We Are Men, So:  Retreat!!

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What does it mean to be a man?  Biologically speaking, I guess a man simply means being male and past the age of puberty.  But of course, it’s much more than that.  Right??  Well, I hope you’re not going to try to pin me down on what a man is, because I’m still learning that one.  While I was growing up, movie stars like John Wayne, Glenn Ford, Gary Cooper and the like were considered male role models.  Real men! Gun toting, sports loving, woman dominating guys that made this country great!!  Right??  

I don’t think so!!  

And because I don’t think so, according to some males there must be something wrong with me.  I don’t give a rip about sports. I don’t own a gun. In regard to women, I have nothing but the highest respect for them.  Admit it guys, you really have to give a huge amount of credit to women.  They brought us into this world, and in spite of the way all too many men have mistreated and abused females over the years, we still have women who are willing to put up with us.

Is that dedication or what?? 

Well, one of the things I’ve learned along the way is that fire and water don’t mix.  Even more importantly, firewater and family life definitely don’t mix.  At least not in my case, where one serving of firewater was too many and a thousand wasn’t enough.  And that is also the case for most of the men I consider friends these days.  We all have a common bond:  firewater make man crazy, stop drinking firewater and get into recovery, recovery make man better.  We’ve embraced a rather strange concept called “surrender to win.”  There is a bunch of us, and for those in this neck of the woods who get their application turned in by the deadline there is the annual “spiritual retreat.” 

In case any of you man-boys out there are thinking of attending one of these events, here’s a little sample of what you might find, which may or may not be a completely silly joke (well OK, it’s a joke) that I’m in dire need of writing because of the horribly brain draining universe I’ve been living in these days…

Day 1:  (Friday evening)

 Check in.  I was handed a packet of welcome materials, including a schedule, from a nice man who smiled at me and said with a twinkle in his eye, “Go find a place in the dirt for sleeping.”  So, I humbly took my tent to the mosquito infested river bank and set up my “room” for the weekend. Some friends saw me fumbling with the poles and walked over to mock me and pretend to help.  They all had a good laugh as I battled the blood sucking bugs, smacking the ones on my head with my hand until I was speaking in tongues.  Then they led me to the camp fire where a very old man with three teeth and big, bulging eyes was telling a story:  

“Long ago in Grandfather’s beard, a small squid died and stunk for days. All the village Elders offered him fire to drink and hid his remote control. Little children crawled up to see him and chewed off his toes. His own family sent for the Magic Bowl. They filled it with bird runch and mixed in pork, crayon shavings and geek fat. The ceremony began with the first three episodes of “Gilligan’s Island”; and when Grandfather started lusting for Mrs. Howell they fed him the Modongo. Very soon Grandfather blortled and fipped. He asked “What kind of bird runch are you feeding me today? Anyhow?” His family laughed at the snackwonder, and said, “This is a very joyful time for us.  We must remove our Flingel shirts and dance wildly around the Popsicle stick.”  As he finished the last sentence, everyone received a Popsicle.  

After this rather strange ritual, all the guys got dressed again and “Little Louie” shouted, “Meeting Time!!  C’mon, everybody grab a stump!!”  Then we started off with a topic, “using macramé to kill cravings.”  Silly me, I thought macramé was a forgotten art, but each man was handed some twine and when it was his turn to share about some issue with which he was struggling, he was to add his twine to the weave.  The finished product resembled a large duck with a sledgehammer on its head… and it was announced that, “Some lucky person will be taking this home after the retreat is done.”

Midnight rolled around and none of us had eaten dinner.  But we were assured we wouldn’t go to bed hungry; and that we should line up and a “fine feast” would be waiting for us in the lodge kitchen.  By this time I had already made a few friends and boy, I’m telling you, that bowl of Rice Crispies was just plain awesome.  After eating I flopped into my tent and slept like a baby until reveille.

Day 2:  (Saturday)

At about 5:30 in the stinkin’ morning I hear some kakahead  near the lodge yelling, “Breakfast for Kings!!  Breakfast for Ki-i-n-ngs!”  I’m thinking manly thoughts of running over and choking this guy.  But then my serenity kicked in, and I put on an happy face and dragged my sleepy hiney over to see what this “Breakfast for Kings” was all about.  Turns out they had invented a new way to cook eggs the previous year, and “Old Herman” was dropping a dozen or two straight into the coals of the camp fire. Shells and all!  We were each given a wooden spoon that had been soaked in castor oil and told, “Just get them eggs outta there when they’re done the way you like ’em.”   I excused myself and went to my car, where I had carefully stashed a Snickers bar and a RC cola.

