The Unkindest Cut of All

    Having children is a wonderful thing, especially if you’re a man. 

    All we have to do is get the ball rolling, so to speak (a euphemism if there ever was one), sometimes more than once if we’re lucky.  Then, following a few weeks of pensive waiting (during which we get to keep the ball rolling-if you know what I mean), our wife/girlfriend/woman we met in a bar looks lovingly into our eyes (hopefully, not during the ballgame). 

    In a soft, trembling voice suffused with tender devotion, she whispers, “We’re going to have a baby.”

    Then, she goes to throw up in the toilet.

    The next nine months, 30 weeks, baseball season (whatever) then becomes a non-stop rollercoaster ride.  Mixed with equal parts of emotion and curiosity over whether she’ll eventually explode like one of those critters on “Alien,” we eventually arrive at the magic time for our baby’s entry into the world of songbirds, sunshine, and Joe Biden.

    Hopefully, in preparation for an induced labor (so a perfectly good weekend isn’t messed up), the woman settles in for the blessed event.  Followed by several hours of screaming bloody murder at the evildoer who did this to her.

    Just so you don’t think we men have it rough, don’t forget:  while you’re trying to force a bowling ball through a garden hose (I know that’s not original!), we’re struggling just as strenuously.  You think it’s easy to watch television with all that racket going on?

    Soon enough, we’re given a gift from God (although the deity wasn’t in the room).  Mother and father tenderly hold their precious bundle, bathed in the warmth which comes from the knowledge that they are a solid family unit.

    Only later that night does Dad mark on the calendar when he can start the ball rolling again.

    Luckily for me, my wife presented me with two beautiful children (beautiful because they don’t look like me).  I have a son who is the model of the man I wish I was and a daughter who is everything I wasn’t in high school: popular.

     NOTE:  Mind you, this was a couple decades ago.  Nothing has changed.  Except we’ve all gotten older.  Looks much better on them.

    With that in mind, we both decided not to press our luck.  Odds were that a third child would look like me, act like me, and use my jokes.

    That, along with a state law that forbade me from further reproduction, compelled us to seek methods of permanent sterilization.

    We first considered having my wife’s tubes tied.  But, since that conjured up a vision of a rodeo where a chaps-wearing doctor would wrassle my wife to the operating table, we didn’t want to try that.

    I also considered radiation to fry my “boys.”  But, since taping a cell phone to my crotch was impractical and sticking my junk in front of the microwave delayed dinner, we decided on a vasectomy.

    Since this decision was made while I was still in the Navy, there was no worry about how we were going to be able to pull this off (an unfortunate phrase, that).  The local Navy hospital was more than capable of performing the procedure (NOTE: No way was I going to have this done on a ship.  A MOVING ship.).

    So, after talking a couple of the guys into joining me (the hospital was having a special.  Bring a friend and get 10% off a car wash), I decided to close the “Be Fruitful and Multiply” store.

    The three of us were ushered into what looked like a MASH operating room.  After a couple of questions, like “Have you eaten in the past 12 hours?”, “Are you sure you want to do this?”, “Have you shaved this morning?” (ever the wise guy, I stuck out my chin and asked, “Sure, but what does that have to do with it?”), we were instructed to disrobe from the waist down and cover ourselves with a white sheet.

    Frankly, I wanted to go all nude, but my friends chickened out.  I think they were jealous.

    Anyway, the three of us laid (or is that ‘lied’? I can NEVER get that straight) down on the table, sheets draped across our laps, our “privates” (wait a minute, we were in the Navy-we didn’t have “privates.”  Okay, “seamen.”  There, that’s better.”  Oh.  Wait.) poking through holes. 

     I swear, we looked like a row of ghosts wearing Jimmy Durante masks.

    Assisted by a dour-looking corpsman, the doctor (whose mustache drooped so low he was able to suck on it.  Ewwww, so much for hygiene) stood in front of us.  He reassured us that the procedure would be painless.  Especially, he laughed, for him.

    Yeah, I know.  Laugh, clown, laugh.

