Never Trust a Goat
by
Tracy Farr
Smashwords Edition
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Published By
Tracy Farr at Smashwords
Never Trust a Goat
Copyright 2009 Tracy Farr
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Contents
Never Trust a Goat
When Life is Getting You Down, Just Fiddle
Be All That You Can Be – Eat Soup
The Peanut Butter Debacle of ‘09
The World Could Use a Few More Banjo Players
The Theory of Relative Stupidity
What a Day! I Think I’ll Go For a Waltz!
The Blob is Here to Stay
Yes You Can, and With a Mini-Van
Some People Were Just Born to Ramble
My ‘Sweet Ride’ is a Yellow School Bus
What’s a Few Percentages Between Friends?
If We Could Talk to the Animals, I’d Run!
Learning Your Lessons the Bus Driver Way
If We Are What We Eat, We’re in Trouble
If a French Woman Can Do It, Why Not I?
Hey, Mac! Can You Spare an Apple?
I Hate to Complain, But Not Really
I’m The Man Who Stares at Goats
And Now It’s Time For My Annual Post-Turkey Day Apology
I Do Not Snore, But That’s Just My Opinion
The Five Christmas-shopping “Rules of Engagement”
All I Want For Christmas is…
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Never Trust a Goat
I have three goats – a mamma and two twin daughters. I bought them from a little girl who knocked on my door one day, asking if I'd like to buy some goats. And since goats like to eat grass, I figured that I’d let them eat it (instead of me having to mow it), leaving me free to nap on the couch. I give a lot of credence to napping on the couch, especially when I’m supposed to be doing yard work.
I actually enjoy watching my goats, but the only reason they tolerate me is because I bring them food every now and then. If it wasn't for the food, they'd steal the credit card right out of my wallet, and head for the mall to hang out with their little goat friends and eat Chinese food. It's a good thing they can't drive, but I suspect while I’m asleep they’re secretly learning how.
I’ve had these goats for almost a year now, and although they haven’t learned a thing from me, I have learned plenty from them.
Goats are sneaky. Don't trust them. They'll look you right in the eye as if to say, "You're my best friend," but when you turn your back, they'll head-butt you and start eating your new khaki pants. Sounds like people I know, but that's a different story.
Goats are noisy when they're hungry, and they’re always hungry. Their cries sound like the cries of children in pain – and the goats know it. Don't go running outside to see what's causing them agony. It's a trap. And they know how to build excellent traps.
Never give your goats a name. They never come when you call, so why go through the hassle. Besides, if you get tired of the goats and decide to barbecue them next Friday night for your visiting relatives from El Paso, who’s going to want to sit down to a plate full of Sassy or Hoppy?
It’s best to feed goats things like carrots, lettuce, and bananas, but never three-week-old chocolate cake. If you do, they'll stop eating the grass – and can you really blame them? No animal in its right mind would gladly munch on weeds and poison ivy after eating three-week-old chocolate cake. I know I wouldn’t. And if the goats stop eating grass, that means you have to mow it, which defeats the purpose of having goats in the first place.
Never turn your back on a goat. They have sharp horns. You may consider a simple impaling as mere playfulness, but I guarantee they mean to draw blood – and lots of it. They don't want you towering over them. They want you on the ground, writhing in agony, your life's blood pouring out of gaping wounds. As you look up at them, you'll notice their teeth are bigger than you thought. And why are they so big? “The better to eat you with, my dear.”
Goats can escape anything. Go ahead, pen them in as tightly as you can. Put little handcuffs around their little legs, put a burlap sack over their heads, throw them in a locked chest, bury the chest six feet deep, pour concrete in the hole, and park your car over the top. The goats will be out by morning, eating the neighbor's prized tomatoes – the ones your neighbor had planned to exhibit at the county fair.
Neighbors are very protective about their prized tomatoes. It's best to have your checkbook handy when they come to visit.
Goats don’t like standing out in the rain. They look so sad if they have to. So, you go to Lowe’s, buy some materials, draw up some plans and build them a goat shed. The goats love it and stand under it every time it rains, which gives you a wonderful sense of accomplishment. When it’s not raining, and the goats get bored of eating grass, they start eating the shed until it falls down. Goats don’t have a grateful bone in their bodies.
I'd eat my goats, but I promised the little girl who sold them to me that I wouldn't. Which leads me to the last thing I've learned: Never make promises to little girls selling goats. They're in cahoots with each other.
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When Life is Getting You Down, Just Fiddle
There comes a time in a man’s life when he wakes up one morning, feels his bones creak as he gets out of bed, and realizes his tree-climbing days are just about over. He feels old, he feels tired, he looks like he hasn’t slept in days, and the monotony of every day life is an anchor that keeps dragging him further and further down into the abyss.
It’s at that moment that a man decides his life would look a whole lot better from the saddle of a brand new Harley Davidson Fat Boy – a black one, with straight pipes kicking out un-godly decibels of thunder, with the optional Biker Babe attached and holding on for dear life.
Yes indeed! Sometimes you need a bit of spice in your life to make it through the day. But I say a Bike and a Babe might not be the most prudent way to go about it. In my opinion, if a man really wants to add some flavor to his meal, what he truly needs is a fiddle – a down-to-earth, honest to goodness, low-tech, cat scratching, fingernails-on-chalkboard, wife yelling “Get that thing out of my house before I lose my ever-loving mind” fiddle.
Poppycock you say? Nonsense you say? You think I’m full of hot air, gibberish, gabble rubbish, and baloney? Maybe so, but I bet you good money that if you were to give a man the choice between a Harley/Biker Babe and a fiddle, he’d choose the Harley/Biker Babe every time – but only because that’s what society demands of him. Deep in his heart he yearns to play fiddle. Just ask him. He’ll lie to you, of course, but you and I know the truth.