 After the “King’s Breakfast,” there was a long line for the port-a-john.  Once the fumes cleared, the activities coordinator jumped up on a stump and spoke loudly.  “We’re gonna have some fun today… now we know you’re here for your spirit, but we gotta play a little too.  So, we’ve arranged for golf and tree-bowling.  Just tell Arliss over here if you wanna golf, and tell Rufert over there if you wanna go tree-bowling.”  Most of the guys hooked up with Arliss, and my good friend Dick asked me if I was going to golf.  I told him that I don’t really golf, but thanks anyway.  In the spirit of the retreat, he promptly told me, “Well, I guess you’re just a stupid wuss and I won’t be talking to you anymore after today.”  So, remembering that tolerance is the key to spiritual wisdom, I prayed for him to hop into his car and run over his clubs while I walked over to Rufert to find out about this tree-bowling.  

“Hi Rufert, I’m Ken,” I announced as I shook his hand.  I looked around for any evidence of equipment and asked, “What’s this tree-bowling about, anyway?”  “Well,” he said sheepishly, “we didn’t have enough money to rent a lane at the bowling alley, and nobody had any pins at home.  So….”  I waited eagerly as he paused and looked at the ground and tightened his lips.  “So,” he continued, “we found some trees that are in a formation like bowling pins.  We’re gonna use this big beach ball over there and pretend we’re knocking them down.”  Then I responded, “Ohhh… ok…. well, ummm… how are you gonna keep score?”  “Oh FINE!! So you don’t want to play, huh??  What are you, some kind of wussy??  You better go before I lose my patience here,” Rufert snorted.

I decided to relax by the river and read my meditation books while the rest of the men played their very important games.  I don’t know about any other men out there, but one of the most helpful books for me is, “Daily Meditations for Men Who Have No Self-Esteem and Are Not Likely to Get Any.”  I believe it’s one of those Hazelnut publications.  Interesting, because in light of what was going on around me that day, the reading fit it to a tee:  “You are surrounded by dogs.  Remember that you are also a dog, and if you step in dog dirt your Higher Power will help you clean your shoes.”  How profound!

Well, when the men came back from their fun, it was time to eat again.  We were all amazed that we were eating so early… 10:47 p.m. and we were all famished.  “Old Herman” had outdone himself this time:  marshmallow pudding with peas, and deep fried salami sandwiches.  I was totally unaware that you could deep fry a whole sandwich, but “Old Herman” pulled it off.  I asked him later how he managed this feat, and he very humbly shrugged and pointed to the minnow trap in the corner.  When I turned my head to look, I saw that the wire trap glistened with oil droplets.  Then I turned my head back toward “Old Herman” and he gave me a wistful wink and nodded his head.  Then he abruptly excused himself and made a bee line for the port-a-john.

After dinner I scraped the grease off my face and slid back into my tent and enjoyed indigestion rumblings and numerous trips to the port-a-john for the entire night.  Maybe part of my inability to sleep was anticipation of the next morning, which was the wrap up session for the retreat.

Day 3:  (Sunday morning)

No “King’s Breakfast” this morning.  Ah well.  Instead, we got instructions on what wild fruits and edible plants were available in the area, and also a hand-drawn map on where to find them.  As we all set out to forage, I made a loop through the woods and got back into my car where I had some Little Debbie snack cakes tucked under the seat.  “Old Herman” spotted me and invited himself in, and the two of us shoved snack cakes into our faces until the rest of the poor souls returned with thorns on their lips and burrs in their clothing.  We were all invited to circle around the camp fire to say a last group prayer before departing.  “Old Herman” and I gleefully burped often and blew the scent of Little Debbie snack cakes into the nostrils of our famished neighbors.  Then we all did the secret handshake and called each other vile names, hopped in our cars, and gunned our engines to get the heck out of there.  Each of us abused our transmissions and kicked up globs of dirt with our tires until there was nothing visible but a huge cloud of dust over the lodge.  And I think I saw that poor macramé duck thing along the road as I drove home.

So as you call can see, this story about the men’s retreat was completely fabricated. But hey, I can hardly wait till next year!!  I’m sure I’ll be going, but I’ll make sure to tell “Old Herman” I’ll be a little late.

Gotta stop at the store on the way…

And now for something completely different.

Cashes To Ashes

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When we were quite young, my Beautiful Girlfriend and I were plucked from suburban lifestyles and thrown into the Northern Wisconsin Dingleweeds. Strangely enough, both of us ended up in the same small town called Rhinelander; which slapped each of us in the brainplace with some heavy duty culture shock. However, we met and then fell in love in that quaint little town. And I’m very grateful that we had a magnificent marriage that lasted over 50 years. She passed to the Other Side this past May. Not sure how I lucked out, but somehow the Most Beautiful Woman In The Universe became my best friend. And then she let me marry her!!

