You're Going to Put That Thermometer Where?!

For most of us, visiting the doctor is not something that tops our list of fun things to do. And no matter how many times we visit our doctor, things take place there that we just don't understand. See if the following doesn't sound familiar.

When visiting the doctor's office, sometimes I'm given the cup and sent to the bathroom to give a urine sample. Of course when making the appointment, I was never told to be prepared for this, and I inevitably use the commode before leaving home, arriving at the doctor's office with a bladder as dry as the Sahara Desert.

The next thing I know, I'm locked in a tiny closet of a bathroom, straining hard enough to break a blood vessel just to get a drop or two of liquid into the cup.

If, by chance, I suspect a sample request will be forthcoming, I hold off using the bathroom at home and arrive at the doc's with a bladder so full my back teeth are floating. And this brings up another dilemma.

When handed the cup there's one important piece of information that seems to always be omitted from my instructions, just how much of a sample am I supposed to give? I mean, with a full bladder I can easily fill the cup to over flowing, but I'm fairly confident the gang at the medical lab who test the stuff really don't want more from me than what's necessary.

On the other hand, if I don't give the lab enough of my urine, will they call and, after I've emptied what's left in my bladder, ask that I provide more? These are serious questions to those of us on the giving end of this whole ordeal.

Another apprehension I have about visiting the doctor is being forced to wear those hideous hospital gowns. Obviously these gowns were designed by some fashion school flunky. Not only is it impossible to cover my derriere while wearing one, but they're so blasted short that when I lie down on something, like say an x-ray table, I could serve as the poster boy for a college anatomy class. I'll bet I've flashed my bare essentials at more people than did Lady Godiva.

And why is this piece of hospital attire called a gown? It's not like it's some fashionable piece of clothing to be worn at a cotillion.

Then there's the blood pressure cuff. I remember the time the doctor was concerned because my blood pressure was elevated. HELLOOOOOOOOO! Of course my blood pressure was elevated.

I was at the doctor's office, anticipating all of the poking and prodding about to commence upon my body, when Nancy Nurse comes in the room, slaps this Velcro thing around my left bicep, and proceeds to pump that hummer so tightly around my arm it feels like I'm in the grasp of a 9000-pound gorilla! You'd have to be dead to not have elevated blood pressure from an experience like that.

Well there you have it, just a few of the things concerning doctor visits that a lot of us don't understand and would like to have explained. In the meantime, let's thank our lucky stars that rectal thermometers aren't used anymore.

I'm Baaaack! Married and a Grandpa

A few particulars for now: My sweet wife and I started dating last April (2007) and after falling madly in love with each other we decided to wedd last Friday, Dec. 7th (Pearl Harbor Day, LOL!) 2007. If you read my post "Dear Valentine" from last Feburary you will know how I feel about her and how I'm so thankful she loves me the same. She's something!
Our wedding was a small but very special affair and was just as we wanted it. I will download pics as soon as I can.
On the following Saturday, December 9th, baby J. was born! My first grandchild and what a handsome devil he is--takes after his mom; ha son! Yesterday, Monday the 10th, I rocked little J. in a rocking chair just like I did almost 28 years ago to another little darked-haired boy, his daddy. I'm still grinning. I'm not sure but eldest son might post some pics of baby J. on his website, which is linked to this one.
Needless to say, last weekend was one heck of weekend for me and mine. One that will not be forgotten.
Back to regular writing next week.

Dating Old Geezer Style

****TAKING A BREAK WHILE I PREPARE FOR MY WEDDING ON DEC 7TH. BUT AS ARNOLD "THE GUBINATOR" ONCE SAID, "I'LL BE BACK." THANKS FOR YOUR UNDERSTANDING, PATIENCE, AND LOYALTY.
LATER GATORS,
DOUG

Delusional. It's the only word that correctly describes the inaccurate notion I had that dating again, after 20 years of marriage, would be fun and carefree. After all, because I was older, wiser and had more life-experience, I could avoid the neurosis of the dating world that so many of us experienced when we were young and immature. WRONG!

Eight years into this dating-in-the-adult-world thing, I've not only learned that the neurosis still exists but it's actually increased. There are now more things to be neurotic about.

For one thing, Father Time is not kind to the human body. When I was younger, although I was slim, my muscles were hard and defined. I was, to quote the Bob Seger song, "Like A Rock." But at the age of 40, when I became single again, I was less like a rock and more like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Exercise became my second religion.

And just about the time that strength-training was actually showing some nice dividends, I incurred reminders (various strains and pulls of muscles) that I'm not as young as I used to be.

So instead of exercise, I now do the suck-in-your-gut-when-a-nice-looking-lady-walks-by thing. And like a lot of other guys, I've deceived myself into believing that not only does this make my stomach look smaller but some how sucking my midsection up to my chin makes my chest look bigger, stronger, and more impressive.

There are other quandaries lurking in the adult dating world. Because I don't want my date thinking I'm an invalid, I try to hide the infirmities age has inflicted upon me. Reading glasses are a good example of what I'm talking about. The need for them is part of the aging process, and though I didn't want them I have them.

My solution? I leave them home. Riiiiight, like squinting to read the restaurant menu that I'm holding at arms length doesn't give my date a clue that my eyes need a little assistance.

Then there's the dilemma I face after eating a nice big, spicy meal: do I, in front of my date, pop into my mouth a couple of anti-acids (only old geezers need them, right?), or do I leave them in my pocket and suffer unspeakable pain throughout the rest of the evening?

While we're on the subject of the digestive system, since after a certain age everything one ingests gives one gas, when on a date, how does one discretely dispose of the rumbling methane building in my intestines after a meal?

Well I do the gentlemanly thing. I wait until we're in a crowd, quietly let loose of the gas, and then blame it on someone else.

"Can you believe someone would be so gross as to flatulate in public? There's no consideration for others anymore."

Just kidding. What I really do is hold it in until I bloat like a bovine loose in an alfalfa field, all the time fearing I'll float away on the wind like a human helium balloon.

Another question that arises is just how picky should I be concerning whom I date? Well I've come to understand that the answer lies in a simple equation--the longer I'm single the lower my standards. The personal ads in the classified section of a newspaper demonstrate what I mean.

If a young guy were to take out one of these ads his requirements for a date might read like the following:

Must be physically fit, high energy, vivacious, adventurous, dresses fashionably but is as comfortable in jeans as she is in an evening gown, is a witty, intelligent, professional; financially secure and emotionally stable.

Where as an ad from an older man might read:

Must be breathing, have most of her teeth and only a little facial hair, not too bald, shaves her legs and armpits every now-and- again, wears shoes, doesn't chew tobacco on a regular basis, occasionally uses deodorant, bathes once a month, and regularly takes her meds to control her mental illness.

Multiple divorces are also obstacles for the single adult. Evidently there's an unwritten rule that one divorce is OK, but multiple divorces are as scary as multiple personalities and for the same reason . . . something just ain't right.

One might think then that the never-been-married group would have the upper hand in this world of adult dating. Nope. That's just as much a liability as multiple divorces. You see, another unwritten rule is the 35-and-older person who has never been married, well, there's probably a very good reason for that so stay clear. ARRRRRRG!

Yes, the dating world for adults is more confusing, frustrating, and neurotic then when we were teens. A Rubik's Cube is an easier mystery to solve. So what's one to do? When I figure that out I'll be sure to let you. Right now I have to get ready for a date.

Hey, dating might be confusing, frustrating, and neurotic, but it beats an evening home alone trying to solve a Rubik's Cube.

Authors Note: Since this writing, I have become engaged. More on that later.

Hey Pickle Head, I'll Take Two Strawberry-Blonds With Chicken Legs

Let's face it, though some people in our society have worked hard for change, we still live in world where too much emphasis is placed on one's perceived attractiveness. And for those of us who don't eat to live but live to eat, society has made it very difficult for us to discipline ourselves when it comes to our eating habits; the English language seems to equate almost everything with food. Just feast your eyes on the following:

Let's start off with the human being. Someone who is considered not too bright can be called a potato head (and remember, potatoes have eyes), a meat head, or a pickle head, just to name a few. If your head is adorned with red hair you're a carrot top, or perhaps you are a person who has strawberry-blond hair. There are people who have cauliflower ears, toe jam, and of course, we all have our own set of buns. If you're unfortunate enough to have an acne problem you probably have heard the term pizza face once or twice; then there are those who have a peaches-and-cream complexion.

We've heard the terms beer belly, onion breath, pickle breath, armpit juice, Adam's apple, duck feet, goose neck, and peach fuzz (growing on a young man's face). An unattractive person may be considered a cow, a heavy person may be considered a butter ball, and one who is underweight could very well have chicken legs--it all sounds like a smorgasbord at a restaurant for cannibals.

Besides the physical and mental aspects of the human being, we also compare each other to food in other ways. A really nice person can be a "peach" to work with, where as, a jerk is a real weenie or a turkey. If you act silly you are a nut or have gone bananas; if a guy is cocky he is a hot dog. A little girl can be the apple of her daddy's eye. A person can be colder than the center seed of a cucumber or hotter than a pepper. I've been labeled a pig when I've eaten more than my share of food at supper time.

Then there's other terminology which we use. Have you ever been on a wild goose chase? If a cool wind is blowing, you might say it's chilly outside. We can drive a stake (yes, I know the last two are not spelled like the food that they make us thing of, but the connotation is still there) into the ground. If we care to, we can find a court on which to play a game of squash.

Personally, I can remember playing potato ball and crab soccer in P.E. during my high school days. Many of us have owned a car that turned out be a lemon. Those little German canines are often called Wiener dogs, and a dog which the genes of several breeds flowing through its veins is called a Heinz 57.