(WORDS OF ADVICE: If you decide after reading this essay that you indeed need a fiddle, keep in mind that your local music store will try to sell you a violin instead. Don’t let them. Stand your ground. Tell them you weren’t born yesterday. You want a fiddle, and you won’t leave until they sell you one. Now, back to our story.)
Like I was saying, when a man has sunk so low as to think a Harley and a Biker Babe will make life worth living again, that’s the time he desperately needs a fiddle – even though he’ll resist with all the man-ness he can muster. And why does he need it? Because learning to play one makes you realize that your life isn’t as bad as it could be.
You know that boss you can’t stand? You’ll be hugging his neck after five minutes of trying to hold a fiddle. You know all that paperwork that’s been piling up on your desk? You’ll be eager to tackle it after a day of trying to correctly hold a bow. You know that guy in the next cubicle who plays his Rap Music so loud it can be heard even through his headphones? You’ll be begging him to turn up the music after a week of listening to yourself scratch out a melody on the fiddle.
There are not many things worse than listening to a beginner fiddle player. Someone learning to play bagpipes comes to mind, as well as stepping in cat vomit in the middle of the night, Macaroni and Cheese Pizza, and Oprah. But after that, I’m hard pressed to think of anything else.
Playing the fiddle is one of those things that takes time to learn. Some people develop the skill quickly, while others keep scratching until the day they die and their relatives are happy to put them in their grave – along with the fiddle.
But when it’s all said and done, and you’ve accomplished what you’ve set out to do, you’ll feel as if you could leap tall buildings in a single bound; you’ll feel more powerful than a locomotive; you’ll feel as if you can run faster than a speeding bullet. And when you finally have this unimaginable feeling of invincibility, that’s the time you head over to your friendly neighborhood Harley shop, pick out a sweet ride, and take your pick of Biker Babes.
And what about the little woman at home? No need to worry. You’re invincible! Besides, she’s been debating on whether to kick you out of the house or shoot you ever since the day you brought home that fiddle. She’ll be happy to see you go. She might even pack you a lunch.
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Be All That You Can Be – Eat Soup
There’s a lot being said in the media these days about the Washington bailout of the auto industry, but not a lot being said about soup. That’s right, I said soup! And I know there’s a reason for it – why one is more important than the other – but for the life of me I can’t figure it out.
The goal of running a successful auto business is simple and uncomplicated – sell a lot of cars, make a ton of cash. But the importance of eating a hot bowl of soup is not so straightforward; there’s so much more meaning attached to it than just obtaining nourishment.
Eating soup is about learning life lessons. It’s about knowing who you are, where you’ve been and where you’re going. Soup makes you remember that you’re no better than the rest of us, that even though you went off to college and got your fancy job, you’re still one of us, will always be one of us, and don’t you forget it. Soup was good enough for your mother and me, it was good enough for your grandparents, your aunts, uncles and cousins, and don’t think you’re too good for it, because you’re not. Now sit down and eat your soup before it gets cold, and don’t slurp it.
I’d bet my Dodge Mini-Van that all those auto executives grew up eating some kind of soup; however, they took a wrong turn somewhere along the way. They went off to college, got good jobs, moved up the corporate ladder, and started eating new things like sushi and crab-stuffed artichoke hearts. They bought fancy cars, ate at fine restaurants, went to places like Morocco and Abu Dhabi, spent more money on valet parking than you or I will ever make in our lifetimes – and completely forgot about the simple joy of eating soup.
Richard Wagoner, the CEO of General Motors, grew up in Richmond, Virginia, where I’m pert-near positive he had soup at one time or another. I can just imagine him coming in from an afternoon of playing basketball, and sitting down to a steaming bowl of Grilled Sirloin Steak Soup with Hearty Vegetables. He was a kid who wasn’t thinking about year-end bonuses or flying off to Europe on a company jet. He was just imagining how good the next spoonful was going to be, and he hoped there was enough for seconds.
Chrysler CEO Robert Nardelli was born in Old Forge, Pennsylvania, where I’m sure every now and then he came home with a runny nose, fever, and a sore throat. He didn’t know anything about the IRS, tax reports, 401ks and the “bottom line.” He only knew his mom was going to make him feel better by fixing him a piping-hot bowl of homemade Chicken Noodle Soup with maybe a cracker or two crumbled on top.
And what about Alan Mulally, CEO of Ford? Yes, he was born in California, but he went to college in Kansas – home of straight shootin’, level-headed, down-to-earth soup eaters. He might not have arrived in Kansas as an aficionado of Old Fashioned Vegetable Beef Soup, but I bet he left there as one.
It makes sense that throughout the ages a lot of famous people enjoyed eating soup – people like Michelangelo who probably ate Potato Soup while painting the Sistine Chapel; da Vinci, who might have gotten Mona Lisa to smile by promising her a bowl of Split Pea Soup if she’d pose for just a few more hours; George Washington, who more than likely dreamed about a bowl of Brunswick Stew as he crossed the Delaware; Beethoven, who no doubt sipped on bouillabaisse while he composed his Fifth Symphony; Orville and Wilbur Wright who perhaps celebrated their first flight by sharing a pot of Vegetable Soup; and John Glenn who conceivably asked for a bowl of Old Fashioned Potato Ham Chowder after returning to Earth.
And what about Sasha and Malia Obama? When it gets cold in Washington this winter, I can practically guarantee they’ll sit down with their mom and dad and feast on grilled-cheese sandwiches and bowls of hot Tomato Soup. And can you blame them?