Oh, and for the record: all other women in the Universe are the Second Most Beautiful.

Anyway, besides our relationship, a marvelous benefit arose from small town life: we both acquired a deep fondness of Nature and natural living. And no, by natural living I don’t mean residing in the bush with stone tools and strange, handcrafted clothing. I’m talking about farm life. Our huge (well, maybe not so huge) plot of 5 acres has given our children and us much joy and lots of delicious homegrown veggies over the years. A couple of creeks (pronounced “cricks” by us country folk) traverse the property; which provide an amazing playground for kids of all ages, and of course a unique environment for all types of living things. We very much enjoy seeing and hearing all the creatures with whom we share our small chunk of Paradise.

Another part of country living of which we’ve grown rather fond is the bone-warming feeling of wood heat. At first, burning wood was an economic necessity. Our home was built in 1940, and no thought was given toward any insulation at all. Consequently, the Oil Guzzling Furnace Monster in the basement was sucking money right out of our wallets. Thankfully, the chimney was originally built to withstand the burning of coal; so it was ideal for burning wood.

When we were kids, my brother and I were total wood slaves. Dad loved his fire, and we cut, chopped, stacked, and toted many tons of firewood to keep it going. Believe it or not, I actually began to enjoy all this manual labor. It was a great way for a frustrated teen to blow off steam without being destructive. Kept me pretty fit too. And little did I know that all those wood slave skills would one day ease the economic burden of keeping an old, uninsulated house warm.

Since I”m not interested in spending all my free time cutting, splitting, and hauling firewood, I buy most of it. Hauling it from outside to inside still helps me stay fit, and believe it or not, I’m still pretty OK with being a wood slave. We’ve greatly improved the wood burning appliances over the years and have remedied much of the insulation woes. This place is pretty darn cozy, even when it’s well below zero outside. The Oil Guzzling Furnace Monster has been replaced with a high efficiency natural gas furnace; and it might actually be cheaper to heat with gas. But we got hooked on the wood because it warms the body much better.

When you’re a firewood customer; you run into some very interesting folks who cut wood for profit. To be honest, I’m not sure how they can make a profit after putting in all the work of cutting, hauling, and then delivering it to me for $180 a cord. We go through about 6 cords a year; so we have to find someone who works with large quantities of firewood. We’ll look through the newspaper, or maybe on the Bookface or Craig’s List, and give them a try with a cord or two. If we like what we see, we buy more. Always with cash… they gotta have cash. And who could blame them? However, we’ve learned that if a firewood guy says he’s coming on Saturday at 4 PM, that means he’ll probably be there on Saturday… but who knows what time. “Oh, I was on a different run so I thought I’d come early” one might say while we’re eating breakfast. Or perhaps they don’t show until 9:30 PM. And some of the trucks these guys own look like they’ve been in a demolition derby. Regardless of all that, I’ve never met a firewood guy I didn’t like.

Our current firewood folks are real weirdos. They wear clean clothes. They show up on time. They have a truck that’s older but it’s obvious they keep it in very good shape. They have all their teeth. They’re really, REALLY nice. And they have very nice wood. Not your normal firewood folk; at least not in my experience.

I went to the drive up ATM the other night to get the cash. Dunno about you, but this here country boy don’t see $360 in $20 bills very often. Kinda dazzled me I guess. Anyway, the following morning I stopped at the gas station to get an orange juice; and I noticed my debit card was missing. Went back inside, but nobody found my card there. Started retracing my steps… Family Farm & Home. Called them. Nope, no debit card. Then I called Family Financial Credit Union where the ATM is. “Yes, it was shredded,” said the nice lady; and then she explained, “If you forget your card in the slot, it’s automatically shredded.” “Good!!” I said. Not because I was happy my card was destroyed, but I was relieved that it wasn’t lying about somewhere.

Oh well. As the old saying goes, “Cashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

Or something.

They Don’t Make ‘Em Like They Used To

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Once upon a time, a horribly beautiful, terrible but remarkable, and yet pretty amazing thing happened: our water heater died. One may well ask, “How can the death of a water heater conjure so many adjectives in one sentence?” Of course, one (or even two) may not ask that at all. I mean who really cares, right? Water heaters croak… new ones are only guaranteed for 6 years and are expected to last for maybe 10 to 15 years.