    There would be, he cautioned, a small “stick and a kick.”

    Starting with me, he injected my laddies (the “stick”) to numb them.  This was immediately followed by a substantial “kick.”  Visions of playground bullies at Saint Stanislaus immediately swam into focus as I struggled to breathe.  Before I had the chance to lie that I was okay, though, the parts surrounding my fun factory lost all feeling.  I gave mustache-sucker a thumbs up. 

    So, it went with the rest of us.  In no time, the genital assembly line (thanks, Henry Ford!) was closing up shop.  Gingerly putting our trousers back on, we cracked jokes about unloaded guns and laughed about whether we should show our scars at the next family reunion.

    Still, we were happy that we were finally taken off the playing field, in a matter of speaking.  Instead of being put out to stud, we knew that the limited editions of “us” were finally at an end. 

    As we got our parking validated and received our car wash vouchers, we took comfort that our lives would be spared from future unplanned, unforeseen “Uh-ohs.”

    Even more, we were thrilled that we would be able to “get the ball rolling” in only a couple weeks.

    Unless the ballgame was on.

Waiting To Be Rescued

               For example, Vice-President Pence has been inoculated.  Joe Biden is due to receive one this coming week, although I think you could pump him with oatmeal and he wouldn’t know the difference.

                Like an early Christmas present, the first doses of the Chinese Flu vaccine have arrived.  The media is putting on quite a propaganda show as the first, at least with the Pfizer dose, of two injections are delivered.  Priority is, I would think obviously, being given to health care workers.  A selected few, though, are getting their “shots,” as well.
 

                The rest of the population will receive theirs in the coming months.  Many doubt whether it’s safe to inject themselves with what is viewed as a rush job.  I, for one, wonder why I would introduce something into my body which is 90% or so effective against a disease with a more than 98% recovery rate.

                Still, it would appear that we’re beginning to see light at the end of the tunnel.  A good thing, even though some knuckleheads caution that we still should wear face diapers (i.e., masks), observe social distances, and close everything but Target and Walmart.

                Incidentally, I predict that, if Idiot Joe and Chlamydia Harris do wind up in the White House, this kind of talk will largely disappear.

                At any rate, I maintain that, despite the good news of a vaccine, things will get worse before things get better.  I believe that otherwise smart people (although the past nine months have shown me that intelligence among a good portion of society is sorely lacking) will freak out over the [non] dire consequences of coming down with a [non]deadly scourge.

                Why do I think this way, you may ask.  Well, I compare the coming hysteria to what Captain Quint had to say in the movie “Jaws.”  Now, before you “WTF?” me, hear me out.

                In his monologue about the torpedoing of USS Indianapolis and hundreds of his shipmates killed by sharks, Quint mentioned that he was most frightened while waiting his turn.  How cruel would it be, he reasoned, to be cut in half by a shark while he was waiting to be rescued?

                So it is with people who are waiting their turn to be inoculated against the virus.  These spineless cowards are terrified that they will come down with COVID before the “rescue planes” of Pfizer, Moderna, or Johnson & Johnson deliver them.

                As a result, many will insist on any number of draconian measures by their government to protect them from a disease which has killed people, to be sure (I’ll not deny that), yet gives them a substantial chance of recovery .  They will gladly surrender their freedoms if they receive assurances that they will never die.  Freedoms that the government will be loathe to return.

                I hope I’m wrong, but the bumbling moron from Scranton has already predicted a “dark winter.”  And no amount of vaccine will convince the unconvinceable that the light is coming.  Escpecially if it has anything to do with Donald Trump.
  

              NOTE:  I included the entire clip of Quint’s monologue.  There’s no need to watch the entire thing, but it’s worth it.  99% of it (you know, like the COVID recovery rate) has nothing to do with the plague that torpedoed (see what I did there?) the Trump presidency. But, it’s a chilling story of an actual event which really was lethal.             

OMT

   

I have “onychomycosis.”

    Quick, now.  What does that mean?