Wagoner, Nardelli and Mulally may have more money than me, but I’ve got a large bubbling pot of New England Clam Chowder sitting on the stove top not just waiting to be served, but begging to be served. And by my calculation, that beats being in a bunch of hot water any day.
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The Peanut Butter Debacle of ‘09
Microsoft is cutting jobs, the auto industry is in dire straights, airlines are flying fewer flights, and Starbucks is closing stores everywhere. I would say our economy is now officially in shambles. Good thing we can still count on peanut butter to get us through these trying times.
NEWS FLASH: Due to the possibility of salmonella contamination, the Food and Drug Administration recently recalled 400 kinds of cakes, cookies and other products made with peanut butter in one of the largest product recalls in history.
Okay, now we’re in trouble!
“But Mommy, we’re out of peanut butter,” Little Johnny said at the Super-Duper Mega Mart. “Aren’t we going to get some more?”
“Not this week, honey. Let’s try Pimento Cheese. Better yet, how about some Soy Burgers?”
Attention shoppers: Management has pulled SOME peanut butter products from our shelves due to a recall. This recall does not affect major brands such as Jif, Skippy and Peter Pan. In fact, if you’re interested in helping out our American economy, you might think about buying a jar or two – or three or four. Thank you for shopping at Super-Duper Mega Mart.
After hearing the store’s announcement, Little Johnny’s mother picks up a jar of Peter Pan Honey Roast Creamy Peanut Butter, glances at the ingredient label, but puts it back on the shelf. If some peanut butter is bad, she reasons, how can we trust the rest of them?
FUTURE HISTORY TEACHER: For more than 200 years, America was one of the foremost nations on our planet – that is until the early part of the 21st Century. Does anybody know what happened in our country during that time? Anybody?
FUTURE LITTLE JOHNNY: My great, great, grandmother didn’t buy peanut butter during the Peanut Butter Debacle of ’09, and America’s economy collapsed. And that’s why we eat Marmite today instead of peanut butter.
HISTORY TEACHER: Well, it wasn’t just her fault, but you’re right. Not all peanut butter was unsafe to eat, but people back then didn’t want to take chances. And when the peanut butter industry collapsed, it caused the jelly industry to fold, which affected farmers, pickers, truckers, and a whole lot of other people who depended on peanut butter for a living. The Multi-Billion Dollar Peanut Butter Bailout was supposed to help, but it ended up being too little, too late.
“Mr. President, without a bailout for our industry, children all over this great country of ours will be deprived of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and if our business goes under, so goes the country,” said the Head Peanut Butter CEO.
“Please Daddy, can you help them?” cried Sasha Obama. “I haven’t had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in so long, and you know how much I love them. And can I have a horse?”
“These times call for sacrifices from all of us, but sacrificing a staple of American culture is out of the question,” said President Obama. “Who do I make the check out to?”
A lot of us hard-working families have tried to shelter our children from all this economic mess, but without peanut butter on the menu, our children are going to figure something’s amiss, and when they do, we’ll have to level with them. And this is what our children will say one day about growing up in America:
“Oh yes, I remember 2009 like it was yesterday. That was the year of the great Peanut Butter Debacle. We begged and begged for anything with peanut butter in it, but there was none to be found. You kids just don’t know how good you have it today. Back then, we suffered.”
“Tell us another story, Grandpa. Tell us about sitting around the television to watch the TV Queen.”
“Not right now child, I’m getting tired. Why don’t you go and play outside?”
And Oprah, the TV Queen said: “And how does that make you feel, hearing your children express their feelings about how they feel about the loss of peanut butter?”
Random audience member: “Betrayed! Betrayed by our government; betrayed by those who are supposed to look after the safety of our food supply; and betrayed by the Peanut Butter CEOs who only cared about the ‘bottom line,’ at the expense of our children.”
“I feel your pain,” Oprah, the TV Queen said. “Tomorrow on our show, we’ll discuss 257 ways to get your man away from the TV and into bed. That’s next time on Oprah.”
And the world keeps spinning.
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The World Could Use a Few More Banjo Players
Sometimes, while I’m at home waiting for the mail to come, I take my mind out for a walk, give it some leash, and follow along the best I can.
For instance, just the other morning I was wondering why anybody would want to spend their lives learning to play the trombone when they could play the banjo instead. All that pushing and pulling (on a bunch of pipe that looks like it should be connected to a toilet) just makes me seasick. And where does the slide go when the trombone player pulls it in? Does he swallow it like a sword swallower? I know it doesn’t exit out the back of his head because that would be noticeable – and a little bit messy.
There is nothing messy about a banjo. Banjos make people smile. Trombones make people duck. Flute players, on the other hand, make people nervous.
I’ve noticed that flute players are way too serious. You can’t kid around with a flute player because they’ll think you’re being serious, too. They also can’t tell funny stories. They think they can, but they can’t – which is actually pretty hilarious. I’m also surprised they don’t keel over from all the air they keep exhaling. You and I would probably hyperventilate if we tried to play a flute, and it would serve us right.
I bet you can find at least 537 flute players in every town in America. You’d be lucky to find eight banjo players living in those same towns. The flute players would either be practicing or shopping at the mall. The banjo players would be at Dairy Queen or the Hot Link Palace, talking about football.
Speaking of trumpet players (which we weren’t but I hope you won’t hold it against me), whenever trumpet players pick up their horns and start blowing on them, they look like their heads are about to explode. They shut their eyes tight, their faces turn blood red, they sweat all over the place, and when they’re finished, their lips look like they just came out of a meat grinder. Migraine headaches, aneurisms and Tylenol Extra Strength were unheard of until the trumpet was invented.