So what’s the big deal? Well, we knew our 80 gallon Hotpoint water heater was old when we bought the house way back in 1982. This was when dinosaurs roamed the earth and people communicated over long distances with tin cans connected with string. What we didn’t know until it died was that our trusty old water heater was built in 1952!!! I mean, this thing was born before us!! Seventy two years ago!! I told the installer, “Hey maybe we should keep it, it’s eligible for Medicare!!” One friend on that BookFace thing on the interwebs said it might be a world record for water heater longevity.

As I watched the poor “kids” (when you’re in your 70s, “kids” are anyone 30 years old or less) haul the disconnected monster out of the basement, I couldn’t help but reflect on the throw-away world we’ve built around us. Too many things have obsolescence built into them; because hey, business depends on sales, and sales don’t happen when things last forever. That may be good for sales but it’s not very good for our planet.

However, I do know from experience that there are a few companies on this planet who make things that last a long time; but in my professional opinion those are few and far between. Toyota is one of those companies. They believe that business should be sustainable; not just growth oriented. Toyota makes some of the longest lasting cars on the road; and that’s what brings customers back. They certainly sold me; the 2003 Corolla I bought brand new had well over 300,000 miles on it. We don’t know how many miles it went exactly, because a factory defect for that model year prevents the speedometer from going any farther than 299,999 miles. The body was still in very good shape, and it runs like brand new. Our son inherited it when the odometer refused to change, so he just used the trip meters to plan for oil changes and such. I think it had almost a half a million miles on it when it went to the boneyard.

Lots of folks chase the newest, shiniest toys: cell phones, cars, TVs, etc. My Beautiful Girlfriend and I were always happy to live in the Stone Age with our aging (but very functional) cars, landline phone, and antenna TV. So basically we were weirdos; and we liked it. Our favorite thing about all our stuff was that we owned it. We have zero debt. Nada. Zip. Nibbit. Blazoo. Well OK those last two “words” aren’t words, but as I said, we were weirdos.

I rather doubt this new water heater will last 65 years. Maybe, just maybe, it will outlive me; but I’m not counting on it. No, they just don’t make ’em like they used to… and sometimes that’s a good thing. They don’t make music like they used to either… and now it’s time for me to share some of my favorite “oldies” with you.

Enjoy!

Peace, Love, And Understanding

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Well my friends, here we are again in another election cycle. Lots of opinions flying around the interwebs and the Twitbooks and Facepages. Some opinions are based on facts, some are making up “facts” as they go along. All I know is, if someone is very sure about themselves, there’s not much I can do to get them to look in a different direction. There was a time in my life when I felt it was very important for me to try however; and all that accomplished was hurt feelings and sometimes the loss of a friendship.

A very dear friend of mine used to say, “You know, we can disagree without being disagreeable.” As I grow older and moldier, I try to practice that philosophy. Sometimes I fall short, of course; because what can I say? I’m human. In tough times though, I’m finding that peace and harmony are much more important than getting on a soap box.

Does all that mean that I’m OK with injustice, hatred, and environmental insults to Mother Nature happening in this world? Of course not! I just need to be careful not to spit out all the “My Way Or The Highway” platitudes. There’s certainly enough discord in this world without me stirring up more. However, anger can be stirred up even when facts are presented. An example: I remember posting a complaint about the actions of a government official on the Bookface. A torrent of comments ensued, some agreeing and some not. I was saddened by one of our leader’s actions and I spoke out, but I was not prepared for the sniping that my post generated. Then, unfortunately, some name calling ensued.

My response: I deleted the post. I could no longer bear the sniping.

All of us have the right to our thoughts; but when discussion morphs into anger fueled rants, communication is sabotaged. Name calling will not promote harmony; which is desperately needed right now. I’ve come to realize that any negative thought can be harmful. At the very least, negativity causes my Serenity Alarm to loudly clang between my ears; but my professional opinion is such thoughts are harmful to the Universe in general. Lately I’ve been working much harder to keep my thoughts as positive as possible. An exercise I’ve been reading about insists that any negative thought must be immediately replaced with a positive or at least neutral thought. This applies to situations, places, things, and of course people. Instead of bad mouthing any him or her, I instead work to pray for the person to be happy and healthy all the day long. This isn’t always easy, but the result has been much greater peace of mind.

I’m pretty sure God wants me to live that way. In fact, I’ve come to believe that God wants me to love everything and everyone. Years ago I stumbled upon an anonymous quote which stated that “Nature is God’s reflection.” Holy Wazooky!! That means everything from molecules (or smaller) to galaxies and beyond!! Although I have no idea of the origin, it has become one of my favorite quotes. Then a friend challenged me by saying, “So Ken, that means all of us are part of that reflection, right??” Of course I had to agree. So I do my best to love everyone, even those who I will likely not invite to dinner. It’s just better that way.

To quote a favorite artist of mine, “What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding?”