    One of the marvels of the modern world isn’t indoor plumbing.  As cool and hygienic as that is.  No, it’s the chance to visit with a physician on a regular basis.  Well, at least one who won’t use leeches to cast out demons.  Unless you live in medieval England.  Or California.  Or until government-run health care.

    It was during one of my infrequent visits to the doctor that I was pronounced a sufferer of a dread disease whose name is as hard to spell as osteop….ossteyo…osteeo…oh, you know, that bone disease thing.

    Does this scourge spur telethons?  Do celebrities wear ribbons at the Academy Awards to proclaim their faux empathy for the afflicted?  Are there snazzy bumper stickers on every SUV?  Do we need to notify our doctor if it lasts longer than four hours?

    Well…no, no, no, and-thankfully-no.  Rather than some exotic malady which energizes world governments on the order of a “Save the Banana Slug” frenzy, onychomycosis is nothing more than an infection of the nail bed.  Or, as I prefer to call it: “Old Man Toe.”

    Brought on by a fungus (I know-EWW!!), Old Man Toe manifests itself primarily on-you guessed it-the big toes of middle-aged men, resulting in discolored, brittle, and hardened nails.

    Clinically speaking, it looks icky.  And is the number one reason why old guys wear socks with sandals.

    Except for having to give up my dreams of being a world-class grape stomper or wood nymph, “OMT” hasn’t really affected me.  I can live a happy, productive life without ever having to worry about being stigmatized-except at the beach.

    However, since it IS kinda yucky looking, my doctor deemed it prudent to prescribe a cure for this particular brand of podiatric leprosy.

    He told me there wouldn’t be too many side effects-apart from possible liver damage, headaches, nausea, drowsiness when operating heavy machinery, heart arrhythmia, pregnancy, dry eye, pink eye, black eye, rib eye, bulls eye, stink eye, rickets, whooping cough, hypertension, irritable bowel syndrome, chicken pox, measles, mumps, heartworm, tapeworm, ringworm, inchworm, lockjaw, eczema, elephantiasis, gingivitis, halitosis, sleeping sickness, post-nasal drip, flatulence, incontinence, termites, ingrown fingernails, shingles, diarrhea, back acne, ear wax, bees wax, bees knees, water on the knees, water on the brain, brain freeze, and Tastee Freeze.  Throughout it all, I assured my physician that I was willing to take the risk, if only to be able to walk barefoot in the sand without causing children to flee in panic.

    But, when he brought up possible sexual side effects, I told that quack to take his cure and shove it.  After all, if Bill could live with Hillary, I could live with Old Man Toe.

    Sadly, OMT is only the latest sign that I’m inching closer to senior citizen discounts at the movies and thanking the Lord each time I wake up.

    I try hard not to drown in a sea of self-pity as my body lurches inexorably toward total breakdown.  Still, it’s hard to ignore indicators that I’m no longer a fresh-faced 18 year old.  Indicators like…

    When faced with two choices, I choose the one that will get me in bed before 9:00.

    I stubbornly hang onto my collection of LPs, even though a replacement stylus for my record player is as common as a salad on Chris Christie’s dinner table.

    There was a time when the most uncomfortable part of a physical was having my blood drawn.  That was before the digital exam.  Oh…yeah…YOU know what I mean.

    I remember when bell-bottoms went out of fashion.  Before they came back INTO fashion.  If leisure suits ever come back, though, I’m just gonna call in sick until I die.

    Back in MY day, an internet was used for fishing, microwaves were how midgets said goodbye, and cell phones were used to call your lawyer from jail.

     Plus, I don’t think you can call the little bastards “midgets” anymore.

    I cracked a rib playing Wiffle Ball.  WIFFLE Ball.

    There was a time when Mick Jagger didn’t look like my grandfather in spandex.

    My hairline is receding to my collar, but I can braid what comes out of my nose.  Considering that I sport sock rings on my calves, dents in my head from bifocals, and a varicose veins road map on my shins, it’s obvious to all that I’m a real hottie.

    Forget that big screen TV at Christmas.  Give me a warm pair of socks anytime.   