Banjo players never have headaches – indigestion, yes; headaches, no. That’s why they never leave home without a bottle or two of Tums. Trumpet players watch their diet. Banjo players abuse theirs. But enough about trumpets. Let’s talk about the saxophone.
Everybody wants to play the saxophone – until they try to play one. That’s when they find out they have to put a piece of wood in their mouth, suck on it for awhile, and then blow on it until it squeaks. It’s about then that they wish they’d chosen to play the banjo.
You don’t have to put a banjo in your mouth and suck on it. You’d probably be arrested in some states for even trying.
Saxophone players hold their instruments by way of a neck strap. The neck strap keeps them from setting down their instrument and forgetting where they put it. Banjo players also hold their instrument by way of a strap, but let’s not compare apples with oranges.
Penny Whistles and Tin Whistles are the same instrument but with different names. I don’t know why they’re called Penny Whistles because they cost more than a penny. I do know why they’re called Tin Whistles – only a person with a Tin Ear could enjoy playing one. Banjos, on the other hand, are only called banjos. It’s less confusing that way.
I think more people should play the banjo. They have a distinctive sound, they make people smile, and they connect us to a less complicated past – a past when we could drive to Alabama playing a banjo on our knee without worrying about a cop pulling us over to give us a lecture on safety issues concerning playing a banjo while driving (which, no matter what you’ve heard, I categorically deny ever doing).
In conclusion, I have the utmost respect for anyone who can play a musical instrument. It takes a lot of intelligence, dedication and talent to make one sound the way it’s supposed to. But these day, I think the world could use a few more banjo players – people who laugh a lot, don’t stress about the small stuff, and are always optimistic about the future. And since I have nothing more to add, I won’t.
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The Theory of Relative Stupidity
My fellow friends, colleagues, and members of the scientific community, after many years of study, research, supposition, postulation, conjecture, and a lot of late-night dictionary diving to find a bunch of really big words, I hereby present to you the sum of my life’s work in thesis form titled, “The Theory of Relative Stupidity.”
But before we can thoroughly explore this subject, it is first necessary to examine and define certain terminology used in this Theory in order for us to approach the subject with commonality. I have no idea what any of that just meant, but it sounded smart.
First and foremost is the word “Theory” – a noun used to indicate a hypothesis, a conjecture, speculation, or more plainly, a guess. Anyone can have a theory about anything. I once had a theory that if I constantly told my brother he was stupid, he’d turn out that way. My theory was wrong. Plus, he punched me in the eye to prove it.
Next is the word “Relative” – a word that means comparative and qualified, but it could also be used to describe my Aunt Edna in El Paso. A lot of English words have more than one meaning, and that’s why most students hate their English classes.
Finally, we have the word “Stupidity” – a word that pertains to all things foolish, idiotic, foolhardy, inane, and plain silly. Most people use this word without really knowing its origin, but this thesis will not deal with origins; to do so would be lengthy and downright stupid.
The words “of” and “the” are extra words we don’t really need. Think of them as additional government employees – the ones who just stand around watching the others work.
Now that we have defined a common terminology, let’s take a closer look at “The Theory of Relative Stupidity.”
In plain English, “The Theory of Relative Stupidity” postulates that any form of inanity will, when placed at specific coordinates upon a timeline in a third-dimensional space-time continuum, be viewed upon as sensible until it is viewed from a different set of coordinates along the same timeline. In even plainer English, some ideas seem good at the time, but usually turn out not to be. To prove my point, I present these three examples:
Example No. 1: You would never stoop so low as to get your hands dirty while replacing the head gasket on a vintage Jeep. Your brother, on the other hand, loves everything mechanical and would prefer to repair the engine himself than take it to a “professional.” You think it’s your duty to tell him he’s being stupid. He slaps you in the ear with a monkey wrench, causing you to forget everything since last Tuesday. Weeks later, your brother has a working vintage Jeep that didn’t cost him an arm and a leg to fix. You, realizing that was a stupid thing to say to your brother, just want your ears to stop ringing.
Example No. 2: You think it is reasonable to tell your brother that it’s a stupid idea for him to move to Montana to become a sheep herder. As he pulls out his bullwhip and chases you around the barn, you realize telling him was a stupid idea. He goes to Montana without your blessing and becomes the Sheep King of the West. You, thinking that he might be on to something, buy some goats, but it’s just not the same.
And finally, Example No. 3: You, being the oldest, believe it logical that you should also be the strongest, tallest, fastest and most witty. You also believe it is your right to tell your brother he will never amount to much. When he finally catches you, picks you up, throws you down on the ground and makes a joke about how you now look and sound just like a chicken that didn’t quite make it across the road, you realize it was pretty stupid to say anything to his face when you could have used e-mail instead.
In conclusion, “The Theory of Relative Stupidity” describes how we humans are more perceptive of our own stupidity after the fact than before the fact. But that’s a good thing, because without it, we wouldn’t have the ability to laugh at ourselves or the absurdities of living. So, to echo the words of that famous American, Patrick Henry, I say, “Give me stupidity, or give me death.” On second thought, that was a pretty stupid thing to say.
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What a Day! I Think I’ll Go For a Waltz!
After a long, grueling day at work, there is nothing that can soothe the soul better than a good old fashioned waltz. Eating a Stuffed Crust Barbecue Pizza while watching reruns of “Rawhide” comes mighty close, but when we’re talking about mental health, close isn’t good enough.
Waltzing is quickly becoming the exercise of choice for people all across the nation, and even though it may be hard to believe, men are coming out in droves to participate – secretly of course, but in droves, nonetheless.