An Open Letter To My Favorite Grandsons

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Dear Abe and Gollie,

I would like for both of you to please remember to ask all the crayons not to scream so much while we’re eating our new favorite cereal: Kitty Kat Krunchies. Yes, I know they look just like the dry cat food that’s in our cat food bowl, but believe me, all the insects in the yard are cheering when our refrigerator tires go flat.

Do either of you remember when we never sang that “Hey Thanks For The Dried Compost” song?? Well I know I sure would. In fact wood has never been more colorful when sniffed during a Dried Fly Moon. All the fancy nose stockings will surely be reminded to cross the street quickly when the Purple Dust Mixing Bowls come zooming past the stinkberry patch.

Holy Cow!! I forgot to tell you: I’ve changed my elbows into toilet paper tubes!! I’ve waited all my life for my elbows to experience the same crackly shouting noise a greasy buffalo makes when it’s yelling at the traffic lights. Of course, Sir Wilbur Snackhammer of Floofington Castle will be making his famous Mac and Cheese Toothpick Snacks while the rest of us sit around burping loudly during pet food commercials. Oh yes, these are the days for celebrating!! Send around a bag of nails!! Chase a few tree shadows!! Jump backwards into a small pile of figs!! And don’t forget to recite that new Apple Smashing poem I’ve never heard about!!

Ching!! Ching!! Ching!! goes the huge rock when it’s dropped on a glass of water. The noise is delicious; and reminds me of the time my big toe was shooting gumballs out of each radio muscle. Sometimes people give me strange looks when I’m trying to lick my ears; but I just figure they are jealous because they can’t teach their own basketballs how to speak Italian. All the moss flavored candy in the world is not enough to make me want to yell “KABOOM!!” every time a freshly picked pizza cabbage comes rolling into the house. So please don’t try to tell ME how fast a battery can roll into a ketchup scanner!! What do you think this is?? Anyhow??

In closing, thank you for being who you are, and especially for not being me. As the old saying goes, “It’s always better to be you that for you to be me; and although you can count to it, eight is a word.” Therefore, my dear young men, go softly into Dirty Sock Forest and try very hard not to wake up the moochy moochy monsters. Yes I know they are harmless; but all this shouting of “Moochy moochy!!” is especially delightful when I shave my new fruit basket. One time they even offered me some creamy rust powder to drink with my liquid donuts. I respectfully told them to take their wiggly eyebrows and their strange headlight sausages elsewhere.

Now I can’t find my pants.

Peace, Love, and Very Quiet Shouting,

Norzle P. Yendlebonk – a.k.a. “The Traveling Mustard Thief”

Good Grief

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Here comes our last goodbye; at least in the physical sense of the word. Tomorrow afternoon we’ll be putting my Beautiful Girlfriend’s bones in the ground. She wanted to be cremated, but she also wanted a stone; so of course that’s what we did. Her name, my name, and our son’s name all carved on the face; as the local cemetery allows up to 3 sets of cremated remains in the same plot.

Her remains are in a biodegradeable container… a cylindrical pressed cardboard thingy with a nice picture of some trees covering the outside. I put Never Anne’s cremated remains in the container with my Honey Pie… our daughter reminded me that Mom made that a requirement some time ago. Nevvie was our calico cat who lived with us for 21½ years. Although she started out as our daughter’s kitty, when our daughter moved into town she knew full well that Ms. Never Anne, the inside / outside mighty huntress, would never tolerate being cooped up in an apartment. Very soon after our daughter moved out, Nevvie latched on to my Lovely Bride and wouldn’t let go.

Last Friday we were graced by the presence of well over 100 loved ones who came to the Celebration Of Life. Many came from quite far away. And since my Honey was a nurse, the local chapter of the Nurse Honor Guard blessed us with an amazing tribute to my Honey’s nursing career. In contrast, the internment will be a small affair… a total of 16 of us. Immediate family only, biological and extended. I’ll be reading a short goodbye piece I wrote in honor of My Sweetie’s passing, and I’ll lead the group in The Serenity Prayer at the end to finish up. All this just one week after the Celebration of Life, and 3 days after what would have been our 51st wedding anniversary.

We want to be done.

To honor her, I posted a memory on the Bookface on August 21, the day we were married way back in 1973. Got lots of love and caring comments of course. But every now and again folks say things like “I’m sorry you have such pain.” I try to reassure them that it’s OK… this is what grieving is all about. Our embracing of the principles in our 12 step program have given my Honey and me some tools along this journey we call life. We’ve been able to endure the travails of her illness. And holy cow, she was able to face her demise with grace and dignity. We were able to tell all our friends and family that we were “… grateful and content much of the time.”

