for a spin.

“I’ll just take it down the block and back,” I assured him. Forty-five minutes and 35 miles later I pulled into the driveway and parked the bike next to brother’s truck.

Over the next few months, while brother was learning how to operate his new toy (the irony of it all, that I was an experienced motorcyclist without a bike and brother, who had no experience yet owned one, was not lost on this boy), I broke in his bike exploring the highways and byways of the greater Orlando area, intensifying my desire to once again own a motorcycle.

There’s just something about riding motorcycles that makes driving a pleasure, not a chore. Perhaps it’s the raw power underneath you, or a sense of freedom, a feeling of being unencumbered by doors, dashboards, and bumpers that makes riding so fun. It’s hard to explain to those who don’t understand.

There’s also a brotherhood among bikers. It’s an unwritten rule that when passing on the highway you wave to each other (not a typical “Howdy” wave, that would be what the kids now-a-days call gay, but a “cool” wave—stick your arm straight out and low, hand closed except for a pointing index finger).

It’s also an unwritten rule that when you see another biker to the side of the road you stop to make sure all is OK and offer any assistance that you can. It felt great to renew my membership in the brotherhood.

Anyway, if there was any chance to totally squelch my fever for a bike that chance itself was quashed when six months after brother bought his motorcycle eldest son went out and bought him one. And like younger brother, eldest son also had no experience operating a bike, so pops (that would be me) continued to get a lot of riding in as he broke in son’s bike too.

Often, I’d take day trips, exploring the back roads of Florida with youngest brother or with a date, preferably the latter of the two. Hey, I love my brother and all but come on, riding along side of him as apposed to having a nice lady sitting behind me, legs squeezing me, arms wrapped tightly around my waist--well, it’s a no brainer, folks.

I even owe it to eldest son’s bike for helping me know that Sweetie and I could possibly make a beautiful life together. It was only our second date when she hopped on the back of the bike and we rode 90 some odd miles through the Ocala National Forrest and back. Any woman who’d do that is a keeper as they say.

Well, all that bike riding was more than I could stand and the fever for a motorcycle finally overcame me. Just before Thanksgiving of ‘07 I bought a new bike, a black Suzuki Boulevard, one beautiful cruiser.

Oh but this bike is not for pleasure you see. Oh no, with gas upwards to $3.00 a gallon, I bought it strictly for economic reasons. At least, that’s how I explain it to everybody who asks why I went into debt for a bike just after paying off my car. It works for me.

Tis the Season

It’s election season again and it seems that during the presidential election people are just chock full of ideas of what they would do to improve this country if they were president. I’ve yet to hear, though, any ideas that are sensible, ideas that would really make life better for the poor, downtrodden, the masses yearning to improve their status in life.

So, I took some time (about 3 or 4 seconds) to ponder the question, “what would I do if I were president to improve life for the general masses?” The following is what I came up with.

· Government negotiators would bring together the manufacturers of hotdogs and hotdog buns and help them hammer out an agreement to pack the same amount of buns as there are dogs in their respective packages. Why can't those people get that right?

· Ties would definitely be outlawed. Personally, I believe ties were invented by women to pay men back for inventing the brassiere.

· Sleazy talk shows on television would be banned.

· Public transit would have to quit asking for “exact change.” If they want me to give them exact change then they should take me exactly where I want to go!
· Stores wouldn’t be allowed to advertise or display Christmas paraphernalia until after Thanksgiving.

· Calling Thanksgiving “Turkey Day” would be a federal offense. Man that just bugs the heck out of me when people, especially those in the media who are trying to chum up to us, do that! Of course, there should be a penalty for violating this law. Maybe the guilty party (or parties) should have to lick a huge castor oil sucker until it’s all gone. Naw, that sentence is too light.

· It would be lawful for a patient to bill a doctor for lost time at work if the doctor is late for the patient’s appointment. Hey, if we’re late the doc reserves the right to refuse to see us but yet bill us for the missed appointment. Turn about is fair play, isn’t it?

· Personal hygiene commercials, E.D. commercials, and sleazy talk shows would all be banned.

· Personalized license plates would have to be decipherable. I wouldn’t be surprised if most car accidents are caused from people trying to decode personalized tags when they should be watching the road.

· Hanging up the phone without saying a word when you get someone’s voicemail would carry a stiff penalty—I think a 10 year sentence of having to spend 8 hours, every day, watching the first O.J. Simpson trial over and over would be appropriate.

· It would be law that mayonnaise jars would be made so you could easily get the last of the mayonnaise out of them.

· Childproof lids would be relabeled for what they really are, ADULTPROOF!

· I would make it a felony to wear spandex. I hate that material. I don’t care who you are—Miss America, Mr. Universe, it doesn't matter—you put on spandex and you’ll ugly yourself up in 30 seconds flat!

These are just a few of the changes I’d make in America if I were president. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to draw some pretty pictures with my crayons on the padded wall of my cell before my doctor stops by.

While Others Feast on the Pleasures of Life, Why Do I Get the Indigestion?

Taking a break. Be back Monday

As I drove the car into the yard of the body shop the owner of it told me I needed to call home immediately. The phone only rang once before eldest son answered it.

"We've got a little problem with the truck."

"What problem?"

"It's wrecked."

"What?"

"The parking brake was released, and it rolled into the neighbor's truck."

"What caused the brake to release?"

"The impact."

"What impact?"

"The impact from the car."

"Car, what car?"

"The neighbor's car."

"The neighbor's car?"

"Yeah, little Johnny Deckwalter was playing Indy 500 in the family car and popped it out of gear. It rolled into our truck, and the impact caused the parking brake to release."

"Did anyone get hurt?"

"Yeah, Mom...when the door hit her."

"The door hit her? What door?"

"The truck door."

"How did she get hit by the truck door?"

"When she opened it and tried to jump in and stop the truck from rolling."

"So the door bruised her up some?"

"Well, yeah, but I think most of her injuries happened after the door knocked her to the ground."

"Oh, she hit the ground and that's what caused most of the injuries."

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean not exactly?"

"Probably the injury to her ankle happened after the door hooked her shirt and the truck dragged her as it rolled down the hill."

"Her ankle is injured too?"

"Yeah, but the ambulance man didn't think it was broken."

"What ambulance man?"

"The one that attended to the big gash in mom's head and helped set her arm just before they put the collar around her neck and strapped her onto the board."

"Whaaaaaat?! Does she have any other injuries?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? Didn't she say?"

"Nope. She's not speaking."

"Why isn't she speaking?"

"She's unconscious."

"Holy Molly! Is there anything else I should know?"

"Not that I can think of, but while you're in Springfield . . . "

"Why would I be going to Springfield?"

"Because that's where the ambulance man said the helicopter was taking mom. The hospital there is better equipped for severe head trauma."

And the indigestion just keeps on coming.