And down here in the Southern States, one may be served hush puppies as part of one's meal. If we want to we can eat a date, set a date, make a date, break a date, take out a date, double date, or single date. It can be sooooo confusing!

Well, it's time to quit this nonsense and go pump kin for family gossip; yeah, I know, that last one was really stretching it a bit, but orange you glad I put it in there anyway?

The "New" World of Potty Training

It always amazes me what people will think to make a little money. Take, for instance, the program I saw on television awhile back when the network I was watching did a piece on new methods for potty training children, and you know I just had to write about it.

During the program part of a potty training video, a video parents could purchase to encourage their “trainee” to use the toilet, was shown. The thing I couldn’t figure out is just when one is supposed to show this video to one’s offspring--before, during, or after the child’s attempt to use the commode?

I guess, like those in-flight movies shown on airplanes while in route to one’s destination, one could use the potty video as an in-bathroom movie while one’s child is in route to, well, you get the idea. But I digress.

Now, one part of this video portrayed an over enthusiastic, if not down right sickening, set of parents in a bathroom, standing in front of their child who’s sitting on the thrown. As the proud parents stood there—I swear I’m not making this up—they sang a potty song to their child that went something like this: Bobby’s a super duper pooper. He can poop with the best . . .!

Yeah right. You just know that singing toilet songs to my three sons as they did their “duty” while on the toilet would’ve been the highlight of their potty training. And I won’t even delve into the lyrics I’d have sung to my boys, except to say that my marriage to their mom would probably have ended earlier than it did.

You know, the biggest problem I see with this method of toilet training is the affect it might have on a child—every time he hears someone singing he’ll have the overwhelming urge to go to the bathroom, kind of makes you think of Pavlov and his dogs, doesn’t it? I’m guessing this type of toilet training would preclude a music career for a child.

To me, this potty training video rates right up there with the creation of the diaper beeper. Fortunately, like the potty video, this devise never caught on.

You see, a few years ago a guy in Utah invented a liquid sensitive beeper that attached to a baby’s diaper. Here’s how it worked. Once attached, the beeper sounds off when the diaper gets wet. You then rush your child to the bathroom, undo his diaper, and set him on the commode to finish the job, the theory being that eventually the child gets the idea that he’s to use the toilet.

Now, there are three things that concerned me about this invention. First off, let’s hope the beeper and all of its wiring is liquid proof; otherwise, your kid may be in for the shock of his young life, OUCH!

Second, what happens when you’re attending a solemn occasion like a wedding or a funeral, and your child pees his diaper? Oh, you’d certainly be the hit of the event.

Thirdly, when I get old and feeble and loose control of my bodily functions it will be embarrassing enough to having to wear adult diapers, but if my kids think their going to attach a diaper beeper to me, well, they best thing again!

It’s said that you don’t necessarily need to come up with a new invention to make money. All you have to do is improve on an old one. So while these diaper-beeping, potty videoing inventors are at it, why don’t they invent a diaper that changes itself?!

Now that would be impressive; oh, and invent it before December 11th, when baby J is due to enter the world. Grandpa here isn’t looking forward to doing the diaper thing again.

Skunky and the Bear

The Halloween of my 13th year proved to be one of the most memorable Halloweens I ever celebrated, and it all started with a suggestion from my childhood buddy and partner in mischief, Skunky Wilson.

“Hey, after we’re done with tricker-treatin’ let’s mosey over to the circus and check out the action there,” Skunky said.

The one-tent circus that my buddy mentioned was brought to our little township every Halloween by the city fathers of Booger Holler. Its purpose was to provide older kids an alternative to vandalizing the town with their Halloween high jinks.

So, after we had our fill of trick-or-treating, Skunky and I headed to the field just outside of town where the circus tent was pitched.

“Hey, look at that!” Skunky excitedly said. He was pointing to a banner over the doorway of the tent and read out loud, “Seventy-five dollars to anyone who can stand toe to toe wrestling Bruno the bear.”

“Are you crazy? I wouldn’t take on a bear for a thousand dollars!” I said in a tone of disbelief.

“But seventy-five bucks is all I need to buy that go-cart I’ve been saving for all year! Do you know how many lawns I’d have to mow to earn that kind of cash? And heck, it’s fall; there aren’t enough days left in the lawn mowing season to earn that much money.”

"But, Skunky, read the whole banner," I said. "You have to wrestle Bruno for five minutes and must be standing when the ends!"

Well, that didn't faze his enthusiasm, and by the look of determination on his face I knew it would be a waste of breath to try talking him out of this one.

We stepped into the tent and as Skunky signed up to wrestle Bruno I looked over to the center of the ring as the bear’s first match got underway. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

"Hey look!"I whispered as I tapped Skunky on the shoulder and pointed to the center of the ring, "it's old man Wedbetter." Wedbetter, the town pharmacist . . . and town drunk, was wrestling the bear.

“Well I’ll be switched, he’s the other contestant. Only two of us were brave enough [personally, I thought it something other than bravery] to wrestle Bruno. I couldn’t make out his chicken-scratch on the sign up sheet, but it is him.”

Watching the two wrestle, we soon realized that the owner of the circus had the presence of mind to de-claw and muzzle the bear. Still, the sight of old Mr. Wedbetter grappling with an adult black bear was unsettling to say the least.

As time ticked away and Wedbetter just kept hanging in there Skunky got a little scared. But finally, at the four minute and thirty second mark of the match, our pharmacist took a hard, sobering (which quite possibly was the first time he’d been sober in years), smack across the head from the bear, sending the old man to the ground, face first into the dirt. Old man Wedbetter shook the cobwebs from his mind, gathered himself, and scampered out of that ring as fast as his wobbly legs could take.

“This will be a cakewalk. If old man Wedbetter can last over four minutes with that bear I should be able to go a measly five,” Skunky announced.

The lady at the registration table (who, incidentally, looked like she’d wrestled and lost to a few bears in her day) stood up from her chair, and in a gruff, hoarse voice hollered, “Next up to wrestle Bruno is Skunky Wilson!”

The crowd cheered. Skunky raised his arms in the air in a celebratory fashion. Then, as he hopped into the ring, a hush fell over the crowd as Bruno come charging toward my friend.

The bear stood on its hind legs to greet my friend and the two locked arms, each one trying to move the other off balance. Obviously, Bruno was a veteran at this.

Next, Bruno leaned on Skunky, almost pushing him to his knees.

“The go-cart, Skunky,” I screamed, encouraging my friend to his feet.

He managed to wiggle free from Bruno and stood up to once again face the bear and the two locked arms. But this time, with legs apart, knees locked, and leaning into the bear to counter his weight, Skunky stood his ground . . . for a short while anyway.

The two swayed this way and that, trying to outmaneuver each other in an effort to gain some leverage. Then, Bruno feinted left. Skunky bought the fake and tried to counter. As he did so, the bear threw his full weight into my friend and slammed him to the ground. Do you understand what I'm saying here? Skunky was outsmarted by a bear!

Once Bruno had my buddy face down in the dirt he was determined not to allow him to easily get back on his feet. He sat down near Skunky, keeping an eye on him. Every time Skunky tried to raise to a knee that ole bear gave him a whack with a powerful paw and flattened him to the ground.

Bruno toyed with Skunky like that until my friend managed to dodge one of those whacks and scrambled to his feet, Bruno nipping at his heels.

The wrestlers locked arms yet again, but this time, when Bruno got Skunky flat on his face, the bear just sat on him, pinning him to the ground. Ten seconds later, the ring master blew her whistle, announcing the end of the match. Skunky had lost.

On our way home I tried to cheer up my friend, “Look at it this way,” I said, “you lasted longer with that ole bear than Wedbetter did.”

“Gee thanks,” Skunky responded, “that’s supposed to make me feel better; to know the town drunk lasted almost as long with that bear as I did?”

“Well, you might say that you bearly lost the match,” I said with a smile.

No response from Skunky.

“Look, go-carts are a luxury not a bear necessity.”

I saw a hint of a smile on his face.

“Well, I’m here if you need to bear your soul.”

Now even I started to chuckle.

“Wuddya say we drown your sorrow with an ice cold rootbear or a raspbeary shake?”

“Ok, ok,” Skunky chortled, “just stop it, will ya? You’re not beary funny you know.”

With that we both laughed hysterically and once again all was right with the world . . . until we got to Skunky’s home and, while looking for a snack, realized the cupboards were bear.

Sorry, I was on a roll and just couldn’t resist.

Forty-Nine and Holding; Well, Pausing Anyway

Monday, October 22nd, I will officially be one year away from that golden age of 50. Fifty! I’m not sure how I feel about that. Heck, I’m not even sure how I got here. One day I’m a kid playing army in the woods with my buddies, and the next thing I know I’m turning 49.

But up until now I haven’t had a problem with getting older. There are many milestones to look forward to with age: Driving and dating at age 16; high school graduation, attending college, moving into your own place with your own rules at 18, and then of course the big 21, adulthood!

We so looked forward to that milestone, didn’t we? That is until we reached it and learned a hard truth--at age 21 you’re really just a “young adult,” too wet behind the ears for your opinions to count much by the more “experienced” adults, those who fall into the 30 and older bracket. So of course, after our 21st birthday, we couldn’t wait until we reached 30.

For some the big four zero is one of the more dreaded birthdays. I think it’s because when you’re in your forties you’re in a sort of a “no man’s land” of the aging process. You’re not yet an old geezer, but you’re passing the threshold of no return when it comes to attracting and dating the 20-something-year-olds.

But age 50, man that’s a whole other story. Fifty is the gateway to old fart alley. By age 50, unless you can find a way to stretch your arms farther away from your body when trying to read the menu your holding, you’re forced to get reading glasses.