And we were!

So the pain of losing my life partner has been both bearable and unbearable. I’ve cried often; and will likely continue to do so when needed. I remember telling her, “I can see myself crawling into a deep dark hole when you’re gone.” Not a healthy way to deal with any of this. Instead, since she’s passed I’ve gone to more 12 step meetings than I have in many moons. I continue to see our therapist who has helped both of us process the challenges of a terminal illness and its inevitable outcome. I’ve signed up for two grief support groups for those who have lost spouses. And my social calendar has filled up quickly. Even made some very nice new friendships!! I’ve learned long ago that God works though people; and that sharing all my feelings with those who care about me is a very important part of the healing process. And yes it still hurts, but the sting is waning a tiny bit. A very tiny bit.

I’ve asked her to come home several times but that doesn’t happen for some reason (duh). However, I’ve felt her presence numerous times, and have also received what I’m sure are thoughts from her on matters ranging from who to mention in her obituary to “I want some of that strawberry shortcake!!” I’m absolutely certain that although she left her body behind she is still very much alive in The Great Beyond. It can be comforting when I stay reminded of that; but I do miss her terribly and sometimes I just need to have a good cry. So I do.

And that’s very OK.

So… I posted this video on the Bookface recently but the song won’t leave my head lately so here it is again. I sang it often when she was here, and I suspect I’ll continue to sing it for some time.

If Grandsons Had Silly Names, This Would Be:

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An Open Letter To Picklefoot And Roodlebop

Dear Shibbles,

As you probably don’t remember, both of you have never squeezed oatmeal until birds joyfully used their clang whistles to welcome home the Screaming Sauce Warmers. Oh my, those were the days, right?? NO!! And additionally, I’m really glad neither of you were tossing laundry baskets at passing water buffalo. I mean, you know about that one time when Larry the Giant Goose Tickler sneezed into his milkshake, right?? Yep, all the raccoons cheered for days!! After they smeared peanut butter on their eyebrows, their happy faces looked very silly; but soon they were all telling jokes in French during the Sweet And Sour Moon Dance Festival.

Once I taught a turnip how to blow bubbles with a rake!! Oh wait… maybe that was a dream. If you eat too much cat hair during a nap, you often tend to dream strange things. Very polite tapeworms keep sneaking into my stereo system; which of course makes my vinyl records sound very squirmy. The scissors found a way out of the sewer while they were traveling to Snorktown; so none of us worried that they would miss any meals. Besides, every time a notebook jingles its paper clips, a tape dispenser sings very purple mustard sandwiches.

I’m starting to use crayons instead of my cellphone. This works rather poorly but at least my ears have nicely colored plywood manure samples. Half of my head has raisins, the other half has little tiny beetle caves that glow loudly during the Software Surprise Vertical Lip Licking Contest. All prizes are sold to the loudest burper. Burps can be flavored for nicer color, such as Yellow Strawberry Mist or perhaps Animal Cracker Fuzz Fog. If they are ziffled with a musical tone, burps can relieve Belly Kaboom; which is severe stomach pressure caused by too much gravy in a very small jar. A little prevention, however, is a good way to suggest that everyone leave the room before the onset of Intestinal Volcano; the fumes of which are very bad for the nostrils.

I’m sorry to say I’m crying right now. The laughter from building all this nonsense is making my ankles so much longer, to the point that water is leaking from my eyes. Seriously, I guess maybe it’s good that my own nonsense makes me giggle very bigly, but for some reason all this very silly text has caused my toothbrush to start calling me Crab Neck. And I don’t believe Crabs even know how to order pizza!!

So my dear Molecules, if you’ve read this far, I hope you’ve enjoyed at least a smile or two that you can slide out of your shoes and into a brand new Automatic Bread Roasting Crinkle Toilet. The Moisture Monsters will certainly be pleased that nobody remembers their “fling snail juice in the sock drawer” tricks. We can only hope that none of this information is used to remove stinky earphone grease from the cranberry cabinets.

Peace, Love, and Lamplicking,

Zabblefoot W. Broopwonkle

a.k.a. Herman The Soup Blaster

If you have too much zucchini and also too much time, this could be an interesting pastime…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RylJi8xlAVE

Nitrite Ni-Nights

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I try to do my best to eat a healthy diet. But sometimes… just sometimes mind you, I veer far away from such self discipline and just go for the gusto.