Most men enjoy waltzing, but preferably at home when no one else is around. And if they say they don’t, they’re lying. Go ahead ladies – ask the man in your life how he plans to spend his Saturday while you’re off at the mall. To your face, he’ll tell you he’s going to spend the afternoon with his “buds” watching the big NASCAR race, but as soon as you’re out the door and down the street, he’s going to put on a little Strauss and let his inner dancer come out of the closet.
(FYI: Putting on “a little Strauss” refers to the 19th Century composer who is affectionately known as “The Waltz King.” It is not a piece of skimpy clothing from Victoria’s Secret your husband puts on when you’re not at home.)
Did you know that a five or ten minute brisk waltz offers the same health benefits as walking to the kitchen to make a jumbo sub sandwich with Pepper Jack cheese and Sweet Dill Relish? That’s why I’m surprised Oprah hasn’t touted it as one of the ten best ways to lose weight and maintain a healthy lifestyle. I guess she hasn’t tried it.
I suppose the Samba or the Rumba offers a more intense cardio workout, but that means more sweat. People who waltz would rather keep sweating to a minimum. Besides, those Latin dances require tight clothing, tan skin, and fake foreign accents – and for us red-blooded American men, that’s a no-no.
I prefer waltzing over jogging because you basically get to stay in one place (I choose in front of the TV) and there’s no chance of getting lost. Sure, you might get off beat every now and then, but that’s better than jogging half way across the country and not knowing how to get back.
Besides the health benefits, another reason people are jumping on the Waltzing Bandwagon is because of its low cost. There’s nothing to buy, no equipment to set up, and it doesn’t require specific clothing, as do bicycling or Sumo wrestling. You can waltz in your pajamas, and I much prefer it that way.
Waltzing also doesn’t require expensive shoes. A person can waltz in their socks if they want to, and for rookies, that’s usually the best option. (It saves wear and tear on a dance partner’s toes.)
I predict the waltz will one day be all the rage of the exercise world. Mr. T and Regis Filbin will star in 30-minute info-mercials about Aerobic Waltzing, and health professionals will design a Waltzing Diet that is guaranteed to shed unwanted pounds in 30 days or your money back.
But wait – if you call our 1-800 number within the next 10 minutes, we’ll include our brand new “Waltzing Abs” video exercise program that is a sure-fire way of giving you abs of steel – or at least, aluminum. Phone now. Our operators are standing by to take your call.
Yes, friends and neighbors, waltzing is the way to a new and better us. And trust me – we need it.
* * *
The Blob is Here to Stay
Scientists have recently discovered an immense blob living on the bottom shelf of my refrigerator. This blob is so dense, light can’t penetrate through it; so massive, it devours everything else around it. But since it’s not fuzzy purple yet, I might have it for lunch.
In case you haven’t been to school in a long time and have forgotten, the word “blob” is a scientific word defined as a “coalesced mass of unrecognizable icky stuff that might be edible, but consumption is not recommended without killing it first with a truck load of Tabasco Sauce.” The blob in my refrigerator looks like it would laugh in the face of Tabasco Sauce.
I’m not exactly sure what this blob started out as – maybe a half-eaten slice of cheesecake; maybe leftover broccoli. Whatever it was, it has learned to adapt, to conquer, to multiply and divide, to work complex algebraic equations. It is self-aware, it is sentient, but most importantly, it emits nauseating smells as a self-defense mechanism.
NEWS UPDATE: I’ve just returned from the refrigerator where I embarked on a mission to rescue the sliced ham and Pepper Jack cheese because it’s lunch time and I’m really hungry. The blob took no notice of me. It was too busy painting graffiti on the walls. Gang signs. Things like, “Mold-siders are best,” “No carrots allowed,” and “Touch me and I’ll envelop you with deadly embryonic microorganisms!” Surprisingly, it has a good command of the English language.
Unidentifiable blobs are not new to mankind. Hollywood made a movie called “The Blob” back in 1958 that starred Steve McQueen before he was picky about his movies. The movie’s theme song, “The Blob,” was one of Burt Bacharach’s first hits. It went something like this: “Beware of The Blob! It creeps, and leaps, and glides and slides. Across the floor, right through the door. And all around the wall. A splotch, a blotch. Be careful of The Blob!”
Grammy Award winning material, don’t you think?
In 1964, Marvel Comics introduced a new super villain named The Blob who fought against the X-Men. Blob’s real name was Fred J. Dukes. He was born in Lubbock, Texas, was a circus performer, and was a member of the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants III – which I’m sure doesn’t surprise you one bit.
Unlike Wolverine, who was all buffed up with really cool knives and a Hollywood movie deal, The Blob was fat, mean and really ugly, and is pretty much forgotten about these days. So, let’s continue to forget about him and move right along.
In 1994, strange blobs (in no way related to Blob the super villain) fell from the sky across Washington state. It was reported that people who touched the blobs got sick. Dogs and cats that came in contact with the stuff even died. More mysterious still, there were reports of UFOs and black helicopters seen in the area right before the blobs fell. And I know these reports are true because I read it on the Internet – the place where all serious journalists go to do research.
More recently, astronomers found an enormous blob in deep space which may have a massive black hole at its center. It’s 12.9 billion light years away from Earth, and 55,000 light years wide. Astronomers even gave it a name – Himiko. Of course, they didn’t ask the blob for approval – they just did it on their own. A space blob billions of light years away really can’t throw a fuss about the name it’s been given.
I’d give my blob a name, but it’s right in the next room and probably knows Kung Fu.