The memory at 50 starts slipping too. You and your siblings will remember the same past incidents far differently from one another and even end up in arguments over who did what and when.

If you’re single at age 50 the desire to date the 20 and 30-something-year-old crowd begins to wane as you realize you have socks older than them. In fact, when you look at those youngsters you find yourself wondering if they have a single mom/dad and if so, more often than not, that single parent is more attractive to you than the kid!

Ah but not to fear, my friends. There are pluses awaiting you when you become a mature adult, the politically correct term for having one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.

You get to join AARP. You get discounts at restaurants, picture shows, theme parks and, as discussed in a previous post of mine, you get a free pass on socially unacceptable behavior. Things like belching, sneezing in your pants (passing gas), and crankiness are written off as behavior that comes with old age. You can even ignore people who are talking to you without offending them. They’ll just figure you’re hard of hearing or your mind's zoned out to “la, la land,” typical and frequent occurrences for old geezers.

Believe it or not even senility, which one tends get as one travels down the road of senior citizenship, has its advantages. You get to make new friends and meet new family members every day.

You can also hide your own Easter Eggs, give yourself birthday and Christmas presents and genuinely be surprised (“From me to me. Oh boy, wonder what it is!”) when you open them.

So for all of you who, like me, are closing in on the half century mark of your life, don’t fear it, don’t be 49 and holding. Instead, concentrate on the positives that await you as you pass that milestone.

Now you’ll have to excuse me, I want to pause for a moment and reflect on the first 49 years of my life…before I forget them.

Family Emergency!

Du to a family emergency, today's post will be delayed for a week. Thank you for your understanding and for your loyal reading of my blog.

UPDATE:
Thanks for your concern y'all. Luckily, the good Lord was watching over eldest son, daughter-in-law, and yet to be born baby Jayden. They were involved in a hit and run and there was a scare for a while that severe damage was done to the baby. Tests proved otherwise.Younger brother, youngest son, and I tracked the low life down who hit them and he spent the night in jail on various charges. Probably be more on this later in a post.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007 12:00:00 AM EDT

I'm No Doctor...I Have No Patience

In life, having patience can be very valuable. This is especially true when it pertains to one’s hair.

For instance, at the end of a summer vacation spent on my grandparents’ farm, I resembled something akin to a sheep dog. We were literally miles from town and there was no where to get a haircut (why don’t we say we’re getting our hairs cut? It’s sort of like a toothbrush. In most cases, shouldn’t it be called a teeth brush?). After a few months, my bangs were so long they were blocking my vision.

Not having the patience to wait until I returned home where dad would take me to our local barber, I took it upon myself to trim my own bangs. How difficult could that be? A few snips of the scissors and SHAZAM the job is done. Riiiiight. You know and I know that when a thirteen-year-old boy stumbles upon what he considers to be an excellent idea all he envisions is a perfect outcome and he carelessly pursues his notion. Rarely does he see any hidden imperfections in his plan.

So, standing in front of mirror, holding a pair of scissors to my forehead, the trimming of the bangs began. Two and a half hours later, job completed.

A few days after this event, summer vacation was over and my parents arrived to take me home. As mom stepped out of the car she just stood there staring at me as if she didn’t recognize her third son, me. In some subtle way that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, I looked vastly different than when she and dad dropped me off a few months earlier.

It took a day or so, but it finally dawned on mom what was so different about me. You see, back when I trimmed my hair I forgot to take into account a very simple but important fact: somewhere underneath those bangs of mine was a pair of eyebrows. By the time I’d finished trimming my hair there was only bone and skin protruding over my eyes, no brows, nothing, zilch!

The fact that my eyebrows would eventually grow back was of little comfort to a boy on the threshold of puberty, wanting very much to have the opposite gender take note of his budding masculinity. Needless to say, until my eyebrows returned, time just seemed to crawl by.

Well, fast forward about 20 some odd years when I had just moved to Branson, Missouri. I had a very important business meeting on a Tuesday afternoon and by Friday of the previous week my hair was in desperate need of a trim. When calling to make and appointment to get the job done, I was informed my hairstylist was out of the office. I could wait for her return on Tuesday morning or someone else at the shop could cut my hair. Being the impatient person that I was, I didn’t want to wait until Tuesday. I wanted the haircut right then.

Now, since the person selected to do the job was also the business partner of my regular stylist, I figured it was a pretty good gamble that she’d give me a very similar hair cut. Certainly their styling methods would be the same. WRONG!

You see, I was expecting a trim. What I got was just shy of the hair style commonly known as a “crew cut.” My kids started calling me Spike. In fact, my hair was so short hurricane-force winds wouldn’t have put it in disarray. The last time my hair was that short was, hmmm…oh yeah, my BIRTH!

Sure, I knew the hair would eventually grow back, but that was of little comfort to a guy trying to get his career going, who needed the marketing and public relations community to take note of his budding talent. Needless to say, until that business meeting was over, time just seemed to crawl by.

As far as social events went, well, I figured I could wear a hat. Only thing was, how would I explain to my clergy, and other church members, why I was wearing a cap on my head that read, “Heaven won’t take me, and Hell’s afraid I’ll take over?”

Dignity . . . or the Loss Thereof

Dignity can be a fleeting thing, and being a patient in a hospital is one of the quickest ways it can give you the slip. Unfortunately, I speak from experience.

I arrived at the emergency room with wild, crazy, sweat-drenched (from the severe pain) hair, wearing Joe Boxer “dogs with an attitude” pajama bottoms, and a T-shirt. Normally that would be beyond embarrassing for me, but with the pain of a bowel obstruction, the medical term for your intestines doing a Chubby Checker (you know, The Twist) on you, how I looked was the furthest thing from my mind.

Now, when your intestines do the twist nothing gets past it, solid or otherwise. So, while lying on my bed in the E.R., I felt the urge to release some flatulence. In my morphine state of mind (the pain medication had kicked in by then), I thought this to be a good thing; if I could pass gas, wouldn’t that mean I didn’t have an obstruction and therefore could go home?

To put this as delicately as I can, I forced the issue and, well, got more than I bargained for--I soiled my funky little hospital gown (the design of which has been the source of so many unintentional flashings of people’s derrieres) . . . and my bed.

Well, the nurse came in to wheel me to x-ray for a CAT scan. Red-faced, I sheepishly explained what happened, and he promptly shattered my “anti-bowel obstruction” theory, along with any hopes of going home.

He told me, and I swear there was a little glee in his eye when he said it, that all I’d managed to do was clean out what was in my intestines below the obstruction, which the aforementioned CAT scan later confirmed. This meant that I was going to be, how did the doctor put it? Oh yes, I remember. I was going to be a “guest” of the hospital for a few days.

I must divert from my thesis for just a minute and exclaim, “A GUEST?!” Doesn’t that just sound quaint and homey, like visiting an old friend for a few days? Not! It was more like being a guest of Saddam Hussein and his boys.

And just when did hosts start charging guests for their visits? All I can say is I’m sure glad that when I last visited my close friends in Tennessee they, unlike the hospital, didn’t charge me $15, 000.00 for my three-day stay. But let’s get back to the subject at hand, fleeting dignity.

Finally, the one incident that put the finishing touches on the complete fleeting of my dignity, the granddaddy of all embarrassing incidents that took place during my stay at the hospital, wasn’t losing my I.V. while showering--causing me to bleed like a stuck pig and forcing me to pull the emergency cord in the shower, which brought a very lovely looking nurse (young enough to be my daughter) to rescue me, while, mind you, I was standing in the shower, dripping wet, wearing only the suit I was born in.

It also wasn’t visitors seeing my urinal bottle filled to the rim, hanging in the bathroom. No, it was something much worse than all of these things combined. It was the unintentional (and I blame it on the morphine and those dang hospital gowns) flashing of my “baby maker” at youngest son. Poor kid, no 23-year-old should ever have to experience that--he’s currently in therapy, so hopefully the scarring to his psyche will be minimal.

I have to admit, though, I’m going strictly on youngest son’s word concerning this. I don’t actually remember the incident. You see, besides being a great pain killer another effect that morphine seems to have on the body is it tends to make one’s memory a bit fuzzy; hey, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

OK, We're Wimps!

Recently, I was reminded of a cold, hard fact of life; women get some kind of depraved pleasure when men endure pain and suffering.

Perhaps part of the reason for this is the difference in the way women and men shoulder their infirmities. When sick, a woman goes about her daily tasks quietly bearing her afflictions, never letting on she’s feeling the least bit of discomfort. Former Mrs. Bagley, for instance, could be in the throws of tetanus, yet she’d scurry about the house, vacuuming, wiping down walls, washing windows, etc, as she whistled some light-hearted, high-stepping tune, all while her muscles contorting and contracting from the wretched disease.

When I, on the other hand, suffer some great physical ailment (something excruciatingly painful like, say, a hangnail), I’ll constantly, and very loudly, whine and moan, letting the whole world in on my misfortune. I’ll also insist all living things in the universe stop what they’re doing and wait with bated breath to see if I’ll survive such a torturous ordeal.

But there are other reasons women feel such warped amusement when men suffer unbearable pain, and one of those reasons is childbirth. Let’s face it, once a woman gives birth, that experience serves as an all-time barometer of pain. No injury, no suffering, no illness a man might endure will even draw close to what a woman experiences during childbirth.

Pity, forget about it, boys. You can be hit on the interstate by a semi-truck doing 80 mph, and if you miraculously survive all you’ll hear from the ladies is “You think that hurts you ought to have to squirt 10 pounds of human flesh out of you. That’s when you’ll know what pain is!”

I remember a few years back when I passed a kidney stone. Instead of sympathy from my female co-workers I received sadistic smiles and saw a wicked glee in their eyes as I described the agonizing, painful experience.