Well guess what??  During a recent grocery store excursion, I was determined to find some low fat stuff that was fun to eat.  Like maybe liverwurst or hot dogs or something.  Don’t ask me why, but about every six months or so I get a craving for that stuff.  Yes, I know there are lips and noses and all sorts of weird stuff in hot dogs.  And God only knows what all they put in liverwurst.  Sure, they both have ingredient lists on the package, but you just can’t help but think they put something in there that they aren’t talking about.  Although both have sodium nitrite in them (not a good thing for your body), I don’t eat them often enough to get any nitrite nastiness. I hope… Anyway, I figured once in awhile won’t hurt.  Anyway, on my latest munchies mission I was looking around for some foods that wouldn’t put the lard in my booty, and guess what I found?  Low fat liverwurst (known in these parts as braunschweiger) and fat free hot dogs!  I grabbed a package of each, and very soon enjoyed the decadent pleasure of processed meat.  A liverwurst sandwich with low fat mayo and a dab of mustard for lunch, and a couple fat free hot dogs with my stir steamed veggies for dinner.  I was in hog heaven.  Pun intended (there’s really no such thing as “low fat liverwurst”).

I suffered no ill effect, and got my processed meat craving out of the way for awhile.  Well, OK, there was one effect, but I don’t really consider it a bad one.  I got a free “movie” out of the deal.  It’s like this, OK:  I don’t eat processed meat very often.  When I get that urge I mentioned earlier, I usually go in like gangbusters and have lots of yummies with chemicals that are not normally in my body.  And I’ve noticed that whenever I stuff my face with things that have sodium nitrite in them, well, I have very interesting dreams…

There I was, minding my own business, on a pontoon boat with no side rails or canopy.  I was one of several people on a fishing trip, and we had just sighted some huge bluegills when the guide started complaining aloud, “Well, we can’t fish here.  The grocery store doesn’t want us fishing in their parking lot.”  I was pretty disappointed, but when I looked over the side and saw the parking lot markers on the asphalt (about 6 feet underwater) I knew that this was just the way things had to be.  We motored off into the middle of the lake (or whatever it was) and slowed down while we passed a strange wooden dwelling that jutted out of the water.  The structure was not painted, and had obviously been there for a very long time.  Inside, people with very long noses were speaking a strange language and drawing pictographs on each other’s backs.  Then suddenly, the scene changed…

I found myself in a college lecture hall, and my sixth grade teacher was having everyone stand up and do recitals that were due that morning.  I got the sudden sense that my turn was quite awhile off, so I decided to take Bishop the Wonderdog for a walk.  We walked through a nearby neighborhood which was bordered by some woods, and stumbled upon a very large cat.  My first instinct was that we had met up with a mountain lion, but the coloring was that of a domestic feline.  However, this kitty was very large, probably in the neighborhood of eighty pounds or so.  I expected the cat to get all poofy at the sight of my doggie, but quite the opposite happened.  I heard a thrashing noise, and turned to see Bishop’s fur getting all poofed up.  He was visibly trembling and excited, and his ears were flapping about and looked like small horse tails flying every which way.  At this point I went back into the lecture hall, only to learn that my turn to recite had long since passed and everyone had gone home.

Now how does one analyze that dream?!? It was just plain fun!!  That’s my analysis.  Recreational dreaming.  Before retirement, I told stories of hot dog dreams to friends at work, and I remember a guy was envious a few days later, because he had eaten several hot dogs and had no dreams.  He thought maybe he might shoot up some hot dogs before bed time, but I am pretty sure that HOT DOGS MUST NEVER BE TAKEN INTRAVENOUSLY.  And really, with all the chemicals and whatnot; I wouldn’t even advise eating them at all, except for the fact that sometimes they just plain taste good.  So the next time I go to the store, I’ll try to help my non-dreaming friends out and see what kind of cool dream foods they have…

Probably start in the frozen camera section.  I’ve heard that deep-fried watch batteries are very delirious and full of norg oxides, which strengthen your screaming bones.  While urging the ceiling tiles to quit sniffing crayons, Clamp Store Managers often shout at squid as they have cart races through the small table mazes.  Ink-flavored baggage has been found to prevent shoe decay, so when the Amazing Puckered Jelly Mixer begins to twinkle in the closets, all the new employees will be happy to learn of their celery.  As we move now to the chain-operated video spray, thick woolen camouflage breadsticks push other bagels out of the paper fudge racks.  Now, we are sure, no foods in this whole universe are better than freeze dried pajamas.

I think I should maybe stop eating braunhotschweigerdogs for awhile now…

Why Pigs Don’t Fly

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In the true spirit of ghostly gestures, there will be no seance tonight due to heavy cream spoiling on the radiator. The remonculous odor of irregular toe cheese has permeated the room, and the spirits refuse to enter. Even dead people can’t spray enough room deodorant to quench the thirst of a pudding merchant! Besides, remonculous is NOT a word.