Which begs the question, if a blob had its choice of names, would it want to be called Blob? Maybe it would prefer James or Toby. How about something snazzy like Maximillian? My guess is it would probably choose Spike or “Globule of Death,” then grow a Mohawk and get a tattoo.
Mankind knows very little about blobs. There are no college courses in Blobatomy; there is no community need for a Bloberinarian or a Blobecologist. But maybe there should be. Maybe the study of Blobology would give us a better understanding of blobs; their culture and way of life. Because folks, let’s face it – they’re not going away. They’re here to stay. And I know this because I just looked in my refrigerator and the “Globule of Death” is digging foxholes and putting up concertina wire.
* * *
Yes You Can, and With a Mini-Van
A friend once told me there was no way I could get a load of 2x4s, some roofing paper, shingles, assorted nails and screws, and a 4x8 sheet of plywood in the back of my Mini-Van. Of course I looked him right in the eye and said, “Well I know that! You didn’t think I was actually going to try it, did you? What do you think I am – an idiot?”
As soon as my friend left, I put on a hat, some dark shades, and drove my Mini-Van to the lumberyard. I needed some materials for building a goat shed, and the Mini-Van was the only form of transportation I had available.
To make a long story short enough to fit in this particular spot of the newspaper, I was able to gather up all my materials, get it home, and build the goat shed without anybody suspecting I used a Mini-Van.
Now, being the community-oriented guy that I am, and knowing there must be at least two other guys who are just like me (needing to do some manly work but having only a non-manly vehicle in which to do it), I hereby present some tips to make it all work for you:
1. Before you head out to the lumberyard (or hardware store, or wherever other men driving trucks gather), put on a hat, some dark shades, and only leave your house when you’re pretty sure your friends are at home and nowhere near the lumberyard (or wherever). If a friend does catch you there, just say you’re out of chainsaws and need to buy a couple, and then head back home and start your project another day.
2. When you get to the lumberyard, park as far away from the building as you can. You don’t want strangers to see you trying to put that much stuff, especially the plywood, in the back of your Mini-Van.
3. While you’re gathering up your lumber and supplies, look confident – like you have a truck parked outside. Think positive. Try to put out of your mind that something (like the plywood) might not fit.
4. At the checkout counter, if the cashier asks if you need any help loading your purchases, you tell her, “I’m a man. Men have trucks. Thanks, but no thanks!”
5. Once you head out to the parking lot, don’t walk straight to your Mini-Van. Head for a nearby truck – any truck will do – to give the impression you would never go to the lumberyard in anything less. At the last minute, veer off to the Mini-Van, making sure to stay hidden behind the plywood.
6. If you’re lucky, no one will see you trying to shove your supplies into the Mini-Van. If you’re NOT lucky, a good Samaritan will show up to offer assistance. Be polite, let the good Samaritan help, shake his hand when all is said and done, but don’t be surprised if he doesn’t stick around for small talk. He’ll be in a hurry to get home so he can tell his wife, “You’ll never believe what I just saw at the lumberyard.”
7. Most of your supplies will fit nicely in the back of the Mini-Van, but the plywood is another matter. More than likely you’ll have to push the plywood all the way up to the windshield where it will overhang the front seats. Driving shouldn’t be a problem as long as you move your seat way back, duck down behind the steering wheel, and drive like a Low Rider.
8. Pray a cop doesn’t pull you over.
9. Watch out for potholes and railroad crossings. Every bump you hit will cause the plywood, which is over your head, to bounce up and slap you on the noggin like it was trying to make a point, such as, “You won’t do this again, will ya! (bounce, SLAP!) Next time you’ll use a truck, won’t ya! (bounce, WHAMO!) Right about now you’re feeling like an idiot, aren’t ya! (bounce, SMACK! CONCUSSION!).”
10. When you get home, take two aspirin and put some ice on your head. When the dizziness goes away, unload all your supplies, pick up the latest edition of the newspaper, and start scanning the classifieds for a used truck!
Well, there you have it. Next time, we’ll discuss how to transport three goats in the back of your Mini-Van without having to clean up a ton of goat poop.
* * *
Some People Were Just Born to Ramble
Contrary to what you might think, it’s actually pretty easy for a writer to sit down and write about a subject that most people find interesting, such as poodles or projectile vomiting. But when it comes to writing something interesting about absolutely nothing at all – well, buddy, that’s when the going gets tough.
Any monkey can write about politicians or movie stars or fancy cars being driven by highfaluting people who have more dollars than sense (or cents), but it takes a rare talent who can ramble on and on about something like goat poop and make it sound as important as a presidential address, but without the smell.
Now, I’m not saying that I’m one of those “rare talents,” but just the other day, while I was lounging on the couch being practically worthless, I suddenly realized that I’m as insightful as a tree stump, but boy can I talk and write a bunch of nonsense when the need arises.
I guess you could say I was born to be a ramblin’ man, but if you actually did say it – or worse, sang it – then you’d have to define exactly what kind of ramblin’ man I happen to be. Am I the kind of rambler who travels around the globe, moving here and there all willy-nilly like, soaking in everything I see and hear and smell like there’s no deodorant? Or am I the kind of rambler who keeps moving his mouth without any thought to what’s coming out, or why, or who might be listening, or not? I would like to think I was the former, but I have come to terms with the fact that I’m the latter.
Yes, I am rambler. I know this because I can see it in people’s eyes. I can see it when they start looking at their watches, wondering why they don’t have an important meeting to go to, or an appointment which would help them make a graceful exit, stage right. Out of desperation, they pretend to have phone calls:
“Oh, I apologize. My cell is buzzing and this is an important call. It’s probably the President. Please excuse me.”