You see, women understand that passing a kidney stone is the closest a man can get to experience the pains of childbirth, and women take great sadistic joy in hearing us describe our excruciating ordeal. Though my female co-workers didn’t say it, I could tell by the expression on their faces what they were thinking; “You ought to squirt 10 pounds of human flesh out of you. Then you’ll know what pain is.” I finally just shut up about it and kept the telling of my story to just the men. Hey, I’d endured enough, why pile humiliation on top of everything else?

Yes, it’s a historical fact, men. Throughout time we’ve never received, nor will we ever receive, empathy from the ladies when it comes to pain and suffering. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t understand it and . . . OUCH! I’d better end this now. My pinkies are sore and are blistered from all of this typing.

Ohhhhh the pain is unbearable. We’re out of aspirin! Oh no, how am I supposed to endure this excruciating agony without something for the pain?

A Place Reserved in Heaven

Like a lot of people, I firmly believe that in the final analysis of life how we act here on earth counts for something. It’s up to us to earn a place in the next life with “the Man upstairs.” But I also think there are a certain number of people who should, to borrow an expression from the sports world, have an automatic birth into Heaven.

The inventor of the T.V. remote control is one of the first people who I think deserves an automatic birth into Heaven. Let’s face it; if there was a Lazy Man’s Hall of Fame you know there’d be a life-size statue of that guy welcoming all visitors into the building. Shoot, some people, mostly men who become power wielding tyrants when a remote is placed in their domineering little hands, would even pay homage to the statue, laying flowers at its feet and mumbling some whiny chant for hours on end.

Right along side of the inventor of the remote control there should be an automatic birth to Heaven for the creator of the mute button on that remote. When channel surfing only provides a smorgasbord of annoying commercials to choose from, we have the option of just muting the “idiot box,” as my momma used to call it. The ability to “stick it” to those irritating advertisements by muting them is an intoxicating power to be sure.

At the very least, the person who invented the mute button should be sainted. Ah yes, Saint Mute. Hey, anyone raising teenagers would frequently pray to him, requesting a blessing of silence.

One last person that I’d nominate for an automatic birth to Heaven is the kind lady at the Hillbilly Moccasins store in downtown Branson, Missouri. When I was 53 cents short of the cost for resoling my boots (yes, on occasion I’ve been known to wear cowboy boots) she let me leave the store with my footwear, trusting me to bring her that 53 cents the following day.

Now, I’m an honest person. I would’ve never stiffed her, but she didn’t know that. Yet, unlike a lot of us, her outlook on humanity hasn't become cynical. She was willing to take the risk that I’d keep my word and bring the money later.

To say this was a surprise and very inspiring would be an understatement. It renewed in me a little faith that not all of humanity has become hard hearted, that there are still a few people in the world who are kind and decent folks, willing to give others the chance to show that they too are of the same caliber.

Unfortunately, this type of experience is becoming a rare thing. Heck, not long ago, before I started using a debit card, I wrote a check for fuel at a gas station and darn near had to give my eldest son as collateral for them to accept it, and I was a regular customer who’d never bounced a check on them!

So, to the lady at Hillbilly Moccasins and others like her, I salute you. And when your automatic birth to Heaven comes, put in a good word for me with the Man in charge, won’t you?

Things That Drive Me Crazy

One of the things that drive me crazy is stupid commercials. One particular commercial is for a laxative of which the narrator on the promo says that it works over night, while you’re sleeping? No, no, no, no, no, when that stuff kicks in I want to be awake…and ready to rumble, no surprises while in a deep slumber, thank you very much.

Another thing that drives me crazy is questions that I have no answers to, questions like, can a woman’s basketball team play man-to-man defense? Why do we park in a driveway and drive in a parkway? Can a person who holds both a medical and a law degree sue himself for malpractice?

Stupid crooks also irritate me. I mean, how dumb does one have to be to rob a Dollar Store? Believe it or not this has actually happened here a couple of times. Note to stupid crooks: IT’S A DOLLAR STORE! It’s not Fort Knox you morons. Just how much money did you think was going to be in there anyway?

Moving right along, like many citizens, government stupidity and waste also drives me nuts. Case-in-point, the other day I learned that in the not too distant past the United States Air Force had been working on a gay sex bomb. No, you didn’t misread that. Our Air Force tried to build a bomb containing “stuff” (exactly what the “stuff” is I haven’t a clue) in it that would turn enemy soldiers into gay lovers. What, like you drop a few of these suckers on enemy troops and of a sudden they throw down their weapons and “make love not war” with each other? It’s nice to see our taxes at work, isn’t it? Hey, here’s a news flash for the Air Force, even if you could somehow create such a weapon, no matter what people’s sexual preferences are it doesn’t prevent them from taking up arms and shooting at people who are trying to kill them! It’s called instinct of survival.

While we’re on the subject of stupidity and waste in the military, this one just slays me, a while back it was reported that the military, which has being criticized for its fighting tactics in Iraq, had printed and distributed to our soldiers a pamphlet on how to engage the enemy in an ethical and humane way. Humane and ethical ways to engage the enemy, are you kidding me? We’re talking about shooting and bombing people, snuffing out their lives! I didn’t know there was a humane and ethical way to do that.

Hmmmmm, maybe we should distribute this pamphlet among criminals in hopes they’ll “engage” their victims in an ethical and humane way, or even better, we can put the ingredients of the Gay Sex Bomb into a pocket canister so when accosted by someone we can spray them with it . . . it’s just a thought.

One last thing that drives me crazy is the little “look-on-the-bright-side-of-life” sayings people tell me when I’m out of sorts. Like when experiencing a major change in life, inevitably, in the middle of fussing over that change, someone will regurgitate the age-old adage, “Change is good.” I agree, especially when things change BACK to the way I liked them in the first place!

Or when I’m moaning and groaning about something I don’t have and someone recites the old proverb, “I complained because I had no shoes until I saw a man with no feet.” Yeah, well, I then complained because the man with no feet got the better parking spots!

So there you have it, just a few of the things in life that drive me crazy, and though for me that drive is a short one, aren’t you glad you came along for the ride?

Dad's in the hospital...

Hello everyone, this is Doug's oldest son. So I finally make my 1st and probably only appearance on my pops' blog. You'll probably see the grammatical and spelling errors, etc., not near as neat and readable as my dad's writings.
He's asked me to quickly inform you he was rushed to the emergency room last night and that's the reason for no new posts. I'll keep you updated of his condition on my blog if you wanna link over real quick from time to time. My link can be found in the right hand column of this page under the heading "Check out eldest son's blog".
Thanks.

On Becoming a Grandparent--Part 2

As mentioned in an earlier post, I recently learned that come December I'm going to be a grandfather for the first time. After the initial shock wore off I remember thinking, “Whoa, me a grandfather? Somebody pull the cord and stop the bus!”

I mean, just how did I get to this point in my life so quickly? It was only yesterday that I was filled with excitement and anticipation of the birth of my first child. Now, here I am filled with excitement and anticipation of the birth of my first grandchild. What happened? Did I, like Rip Van Winkle, take a nap only to wake years later to a whole new world, or, did I get caught in some kind of time warp, where I was thrust into the future? It was a little unsettling to say the least.

Then a different, even more frightening thought crossed my mind (and we all know how short of a crossing that is), what if my first grandchild is a girl?! That thought almost put me into cardiac arrest.

You see, I grew up in a family of mischievous, rowdy boys, four to be exact--even our dog was male (poor mom was an island of estrogen in a sea of testosterone)--and I have three sons, no daughters. I know boys. I know how they operate, their thought processes, how their prone to act and react to what life throws at them. A granddaughter will, well, intimidate me.

Can I, a man who knows nothing about raising girls, adapt to having a granddaughter? Will I play too rough with her, tease her too harshly, joke too crudely, be too enthusiastic about sports, shaping her into a tomboy?

Or maybe I’ll act toward her much too far in the opposite direction, pampering her too much, treating her like a prim-a-Donna, cushioning her from the harsh realities of the world; thus giving her unrealistic expectations of life.

And then of course there’s the future issue of dating. But this one I have figured out. Let’s just say I’ve already informed eldest son and daughter-in-law that when granddaughter is dating age I’ll be moving next door to them and will be camped on their front porch steps, waiting for granddaughter’s dates to pick her up and bring her home.

Oh I pity the poor boy that’ll have to go through grandpa to get to granddaughter. I’ve even borrowed a great couple of lines from comic Bill Engvall to say to the unfortunate young man as he approaches my “roost.” I’ll look him square in the eyes and tell him, “that little girl in there that you’re about to take out, she’s my granddaughter, my pride and joy. I will stop at nothing to protect her, so if you have any intentions of hugging her or kissing her I have no problem going back to prison. Now, where are you taking my granddaughter and what time will you have her home?” Did I mention that while carrying on this conversation with the young man I’ll just happen to be cleaning my shotgun?

Heck, now that I think about it, I’ll sneakily attach a GPS system to the boy’s car so I can monitor his every move from my computer. If his car deviates from where it's supposed to be, they’ll be getting a call.

So, as you can see, though I don’t as yet have all the answers to my many questions about raising granddaughters, I do have the important ones answered, the ones that deal with issues of the opposite sex, and that’s good enough for now. After all, I have six months to figure out the rest of it and that’s plenty of time, right?

Baby Talk

If you were to list the things guys most hate to do, near the top of that roster would be being dragged to a hospital to look at newborn babies. I don’t care who the little tyke belongs to, a brother, sister, best friend; guys would rather give up possession of the T.V. remote than be dragged to the infant-care unit of a hospital to gaze at a baby.