Now we get to the part where we have all been urged to smear mayonnaise on our arms and upper torso. Especially vital while at the beach, this activity is a truly soothing way to look like a total geek. After applying the mayo, several devotees have been known to roll in the sand for added excitement. This of course has been the primary factor in the development of the latest fashion craze, the “sandshirt.”

New things have been added to potatoes which will improve their ability to float through the air. Small, retractable “air paddles” are located in strategic sections for locomotion and navigational stability. Since most active taters soon tire of loping along, starch rockets have also been introduced for rapid propulsion. Additionally, revolutionary velcro brakes have been installed for sure-fire quick stops.

Next time your spuds go for a little spin through the house, listen closely for the barely audible click that occurs when the air paddles are engaged. Upon hearing the click, hunker down in your chair; because the starch rockets will energize shortly thereafter. Don’t be surprised if your assistance is required when their little joyride is done. Those velcro brakes stick to curtains like there’s no tomorrow!

Pigs have not yet been able to get off the ground for more than a fraction of second. Air paddles were found to be miserably ineffective with pigs due to their large mass. It was once thought that the presence of pork fat would make a natural lubricant which would enable the air paddles to engage quickly and easily; but the fat inhibited the motion of the paddles instead. Those poor piggies would watch a spud go by and start clicking with everything they had, but to no avail.

Starch rockets would obviously be inappropriate for the porkers, but Mognut R. Wobbynock has proposed the following possible alternatives: pig poppers, pork propellers, and bacon blasters. To date, the bacon blaster seems to have the most thrust; but the exhaust from its tailpipe has induced passersby to invite themselves over for breakfast.

Well, as you know, the universe is a strange and wondrous place to be. Being includes singing, riding a whale to work, and eating pastry. My thorough understanding of this dimension should help all electrically sensitive people know that their medication is really a giant animal begging for the latest news on powdered worms.

I have undergone much emotional turmoil lately, what with my clam running away with the family crescent wrench and all. So I offer you all my insights, and I’m sure that we will soon have salad with radial tires. If you become down in the dump, get out of there quickly because people throw the most godawful things in the garbage! Do not cling to your material possessions. Give them to me and I will sell them quickly for half of what they are worth. I like to have money to buy candy bars; so you will be doing me a great service and I will be sure to thank you.

BATHE REGULARLY AND PLAY YOUR RECORDS AT THE WRONG SPEED, AND

YOU WILL NO LONGER NEED A REASON TO SMILE.

How To Change The Weather

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If you live in Michigan, you’ve probably been enjoying a remarkably fascinating hot and cool warm summertime indispensable sandal berm this week month of the year time day. I can offer a simple explanation for this constabulary indigestion: I threw coat hangers at the sun all last week. Yep, I threatened the sun within an inch of its life. Much yelling and flinging, yelling and flinging. When you embark upon such an ambitious goal, it’s very important to be loud and repetitious. As you can see it paid off. Now we can all be happy that the sun will listen to me when I shout.

Inescapably, the weather now has beet cribbling between Holy Moly Cool Mornings to What The Hoochie?? Warm. This of course brought an unreasonably imaginary influx of tourists from Yooglania and other parts of Illinois. This may be directly (or perhaps imperceptibly) due to the snirkle vectors that are not always apparent in radioactive lunch boxes. I very much apologize to my friends and all those whom I’ve never met for my meteorological coat hanger amplification.

I will do some fancy dancing tomorrow in an effort to make Nice Weekend Weather. You see, it’s rather important to me that we have nice weather this weekend because I plan to get off my butt and rent a blanex. I have been putting it off way too long; I need to recover the hammer sand that keeps purging my swamp honkles. The window of opportunity is very gummy and full of decomposing marble trays; so if I don’t get this done before the tingly science filters arrive I’m sure I’ll be living in the boathouse.

I mean seriously, do you ever expect the train to stop on time? Nobody sees that far. Please, just resimplify twenty three percent of your milktoast warblers and bark moonly at the wild. After all, there’s really no certainty that Calvin the Edible Plastic Spoon Vendor will be able to click in the parking lot for more than 12 milliseconds.

So my friends, you can obviously confer that changing the weather is easier than pushing a large oak toothpick into a deliciously prepared cast iron jelly donut. If you ever have any doubts as to the antiquity of my animation, please amplify your pencil sharpener with short, regular spritzes of vinegar and moose dust.

If none of those calibrations deplete your catatonic sofa concerto, simply stuff your mouth full of corn bread and sing at least 3 verses of “The Rhyming Song.” Oh! Not to forget: a second video of Ode To Joy exists also for your video employment.

Thank you.