And some just flat out lie:
“That’s very interesting. We should discuss this more. Have your people call my people and I’m sure they’ll be able to get together and have a lovely lunch while talking about whatever it is you’ve been talking about. Ok? Ok.”
Well, I guess that would be okay if I actually had “people,” but people like me don’t have “people.” We have cats and goats and John Deere lawnmowers and a whole lot of stuff up in the attic that we have practically no use for, but we keep it anyways just for when we might need it. Just in case. But we don’t have “people.”
How do people have “people” anyways? And what do these “people” do? More importantly, do they mind being called “people,” as in “my people” or “your people”? I would think it would be insulting to be known as somebody’s “people.” But that’s just me. Maybe they’re okay with it. I don’t think I would be. I’m not much of a “people” person.
People don’t like being waylaid by a ramblin’ man in Wal-Mart. It’s not the best thing that can happen to a person. The rambler rambles on about this and that, or something or another, while your carton of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream melts right out of the carton and onto the floor. And then somebody has to clean it up, but it’s not going to be you because it wasn’t your fault in the first place.
But does the rambler realize that your ice cream is melting? Of course not. He just keeps on talking and talking and talking like that’s what you came to Wal-Mart for – to see him and listen to every single thought and idea that ever entered and then exited his little itty-bitty pea-sized brain.
Ramblers are a nuisance, a bother, an irritation and a pain in the you-know-what. They should apologize for being who and what they are – and say it with feeling!
(Angie, I am so sorry I talked your ears off the other day in Wal-Mart while your ice cream melted. But I was impressed how your two young boys just bustled about, getting everything on your shopping list and bringing it back to your cart. They certainly came in handy. It was nice to see you again. Keep in touch.)
* * *
My ‘Sweet Ride’ is a Yellow School Bus
I’m proud to say that I’m a school bus driver. Not only that, but last year one of my riders gave me a certificate that says I’m the greatest bus driver in the world – which makes me an Award-Winning School Bus Driver. The certificate is hanging up in my office. Feel free to drop by and see it.
Being an Award-Winning School Bus Driver is not all glamour and paparazzi. Yes, there are perks that come with the job (I’m still searching for mine), but there’s also a certain amount of responsibility that comes with the reward.
Bus drivers have to be friendly and ready to wipe up liquid motion sickness at a moment’s notice. Bus drivers have to be welcoming, but ready to give students the “evil eye” when they’re not following the rules. Bus drivers have to understand a little bit of child psychology, be able to work under pressure, and have the ability to tune out distractions while keeping their eyes and ears open for Little Johnny who loves to use his markers to color on things – especially other riders. And bus drivers have to carry an extra bottle of deodorant with them because driving a bus is a sweaty job, and stinky school bus drivers don’t get certificates.
Driving a school bus is not for everybody, and to be a school bus driver is to be practically superhuman but without the cape and spandex. That’s why I’m surprised there aren’t more movies made about them.
“In a land where time has stood still, where American values are as deep-rooted as the Rockies, there lives a man who is more than what he appears to be. His name is Bud Randle. He drives a school bus twice a day, but he’s hiding a secret that will soon amaze all his friends and neighbors. And in the end, he will save us all. Transport Pictures presents Johnny Depp in a Peter Jackson film – ‘Mr. Bus Driver: The Movie.’ Coming to a theater near you.!”
I’d gladly pay my money to see a movie like that, and I might even spring for some hot-buttered popcorn and an ice-cold soda pop. Wouldn’t you?
Driving a bus doesn’t have the greatest of reputations. The buses rarely have air conditioning, the heaters barely work in the winter, they’re slow, the engines are loud, the brakes squeal, the children sometimes get noisy and obnoxious, and dealing with a bunch of hot, sweaty kids on a hot, sweaty day is worse than having a root canal without medication. But other than that, it’s not too bad – especially if you have a Little Emily onboard.
“Mr. Bus Driver, why are you whistling? Whistling isn’t allowed on the bus,” said Little Emily.
“Who says whistling isn’t allowed on the bus?” asked Mr. Bus Driver.
“I did,” said Little Emily.
“You did? So, you mean when I’m happy, I can’t whistle?”
“Well, I guess I can make an exception. But just this once,” she said.
Little Emily has plans for her life. Maybe she’s going to be a nurse, or a lawyer, or the CEO of a global financial institution that will decide whether or not I should get the loan I need to one day take my family to Europe for the trip of a lifetime. Who knows? What matters today is that she doesn’t mind riding to school on the bus. She’s been doing it since kindergarten. It’s just a morning and afternoon ritual that will continue until she can drive herself to school. But until that time, she relies on me, the bus driver, to get her there safely so she can become the person she’s meant to be.
So like I was saying, driving a school bus is a big responsibility. Not everybody can do it, but those who can should be respected, admired, and valued as important members of our society. And the best way that you can show your appreciation for the thankless job these school bus drivers do is to remember two things:
1) Stop when you see their red lights flashing. There’s a Little Emily on every bus, and they all want to grow up safe and sound; and 2) Bus drivers love to eat. A couple of glazed donuts or an apple fritter in a bag is sometimes better than money.
Now, if you’ll excuse me – I’ve got riders to pick up.
* * *
What’s a Few Percentages Between Friends?
I’ve noticed that 95 percent of Americans who quote percentages are just making them up about 87 percent of the time, but since it’s all math (and the rest of us hate math) we believe them, which makes us pretty darn stupid. Politicians are the worst about “percentage dropping,” followed by sportscasters and wives with lazy husbands.