We men have good reasons for our reluctance to visit hospital nurseries. You see, while there we’re always put in a tight spot because inevitably, and always in the presence of the baby’s loved ones, we’ll be asked the question, the one question that will make a guy’s knees quiver and a chill go up and down his spine, “Isn’t he just the cutest little thing you ever did see?”

Now, to guys all newborn infants look alike—a shriveled up, wrinkled, old caveman that has just been regurgitated by a large carnivorous dinosaur. But we don’t want to hurt the feelings of the relatives of the little tyke, so we have two choices, we can lie and agree the creature is cute, or we can turn to the baby’s family and say what we really think, “Here’s a banana for your monkey.”

And usually after the how-cute-the-baby-is comments comes the he-looks-just-like (insert either of the baby’s parent’s name) comments. A case in point happened a few years back when a niece of mine was born. With me kicking and screaming the whole way, former Mrs. Bagley dragged me to the hospital to take a peek at our new niece. As we approached the viewing window of the nursery, we saw a couple of men goo-gooing over a baby.

“She looks just like ‘er momma, doesn’t she?” One of them said.

“Nah,” exclaimed the other.

“Well, she’s definitely got Bumgrumble genes in her,” the other one said as they both walked away.

After the two gawking guys left, ex-wife and I sauntered over to the window to view our new niece, and wouldn’t you know it, those guys were gawking over the wrong baby. They were gaping over my niece!

Speaking of people always trying to figure who the baby looks like I remember when youngest son was little. A member of my family continually remarked how she just couldn’t figure out who in the family he looked like.

“He doesn’t look like a Bagley,” this person would continually say, never considering that just maybe youngest son favored his momma’s side of the family. Finally, ex-wife said, “He looks like the milkman.” That pretty much put an end to the I-can’t-figure-out-who-he-looks-like comments.

And don’t you just love it when people in the family pick out certain features of a little one and say things like, “She sure got her daddy’s ears, “ or “She has Aunt Harriet’s eyes.” When this happens, I have to fight the temptation to say, “So how’s his father getting along without those ears?” Come on for crying out loud, the kid has her own features. Why does she have to look exactly like somebody else? Can't she just look like herself?

Chalk it up to human nature or what ever you'd like, but it's amazing to me how a little baby can grown people to act so silly.

Of course, come December, when my first grandbaby is born, you won’t see me acting silly, gooing, gawking, and talking silly to my grandchild. If you do, I’ll never admit it. I’ll just swear it’s my long lost twin you saw acting that way.

Parents' Revenge

A couple of months ago, eldest son and his wife dropped by after work to visit. It just so happened that my parents, my younger brother, and youngest son were there too.
Anyway, son and daughter-in-law arrived, carrying a small, round, tall chocolate cake. As they handed it to me, they mentioned the cake was left over from a party at daughter-in-law’s place of employment.

“Wow!” I thought, “a cake all for me,” and then I noticed the writing on the top of the cake. I read it out loud, “[daughter-in-law’s name] is pregnant.” That’s right; I’m going to be a grandpa for the first time, and oh have I been waiting for this day to arrive.

You see, eldest son will soon be walking in my shoes, the shoes of a parent. He’ll get to experience the wide range, the highs and lows, of emotions that children put their parents through, while I'll get to sit back, watch and grin. In a way, you might say that grandchildren are a parent’s revenge.

With this in mind, I now share with my son, and with all parents of the world, the tongue-in-cheek lyrics to the song, Should’ve Had Dogs, by Roger Whittaker.

Should’ve Had Dogs

If I’d known about an angry wife with a two-by-four
If I’d only listened when you told me ‘bout a mother-in-law
If I’d known how much things change when you say ‘I do’
Well I wouldn’t have done what I did I’m telling you

I would’ve had dogs
I would’ve had dogs
If I’d known then what I know now
Well I would’ve had dogs

I was led by the nose like a bull from the very start
And I must say I really enjoyed the beginning part
You know your favorite food and the bed and the lights down low
But then the kids come along and romance has to go

Well I should’ve had dogs
Oh I should’ve had dogs
If I’d known then what I know now
Well I would’ve had dogs

Suddenly they seem to arrive in two’s and three’s
Any ordinary man would be brought down to his knees
She says daddy can I have that dress and I want that hat
How can any daddy tell her no when she asks like that?

Oh I should’ve had dogs
Oh I should’ve had dogs
If I’d known then what I know now
Well I would’ve had dogs

Now my eldest son has survived to seventeen
And I’m the stupidest man that the world has ever seen
I’m wrong about everything in his young life
And the endless things I’m wrong about lead to strife

Oh I should’ve had dogs
Oh I should’ve had dogs
If I’d known then what I know now
Well I would’ve had dogs

It’s said that trial and tribulation ends
And they all grow up and you all get to be friends
I can’t wait for the day I know will come to pass
When they have kids of their own and I can laugh, ha, ha, ha, ha

Oh you should’ve had dogs
Oh you should’ve had dogs
If you’d know then what I know now
Well you would’ve had dogs

Oh you should’ve had dogs
Oh you should’ve had dogs
If they put you what you put me through
Well you’d wish you’d had dogs

The Gods of Oral Hygiene Must Be Crazy

I don’t know what my family did in a previous life to tick off the gods of oral hygiene, but it must have been something appalling, for we’ve been plagued with a curse ever since. What’s the curse? I’m glad you asked.

The best way to explain the curse is by sharing examples of it with you. One of the most recent incidents happened to me while at work.

You see, because I don’t want my toothbrush to literally become a tooth brush I bring one to work, along with toothpaste and dental floss, for use at the end of my lunch break.

Recently, while chatting on my cell phone with a friend during lunch, I realized time was fleeting and I’d better take care of my teeth before my break was over. Accordingly, I blindly reached into my lunch bag and grabbed my toothbrush and toothpaste.

Paying more attention to the conversation with my friend than to what I was doing (which is one of the ways the curse works; it strikes when you’re not paying close attention to the brushing of your teeth), I absentmindedly squeezed toothpaste onto the bristles of my brush. I then moistened both brush and paste with tap water and began brushing my teeth . . . but not for very long.

As soon as that repugnant, most gosh awful taste entered my mouth I began profusely and loudly gagging, coughing, spitting, and sputtering, while performing what looked like some kind of ancient war dance.

Laughing, my friend kept asking me what the heck was happening. All I could blurt out was that I couldn’t believe what I’d just done.

You see, among the sundry items I carry in my lunch bag are two tubes, one being toothpaste the other, um, Preparation H. Since what hit my taste buds obviously was not toothpaste, well, I think you get the idea.

Now, it was bad enough that the tube of Preparation H was fairly used, if you get my drift. But as I felt a numbing sensation spread around my mouth a scary thought came to mind. What if the hemorrhoid cream did its job and my gums, lips, cheeks, and tongue all began to shrink? Gees, I could end up with a perpetual smile, like those women who’ve had a few too many face lifts. Luckily, the effects of the cream weren't perminant.

I’m also reminded of the time the curse struck my younger brother. Younger brother and his wife were living in Daytona Beach, Florida, with their two dogs, a Rottweiler and a small mutt. The mutt was an indoor dog, the Rottie outdoor--except during rainstorms, which during the rainy season in Florida is nearly every day.

I know you’re thinking, “So what do his brother’s dogs have to do with the toothbrush curse?” I’m glad you asked.

Sometimes when the dogs were indoors they’d have to do their business but wouldn’t go out into the rainstorm. Consequently, if the rainstorm lasted very long they’d dodo on the vinyl floor of the TV room. Naturally, my brother or his wife would clean the mess with the proper utensils. But just to be sure the entire residue of poo was cleaned up they’d scrub the area with a soap and a toothbrush, a toothbrush identical to younger brother’s, a poo-scrubbing toothbrush kept on the same toothbrush holder as younger brother’s toothbrush.

One morning younger brother went into the bathroom to brush breakfast out of his teeth. Standing over the bathroom sink, he turned the faucet on with his left hand and with his right hand blindly reached down and opened the cabinet door under the sink. He then grabbed his toothbrush from the multi toothbrush holder attached to the inside of the door.


It was only after he began brushing his teeth that he realized something wasn’t right. The brush didn’t quite feel the same against his gums and the toothpaste had an odd taste to it.

In a panic, younger brother re-opened the cabinet and there, hanging in the toothbrush holder, was his toothbrush. He spit, sputtered, gagged, screamed, and bounced around that tiny bathroom like a man…well, like a man who’d just brushed his teeth with dog feces.

He finally grabbed a bottle of mouthwash that proclaimed to kill 99.9% of all germs and gargled with it, hoping that whatever microbes he’d just inflicted into his mouth weren’t among that 10th of a percent the mouthwash didn’t kill.


And so goes the curse of the gods of oral hygiene upon my family. Luckily, it doesn’t appear the curse is passed down from generation to generation--though the other day youngest son did clean his teeth with the grout cleaning toothbrush. But that’s a whole other story.

Perfectionist + Beard + Beard Trimmer...Not Good

A few years ago, I shaved my beard down to a mustache. It wasn’t long until I tired of shaving every day and decided to grow back my beard.

The following December someone suggested that I put a beard trimmer on my Christmas list. Heck, with one of those little gadgets I wouldn’t have to pay a professional. I could trim the beard myself, riiiiight.

Unfortunately for me, Santa was kind that year (actually, I think he just has a warped sense of humor), and Christmas morning found me unwrapping, among other things, a beard trimmer.

Now, I must interject something here. It’s said the difference between men and boys is the price of their toys, and if the toy happens to be electronic, well, you can throw out any ideas of having a stimulating conversation with the man. All he’ll be thinking about is playing with that electronic gadget.
Such was my state of mind, and the sun hadn’t set on Christmas day before the temptation to try out my new toy over powered me. The day went down hill from there.

You see, at times I can be somewhat of a perfectionist and the equation of perfectionist plus beard plus beard trimmer always equals debacle.

True to my nature, I trimmed…and trimmed…and trimmed; yet, my beard had more holes in it than a moth-eaten shirt. Thinking that perhaps a better angle at which to see my beard would help, I twisted and turned in front of the bathroom mirror until I looked like a contortionist at a carnival freak show.

And just when my beard seemed to be evenly trimmed, BOING! A hair that had somehow been missed during the trimming sprang straight out into the air. No problem. I turned the trimmer back on and shazaam, problem solved. Then BOING! Another missed hair. I trimmed it and BOING, well, you get the picture. Before I knew it I'd cropped so many stray hairs my beard resembled something akin to waves breaking on a hairy ocean.

Screaming like a lunatic, I attacked my beard with the trimmer over and over again, trying once and for all to get it even. Time went on, my beard got thinner and thinner, and still it was uneven.


Before long, I noticed the trimmer’s rechargeable battery was weakening. Finally, it died. There was no choice now but to plug the thing into the wall socket and wait for the battery to recharge.

Panic set in. Now what was I going to do? The job couldn’t be left undone. That meant only one alternative--I would have to get out the dreaded scissors to finish trimming my beard.

Back then, as is still the case, scissors and I didn’t have a good track record. Whether cutting paper, cloth, or hair, we always end up making a mess of things. That day would prove to be no exception.

I grabbed the scissors and gave it my best effort. Well, as they say, to make a long story short, thirty frustrating minutes later my former beard was now nothing but stubble, and though I felt it still wasn’t even, I decided to take the advice of former Mrs. Bagley and, “let the dang thing alone!”

Weeks later the thing was getting a bit ragged looking, and though I was tempted to break out the trimmer, I’d decided that paying a professional to trim my beard would be money well spent.


Of course, ex-wife’s threat to put me in a straight-jacket until the urge to trim my own beard subsided might have influenced my decision, just a little.

You Can't Make This Stuff Up

A local congressman here in Florida is working hard to improve the quality of life in our fair state, and I must say I’m impressed with his efforts.

You see, unlike most politicians this congressman has the uncanny ability to keep himself from getting sidetracked by trivial issues, issues like a public school system that ranks among the worst in the United States, the rise of violent crime (Orlando, for example, is on target to at least double last year’s murder rate and, according to Men’sHealth magazine, out of the top 12 most angry cities in the U.S., Florida owns five of those positions, Orlando coming in at number one), traffic congestion that’s turned our main thoroughfares into over-sized parking lots, teachers sleeping with students, drug abuse, and the list goes on. No, Mr. Congressman focuses on the most important problems contributing to the downfall of society, problems like restaurant bathrooms running out of toilet paper.

Yes, you read correctly. Of all the ills of society, Mr. Congressman believes being stranded on a toilet in a restaurant ranks as the most important one, and it needs to be rectified (I could’ve gone for a cheap laugh and wrote “rectal-fied” but that would’ve been crass). He’s so passionate about this problem, he’s introduced a bill in congress to make it illegal for restaurants to run out of toilet paper. Nice to see our taxes at work, isn’t it?

If this piece of legislation becomes law, just how will it be enforced? Will the Florida legislature create a new division of law enforcement? The Paper Patrol perhaps?

Imagine being locked in a jail cell as a repeat offender of this new law and being asked by murderers, gang bangers, drug dealers, etc, what you did to end up behind bars. That would be an interesting conversation to say the least.

“What ya in here for, bud?” one cell mate will ask as he adds, “I murdered a couple of people, ‘cause I didn’t like the way they was lookin’ at me.”

“Yeah,” another inmate will chime in, “I’m in for armed robbery; beat a security guard almost to death. So what put ya here?”

“Um, I forgot to refill the toilet paper dispenser at the restaurant where I work. But when I get out of here I’m moving up to tearing off mattress tags!” Yeah, that’ll make the inmates think twice before messing with you.

Before we leave the subject of Florida, I have to mention a couple of billboards I saw as I entered and left the Miami International Airport.

You see, in an effort to ease traffic congestion, a whole new infrastructure of roads leading into, around, and out of the airport are being built. As is the case with most of our main thoroughfares in Florida, these new roads will be toll roads.

Anyway, on these billboards is written, “Toll booths coming soon!” Well break out the chips and dip and we’ll have us a celebration. Like, we’re supposed to be excited about this? Oh yeah, I can’t count the times I’ve been driving down a toll-free road and thought to myself, “Gosh, I sure wish the powers that be would put a toll booth here so I could gladly give them more of my hard-earned money.”

They can spin it, perfume it, sugar-coat it, do whatever they want to it in an attempt to placate our resentment of more toll booths to gouge our wallets, but skunk cabbage by any other name is still skunk cabbage, and it still stinks.

And speaking of stink, another you-can’t-make-this-stuff-up story happened in the “friendly skies.” It seems a commercial airliner was forced to make an emergency landing. Why? Flatulence. That’s right, flatulence. An American Airlines flight, headed to Dallas, Texas from Washington, D.C. had to make an unscheduled landing in Nashville, Tennessee because a woman sneezed in her pants.

Evidently, sometime into the flight, passengers began complaining of a nauseating odor. In fact, the smell was so repugnant a passenger and a flight attendant became physically ill.

So, the pilot made an emergency landing in Nashville. On the ground, the passengers were evacuated from the plane and put through a security search, the luggage hold of the plane was emptied, the luggage examined, and a team of canines were brought in to sniff out the source of the stench, which they did.

Those highly prized scent detectors lead their handlers to a seat in the plane where the remains of a few burnt paper matches lie. From there, all authorities had to do was look on the passenger manifest to see who was sitting in said seat.

It turned out that the person belonging to that seat was an elderly woman, an elderly woman with a medical condition, a medical condition that gives the poor lady an excessive amount of uncontrollable rotten-smelling flatulence, as if there’s any other kind.

Since passengers are allowed to bring four books of paper matches onboard with them this lady did just that, and in an effort to mask the unpleasant aroma of her anal backfire, she lighted a few. Thankfully, the authorities were understanding and didn’t charge the lady with any crimes.
You know, it’s been said that truth is stranger than fiction. It is, and usually a whole lot funnier too.

Feeling a Little Abbreviated

In this rapid, fast-paced world we live in we’ve become an abbreviated society. It seems the more things we can abbreviate the better.

For instance, when my oldest son (who, by the way, is not a Jr.) was a teenager, I had difficulty pulling him away from the TV, mostly in the PM every Sun. and Mon., because he was psycho when it came to watching the NFL on NBC or ESPN. For him it didn’t matter if it was an AFC or an NFC team that was playing. He just loves the game.

And speaking of football, as a side note, at one time or another all three of my sons wanted to play, but I never could keep straight which son wanted to play what position. There’s QB, TB, HB, FB, TE, WR, and LB, just to name a few.

When the NFL season was over I still had a tough time pulling eldest son away from the TV because the NBA would be in full swing, and he enjoyed basketball as much as he did football. In fact, eldest son often watched two games at once. He accomplished this by pressing the PC button on the TV remote.

The TV is just one item in the house which is abbreviated. There’s also the A/C, which is set at a comfortable temp., to keep the house cool and comfy in the summer months.

All of us have vacuums in our homes. Is yours a dry vac or a wet vac? Perhaps you have a shop vac for your garage. Or some of you, I’m sure, have built-in vacs in your homes.

Other areas of our lives are abbreviated as well. Last Jun. I was rushed to the E.R. of our local hospital for what turned out to be a kinked intestine (see I Choose to Laugh). I was taken there in a Sonata, not a Chevy, GMC, or an Olds, and we didn’t exceed the allotted mph allowed by law. No sense in getting a ticket for speeding and having to appear before a J.P.

Now, while I was at the E.R. an RN gave me some meds (under Dr’s orders) in an I.V. for pain. I was a guest of the hospital for a few days, and when I was released someone besides me did the drive home, because I didn’t want to get into an accident and be charged with a DUI by a trooper of the FHP.

The business world is another area of life that is polluted with abbreviations. Right now I’m typing this on my PC, which is equipped with a CD Rom, but I don’t have a fax. If I had a fax I could send my writing to almost anywhere in the United States: KC, MO; SLC, UT; LA or SF, CA for example.

Many corps have a Pres, a VP, and a CEO. Often these positions in a co require the individual to travel long distances for work. If they fly they must decide on which airline to travel. AA, UA, CA, DAL, and FA are just five from which to choose.

Finally, life itself is broken down into abbreviations. Time is dated either B.C. or A.D., and the hr, min, and sec of one’s birth or death are usually recorded.

Yes, as time goes on we’re becoming more and more of an abbreviated society, so when I die just bury me in a T-shirt and jeans, put R.I.P. on my headstone, and I’ll be O.K.

The Torture Chamber

For many people, going to the dentist is akin to going to a torture chamber. Let’s face it, like in any profession; there are good dentists and, well, not so good ones. Unfortunately, the latter was the case when I lived in Branson, Missouri. I’d sooner clean all the public restrooms in Branson with my tongue then let him work on me again. In fact, he made me wonder if part of his education included a class called The Art of Tormenting Patients.

I’d lost a filling in a tooth and consequently needed a root canal and a crown, requiring a few visits to the only dentist in town, Dr. U. Wil Hurt.

The appointment began harmlessly enough. I’d settled into the dental chair and the doctor’s assistant chained a little napkin under my chin…and that’s when the anxiety began. I mean, what was that napkin for anyway, to absorb some expected profuse bleeding? The imagination can run wild when one becomes anxious.