“I guarantee that when Charlotte’s husband is home, he’s out in the yard 92 percent of the time cutting the grass, and the other 8 percent he’s in the kitchen doing the dishes. And how do you spend 92 percent of your time at home? Lounging on the couch watching NASCAR – or snoring. I have no idea what you do the other 8 percent of the time, and frankly, I don’t want to know. Do you see something wrong with this picture? Well, do ya?”
To be honest, I must admit that 45 percent of those exact words have never been spoken to me in that precise order by anybody in particular at my house on a Saturday afternoon. I just made it up. Honestly. So, shall we continue?
I think it would be safe to say that 98 percent of all politicians, whether they be foreign or domestic, have at one time or another quoted figures and statistics that are slightly wide of the mark. They use these numbers to support their position (whether it be vertical or horizontal) because it’s a requirement of being in office.
“I do solemnly swear to uphold the principles of our constitution 97 percent of the time; to serve 51 percent of my constituency because majority rules in a democracy; to wrap my arguments in obscure details and data; and to never let my good judgment be influenced by piles of dirty money, unless it increases my take-home pay by 180 percent and there’s only a 2 percent chance of being caught. So help me God.”
Before going on I must admit that 50 percent of the politicians I have met in my lifetime were good, honest, hard-working Americans. The other guy reminded me of a used car salesman.
“I just want you to know that 96 percent of the people who walk through our lot believe this car, this one right here, is a piece of junk. They don’t even give it a second look. But I’m here to tell you they’re wrong. Our mechanics gave 110 percent of their time and effort to make this car the Cinderella of the lot. And if you buy it right here, right now, right this minute, I’ll drop that sticker price by 38 percent – and I don’t do that for just anybody. So, you want to take it for a test drive?”
Before going on I must admit that 50 percent of the used car dealers I have met in my lifetime were good, honest, hard-working Americans. The other guy reminded me of a politician.
When it comes to numbers, only sportscasters have earned my trust. Their jobs are built upon facts and figures, statistics and averages, hits and runs, steroids and dog fights. Ninety-nine percent of them could give Einstein a run for his money, which wouldn’t be that hard considering he’s dead.
“Ivan ‘Pudge’ Rodriguez, 14-time All-Star catcher and 13-time Golden Glove winner, let a bouncing ball pass him on Wednesday, giving the Minnesota Twins a two-game sweep over the Rangers which pulled the Twins within 5 ½ games behind Detroit despite being four games under .500.”
(I know it’s not rocket science, but it sounds pert near close.)
To make matters worse, there is a sub-class to “percentage droppers.” I refer to them as the “point five-ers.” Not only do they talk in percentages, but they talk in fractions of percentages. These people are dangerous. Avoid them if you can, run if you have absolutely have no other choice.
“You are not going to believe the product I’m going to show you today. It’s 100 percent clean, it’s 100 percent useful, it’s 100 percent cost effective, and only 21.5 percent of the population know about it. That’s right, I said 21.5 percent. Surprised? You should be. But for the unbelievable initial low cost of $37.95, you won’t be classified as a ‘backwoods boob’ like 78.5 percent of the population. You’ll be in the 21.5 percent group, and we take all major credit cards.”
Just to let you know, 92.5 percent of the stuff that comes out of my mouth is made up. The other 7.5 percent may be true, but why take the chance?
* * *
If We Could Talk to the Animals, I’d Run!
While a lot of very intelligent people are weighing in on health care, socialized medicine and obscenely high insurance rates, cows don’t give it a second thought. In fact, I’m sure if someone were to even mention those things to a cow, it would look him straight in the eye and say, “Moo,” and really mean it.
Cows chew their cud, swat at flies, and never once worry about the things we worry about – which makes them pretty smart in my opinion. Sure, they eventually end up tasting mighty delicious on a plate with a bit of A1 Sauce, but up until that very moment, they don’t have a care in the world.
Scientists are now discovering that a lot of animals, just like cows, are more intelligent than we originally thought. No, they’re not smart enough to get your kid an A in calculus, but neither am I, which doesn’t prove a thing, so let’s continue with some absolutely true stories about smart animals.
Did you hear the one about the bird and the worm? The worm was floating in a glass of water, but because the water level was too low, the bird couldn’t reach it. Scientists gave the bird some stones, and before you could say, “nevermore,” the bird dropped the stones in the water, raising the water level and bringing the worm within easy reach.
If scientists were to put me in a room with a pile of rocks and a vat of water, and floating on the water was a cheeseburger – medium well but slightly out of my reach – I doubt very seriously I’d think of using the rocks to raise the water level. I might jump in, especially if it was an Angus Burger, but using rocks is for the birds.
So, how did this bird get so smart? Is it possible a new species of thinking, reasoning creatures that are able to use new math are gathering just under our noses? And if they are, why can’t we smell them? Don’t ask me – go ask your mother.
And then there’s the story about the chimps that can make and use tools (I usually buy and lose mine). They make spears out of tree limbs, jab them into other creatures and then eat them – which makes me have “Planet of the Apes” nightmares because it sounds less like they’re making tools, and more like they’re making weapons.
Dolphins, on the other hand, are too sneaky to need tools.
A dolphin was trained to bring up trash from his tank. Whenever he brought up trash, he was fed a “treat.”. One day, when the tank looked clean, the dolphin appeared with trash in his mouth, got his treat, but raised the suspicion of his trainer. The trainer discovered that the dolphin had made a cache of trash. Not only that, but instead of bringing up whole pieces, he was tearing off just bits of the trash, thus making his cache a long-lasting stash of trash. And what did this prove? That dolphins are sneaky – didn’t I already say that?
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(Pages 1-31 show above.)