Next, the assistant leaned my chair into a comfortable reclining position, and just as I began to relax and even drift off a little the doctor entered the room and shined a blinding interrogative like light directly into my face. “I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!” I instinctively yelled. Then I turned red-faced as I realized I was in the dentist chair, not the police station being questioned.

Now the fun really began. The doc grabbed a Q-tip with some kind of numbing gunk on it and jammed it into my mouth, around the area of the bad tooth. Now, this Q-tip was no ordinary one. No, it was the size of a rhinoceros leg and had enough cotton on the tip of it to absorb the Missouri River. It dang near choked me to death, and as I gagged on it the dentist gave a look that convinced me he thought he had a real wimp on his hands. He was right.

Once the good doctor felt the Q-tip had been in my mouth long enough to do its job (two or three seconds maybe), he yanked the thing out of my mouth, reached behind him to a hidden tray, and grabbed a shot full of Novocain. From the feel of the needle he jammed into my gums, I was glad for that blinding light in my face—if I’d have seen the size of the shot needle I would have jumped out of that chair and heading for home in a nanosecond.

After ramming that horrible needle into several places in my mouth, making eyes water and my body tense up from the pain, he left the room to work on another patient, while waiting for my mouth to lose all feeling. You know how the dentist knows when your mouth is numb enough to work on? By the amount of drool running out of the corner of your mouth and dripping on the floor, as if you’re doing a poor imitation of Hooch, the constantly salivating French Mastiff in the movie Turner and Hooch.

Anyway, Masked, goggled, and gloved—you’d think I was an alien from Mars with all of the protective devices he and his assistant wore to work me—the dentist, elbow deep in my mouth, proceeded to tightly screw a clamp to my gums. Why? I don’t know, but you can trust me on this one no amount of numbing of the mouth will kill the excruciating pain of that clamp. Again my eyes watered up. Again the doctor gave me a look that let me know he believed I’m a certified wimp.

Once the clamp was secured, the dentist noticed I was gurgling and gasping for air, drowning in a mouthful of my own drool, so he had his assistant vacuum out the saliva with a little hose whose suction rivals any commercial vacuum cleaner. That thing could suck the brains of an elephant out through its trunk. I swear I could hear my tongue being ripped from my mouth. I’m surprised the rest of my fillings weren’t sucked out of my teeth buy that little beast.

Next, the dentist asked his assistant to hand him some weird named tool, which was nothing more than a dwarfed jackhammer, and he began drilling the bad tooth. Except for the stench of drilled tooth and the occasional swallowing of tooth chips, things started moving along smoothly. But that was short lived.

Sometime into the procedure, the drill slipped from my tooth and bore right into my tongue. I arched in my chair like a scalded cat and let out a howl that would put a coonhound to shame.
As Doctor Hurt looked at the pain showing in my once again watering eyes, he said, “best watch where yer puttin’ that tongue there, son.”

My mind filled with many expletives to call him, but he was up to his forearms in my mouth with a drill in his hand. I kept the expletives to myself.

Finally, at the end, and after making what seemed like a million impressions of my dead tooth, with the most gosh awful disgusting tasting stuff you could ever have in your mouth, I was released from the torture chamber.

On my way out, Miss dental assistant offered me the most dazzling piece of advice, overstating the obvious, “be sure not to chew on that side of your mouth for the next few weeks.
No problem. Once the Novocain wore off, my mouth was so sore from the needle poking and tongue drilling that it was a chore just to eat chicken soup.

After experiencing such an ordeal you might wonder if now I’m a bit reluctant to see the dentist. Well, let’s just say after that visit, if I’d had another tooth go bad, I planned on giving a pair of pliers to my ex wife and let her yank the thing out of my mouth.

Hey, it would’ve provided satisfaction in a couple of ways: it would’ve been less painful for me than Doctor Hurt’s torture chamber, and the ex-wife would’ve taken great pleasure in putting a hurting on me; a win, win situation if ever there was.

The Technologically Challenged

I'm among the many who are considered technologically challenged (we're the ones whose electronic devices constantly blink 12:00). Cell phones especially give me trouble.

Every time I buy a new one, I'm forever trying to figure out how to operate it. By the time I do figure it out it's time to upgrade to a newer model, and my techno troubles start anew. And those troubles have put me in some embarrassing situations.

Recently at church, during the middle of the clergy's talk, I received a call on my cell. I thought I'd set the ring tone on my phone to the silent mode for incoming calls. Wrong!

Now, having the ring tone on my phone go off during church would have been embarrassing enough had I set it to sound like the ring of a standard phone. Having the ring tone of my phone go off during church would have been embarrassing enough had I set it to play a catchy little tune. Having the ring tone of my phone go off during church would have been embarrassing enough had I set it to say some funny little phrase or quote. But nooooooo, I'd set the ring tone of my cell phone to sound like barking dogs, very loud barking dogs, barking dogs that to this day startle me when I receive a call!

I floundered about the pew, resembling something akin to a dog in desperate need of a good worming, in an effort to silence my phone, but it was to no avail.

So, red-faced, I scurried out to the foyer with my hand over my pone, trying to muffle the "WOOF, WOOF! WOOF, WOOF!" while the eyes of the congregation roamed the chapel in search of the idiot who'd brought his dogs to church. It's a wonder I'm still allowed to worship there.

Not figuring out how to set my ringer tone to silent is just one of the embarrassing situations I've been into thanks to being technologically challenged. You see, I have a feature on my phone that I'm sure I'd enjoy if I could just once successfully perform the operation to use it. This feature is the call-waiting feature, and it's been a trial for me.

Oh I've read the instruction manual, more than once, and it seems easy enough to do. But when I'm conversing with one person and call-waiting beeps, premature senility sets in, and in the process of trying to switch from one caller to another I disconnect both parties.

Once, when switching from one phone line to the other, I somehow accessed the conference-call menu, enabling three of us to chat with each other at once. Thankfully, there were no repercussions from that mistake. Of course, I now live in fear that when chatting with a lady friend another will beep in and I'll once again accidentally access the conference-call mode. Losing the affection of two ladies in one felled swoop would be so depressing.

But what really scares me is what I recently read concerning a cell phone that fits in your tooth like a filling. A cell phone in your tooth, are you kidding me?! Judging from my ineptness to work my current cell phone, I don't think a phone that fits into my tooth is for me.

On the other hand, if someone I'm mad at has one and it sits adjacent to a bad tooth, well I might be technologically challenged but I do know how to push the redial button.

Getting Old Stinks, Literally

I can’t wait until I’m 50 years old. That’s when I become a Senior Citizen. Once I become a “senior,” I’ll get to join all kinds of clubs and organizations with assorted perks made just for me: AARP, special health insurance supplements; discounts on movies, airline tickets, meals, hotels, etc.

But around the age of 65 I’ll get to join the best group of all, the I’m-old-so-when-I’m-flatuent-I-get-to-let-‘er-blow-when-and-where-ever-I-want-to club, the “let-‘er-blow” club for short.

All those years of painful discomfort, fighting to hold in my flatulence when in public, will come to an end. Yes, instead of being an unwilling spectator of the wind section of the “Senior Citizen Orchestra,” I’ll (while eating in a restaurant, browsing at a book store, shopping at the supermarket, or in the middle of a conversation), get to actually participate in said orchestra. I’ll just let ‘er rip, and then carry on as if nothing happened. Or I’ll blame it on my medicine. Either way I’ll get an automatic pardon because of my age.

This will be especially welcomed if I’m still single at the time I join the club. Ooooh the pain and misery I’ve suffered over the past few years with a belly full of methane while on a date. Let me tell you, sitting through dinner at a restaurant, while bloated like a cow loose in the alfalfa field, anxiously waiting for my date to excuse herself to the bathroom so I can let the flatulence fly, is inhumane torture beyond belief.

I mean, sitting in a booth at an I-HOP (I like to impress my dates by taking them to high class restaurants), trying to concentrate on the dinner conversation, while my stomach is rumbling, groaning, and growling, is a tough act to pull off.

Now, changing sitting positions in an effort to relieve the discomfort isn’t an option. There’s just too good a chance the movement will allow one of those high pitched, pinched-off, squeakers to sneak out, and try as I might to convince my date the noise was from scooting on the seat and not from intestinal distress, she’ll know better and my facade as a cultured, couth, gentleman will be blown (pun intended) out of the water.

But when I hit that mystical number, where all things uncouth are excused on account of age, I won’t have to worry about that anymore. I’ll be able to “sneeze” in my pants and my date won’t even care--she’ll probably be doing the same thing, maybe even trumpeting the song Dixie just for my amusement.

Lest you think this happens all at once, well, it doesn’t. It’s a gradual process.

It starts sometime in your mid to late 40s when, for some inexplicable reason, you start having the “sneak-up flatulence.” Up until this point in your life you’ve been able to hold in or let out your flatulence at will, making an art of releasing it when goofing with friends, siblings and the like; or holding it in while in public.

But as you creep ever so closely to 50 years of age the sneak-ups start in, and though you’re positive you have the gas valve closed, an unannounced, unfelt, bubble or two of methane will bust loose, catching you totally unaware, and leaving you red-faced, searching for someone on whom to place the blame.

Next, usually while in your 50s, comes the “walking flatulence.” By this time you’ve learned that the best thing to do, when bloated with a belly full of methane is, well, nothing. Don’t move, don’t speak, and especially don’t laugh. Keep as much pressure off of your stomach as you possibly can.

But sometimes this just isn’t possible. You have places to go, people to meet. You don’t always have the luxury of sitting still until the attack subsides.

So, you carefully stand up from a sitting position, and since no flatulence escapes, you’re confident you have everything under control and start walking. That’s when it happens.

You take your first step forward and POP, a methane bubble bursts, and with each consecutive step there after another POP! By the time you’ve taken 10 steps you sound like a fully operational Gatlin gun. War veterans in the room will scramble for cover, while everyone else doubles over with laughter (why is flatulence so funny anyway?).

There’s no way you can pin the deed on someone else; not with the walking flatulence. It’s just all too obvious where those rapid-fired gas bubbles came from, especially if you’re the only one in the room walking.

You can’t blame the incident on medicine either. No one will believe you. They’ll think you’re too young to be on the kind of medication (what ever kind that is) that gives you intestinal problems, so all you can do is politely say, “Excuse me,” and continue on your way.

The sneak-ups and the walking flatulence are just a prelude to what awaits you down the road of life. Sometime, while in your sixties, all ability to shut down the gas pipeline leaves you. Whether it’s due to medication, as so many claim, an aging digestive system, or you’re old and tired and just don’t care anymore, who knows? But it seems between ages 65-70 all pretense of at least trying to hold back the nauseous fumes is gone.

Oh, you’ll still utter an occasional, “excuse me,” or explain it away with some kind of medical excuse, but mostly you'll smile or look straight forward, acting as if you don’t know what everybody is gasping about. And everybody in the room, especially the young, will let it slide. Why? You’re old and can’t help it, and that, my friends, is when you know you’ve arrived, when you know you’ve been admitted into that exclusive “let-‘er-blow” club.

So, instead of dreading the aging process I say embrace it! Look forward to it with a smile as you think of all the advantages that await you.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I must leave you—dinner has digested and I think I’m about to have a, shall we say, senior moment?

Just Say No!

As many of you know, I was a teacher a few years back. One particular school (a private one) where I taught invited the County Health Department to come speak to our middle-school kids. At the end of the meeting these health care workers handed the kids and faculty the pamphlet (mainly written for girls) 101 Ways to Say No to Sex. Seriously, as if “NO!” isn’t enough.

The Birds, the Bees, and the T.V. Make Three

One of the toughest jobs for parents is teaching children the "facts of life." For some, there seems to be a natural barrier between parents and children when it comes to this part of rearing kids, but I've found a solution to this problem.

Television.

That's right, television.

If you're a parent who finds it difficult to discuss this subject with your children but do not want them learning about the birds and the bees by reading the graffiti in public restrooms, then television might be the answer to your dilemma.

All you have to do is set your children in the T.V. room and make sure they are nice and comfy. Then turn on the television set. Believe me, an hour of watching television will teach your children more about the birds and the bees than you could ever teach them in your lifetime.
Commercials, alone, can give children a smorgasbord of information. Any subject from underclothing to hemorrhoids to constipation to personal-hygiene products--television commercials cover them all.

Heck, even the terminology that kids pick up by watching television commercials is astounding. When I was in grammar school, I had never heard of the term contraceptive. Thanks to the great educator, television, I found myself one day answering the question,"Dad, what's a contraceptive?" My youngest son, who was just 7 at the time, was the one posing the question.
My mouth went dry; my face suddenly became red hot; and beads of sweat flowed from every pore, soaking my clothes, as I contemplated this most delicate question. After considerable thought--which took about three or four seconds--I decided to answer my son's question in a mature manner but on a level that the boy could understand.

"A contraceptive, son, is a South American rebel who is not receptive to his country's policies and is involved in trying to overthrow the government. The word contra means against, and ceptive means receptive or to cooperate. Hence, contraceptive means to be not receptive or to be uncooperative."

Hey, it worked for me. Of course, I had some fast explaining to do when youngest son spewed forth this information to his first-grade class when the class began studying the countries of South America.

Now, for older children, talk shows are a great aid for furthering their education about the facts of life. You know the shows. They'll have on a gal who used to be a guy but who now is a gal again and is engaged to a man (or she sure hopes he's a man) who just flat doesn't care.

Or those shows will have on a guy who used to be a gal whose husband left her when he found out that she was about to switch teams. Furthermore, after this person's surgery, she moved in with her male transsexual surgeon who used to be a famale orthopedic nurse. Try straightening that out for 9- and 10-year-olds.

Anymore, I don't get unnerved when my kids ask embarrassing questions concerning the birds and the bees.

Now, I just toss them a TV Guide.

Anything to Save a Buck (Skunky and I Go to the Fair

We all know people who are masters at getting something for nothing. But when it comes to saving a buck Skunky Wilson, my childhood partner in mischief, is the king. He can pinch a penny so tightly he gives ole Abe Lincoln a migraine. I’m reminded of an incident when trying to save a few bucks almost cost Skunky and me a night in jail.

It was a warm Wednesday; the middle of September, the week of our county fair, and Skunky had come up with great scheme to get us into the fair and the nightly concert for free. You see the following Saturday evening our all time favorite local country group, Puck Outhouse and the Down-winder band, would be performing in the grandstand at the fair. We just had to see them. But the admission to the fair, along with the price of the concert ticket, was beyond our financial grasp.

“All we need,” Skunky quietly announced as he entered my bedroom, “is a leash, Meathead [Meathead was my humongous, cross-bred, unruly, hyper, dumber-than-a-tree stump dog], and a pair of sunglasses.”

What Skunky had in mind was to pretend he was blind--Meathead and I were along to help him around the fairgrounds. He felt that with a “seeing-eye” dog and an escort, no one would dare question us.

Now, it was a policy of the county that people with impairments were, along with an accompanying attendant, allowed to enter the fair and the nightly concerts for free. I’ll have to admit, Skunky was sinking to a new low with this one. Unfortunately, new lows are highly sought after by most 15-year-old boys.

The days couldn’t slip by fast enough for our impatient teenage selves, but finally the big day arrived.

After getting through the gate without any problems, Skunky put his sunglasses in his shirt pocket and handed control of Meathead to me. We then strolled along the fairgrounds, observing the different rides and games, but they were of little interest to us. We were there to see Puck and the gang.

Soon it was time to head to the grandstand for the concert. On our way there we snuck behind the auction building, where Skunky promptly put on his sunglasses. “O.K., let’s go,” he said. I handed him Meathead’s leash. He grabbed my elbow with his free hand and off we went.

We were about halfway to the grandstand when Meathead spotted a barely eaten foot-long hotdog on the ground. That mutt took off for it like he was possessed with a demon. A tug-of-war then ensued, my dog, trying with all his might to get to the hotdog, while Skunky, to counter Meathead’s effort, pulled on the leash with both hands while leaning backward, resembling something akin to a water skier.

It was such a spectacle that a crowd gathered. From the collective doubt I saw expressed on their faces I knew they were on to our little scam, and unless I acted quickly the sheriff would soon arrive to haul our skinny behinds to jail.

“Hey,” I said to the onlookers, “the dog just graduated from school and he’s new at this. Give him a break!” I don’t think I convinced anyone, but by then Meathead had given up the struggle and we quickly made our way to the grandstand.

There’s another courtesy the county commissioners provided at the fair for impaired patrons. A few seats near the stage were reserved for them. Of course, that was another part of Skunky’s devious plan, to get free seats near the front of the stage.

“Come on you two,” the usher chortled, and with a grin she proceeded to guide us to our seats. I had the distinct feeling she’d witnessed the tug of war between Skunky and Meathead but she never mentioned it, and we silently started down the steps to the front row. And that’s when it happened, when Skunky’s plan fell apart like a leper in an aerobics class.

About four steps into the stand, we passed an aisle seat with a man sitting in it, eating a sandwich, a barbecue sandwich. Well, Meathead caught a whiff of that sandwich and forgot all about the lost battle for the hotdog. This was a much better prize and this time he was not to be denied.

Meathead lunged for the sandwich just as the guy was taking a bite of it. Leaping into the man’s lap, the dog clamped his powerful jaws around that tasty morsel and bit that sucker off right at the man’s lips, even giving the sandwich owner a kiss in appreciation for sharing his food.

It took Skunky, me, and the usher to yank that mangy mutt off the guy, and as we were so doing, it seemed the sandwich owner was trying to tell us something. But the guy could hardly speak, what with his spitting and all--I guess the dog-slobber kiss didn’t appeal to the guy. Some people just don’t know how to graciously accept gratitude.

While we stood there pondering our predicament sandwich owner collected himself, and he commenced an attempt to take us in toll. As they say, it was time to get while the getting was good.

At a run we sailed down the steps (not an easy task with Meathead trying to take off in every other direction) toward the stage, and flung ourselves over the railing that skirted the front of the grandstand.

Of course Meathead went under the bottom rail, while Skunky and I went over the top one. The problem was that Skunky still had hold of the leash. The leash went taught, and because Meathead was not only the stronger of the two, but he also had a full head of steam, Skunky was jerked backward against the fence.

Suddenly I heard, “Whaaaaaaaaaa,” just before the loud thump. Turning my head I could hardly believe what I saw. There was Skunky, sliding down the fence (by now he’d lost his grip on the leash), right onto Meathead’s back, as if he were going to ride that dog like a bronc.

“Come on Skunky! This is no time to be playing rodeo,” I said. Sometimes I wondered about that boy. Skunky hung on to Meathead as the dog ran toward me at a full gallop.

“There they are, after them!” It was the local sheriff and a couple of deputies, and they were running down the center aisle of the grandstand, heading toward us.

“Jeez,” I yelled, “they got the cops after us. Let’s get out of here!” With that, we ran with great haste toward home.

Later that night as my family, Skunky, and I were watching the evening news, the broadcaster reported that two boys had snuck into the county fair and the nightly concert by faking to be blind.

“Good thang them boys wuznt ya’ll,” my momma said to us. “I’d surely skin yer ears if’n it was. But then, I know y’all wunnt do an unnerhanded thang like that, would yuh?”

Skunky and I didn’t say a word. We just looked at each other and smiled. Why ruin a tender moment like that with Momma?