    I now eat antacids like I used to eat Doritos.  And Doritos like I used to eat broccoli.

    I own a tee shirt which says ”Old Guys Rule.”  How sad is that?  If it means the laxative counter at CVS, I suppose so.

    I can never figure out whether I’m “jiggy” with it or “down” with that.  I guess old guys should never speak “hip” lingo.  Like earrings and ponytails, it just makes them look silly.

    I pay attention to Wilfred Brimley diabetus commercials, watch those Time-Life “Best of the 60s” info spots, and reach for a pencil and paper whenever ads for “The Villages” come on.     

    I’m afraid to fart.

    Nine Inch Nails, Smashing Pumpkins, and Marilyn Manson…what freaks!  Black Sabbath, KISS, and Alice Cooper…now THERE’S music!

    I know the difference between systolic and diastolic blood pressure.  And what “good” cholesterol is.

    Donald Duck and I have some things in common.  Neither one of us wears pants in the house nor can anyone understand us.

    I know the words to the theme song from “H.R. Pufnstuf”, prefer Curly over Shemp, and remember Neil Armstrong walking on the moon.  Now, if I could just figure out how to program my DVR.  And change the time on the microwave.

    Belts and suspenders holding up pants with elastic waistbands.  Yeah, that’s what I’M talking about.

    Hot dogs give me gas, beer makes me sleepy, and fiber is my friend.

    I’m actually disappointed when the mail doesn’t come on time.    

    I wonder what happened to my belt buckle and feet.

    We had party lines; they have cell phones.  We had mailmen with pith helmets; they have gmail.  We had Pong; they have Mario Party.  We had mindless entertainment on network TV; they have…uh, let’s call it a draw.

    Of course, the moral of the story is be happy, for youth is fleeting.  As inevitable as death, taxes, and “Survivor” reruns, the youth of today will be in expand-o-slacks tomorrow.

    And, wearing socks to hide Old Man Toe. 

All Thumbs

NOTE: I wrote the below several years go. When I had a home. And a wife. And my son didn’t live two hours away. Thanks for reminding me.

  I love Home Depot.

    Honorable Mention:  Lowe’s. 

    It is there where I am at one with my guyness.  Blissfully adrift amongst pressure treated lumber, parquet flooring, and stainless steel widgets, I feel much more at home than at, say, Bed, Bath, and Beyond.

    It’s impossible for me to emerge empty-handed from one of these do-it-yourself nirvanas.  Sure, it may be an item I’ll only use once (like that PVC saw…which I only used…once) or a “you never know” purchase like that 4X4 sheet of fiberglass-reinforced sheetrock, but I feel it’s my solemn duty to contribute to the local economy…and to the myth that I actually know what I’m doing.   

    While I’m not the Inspector Clouseau of Handymen, I’m not exactly Bob Vila, either (or, for that matter, Lou Vila, who lives in a box under the overpass).

    Through painful trial and error, I’ve learned that water conducts electricity, pipes freeze in the winter, it’s not a good idea to “slide” a console TV down a flight of stairs, and it ain’t real smart to burn plastic wood in the fireplace.

    I guess you could say that my motto is, “If it’s still smoking after you turn the power off, get the hell out of the house!”

    Since we live in the country, you can imagine how out of control our crime rate is.  After all, those rabbits can’t possibly be up to any good, the owls give me the creeps, and I just don’t trust those damn crickets.

    Still, my wife thought it would be a swell idea to get a motion detector.  If only to prevent raccoons from stealing our empty pizza boxes or the gophers from hot-wiring the cars.

    Well, since any excuse to go to the hardware store is a good one, off I went in search of one of those modern marvels of home security.

    Three hours later, I returned with a wood-burning set, an extension ladder, a rubber mallet, the “Family Pack” bungee cord set (incidentally, what kind of “family” shops for bungee cords-the Mansons?), six cans of Fix-A-Flat, a gallon of Gorilla Glue, and 20 rolls of Flex-Seal tape. 

    And a motion detector.

    Minutes later, its contents were spread out all over my kitchen table.  I meticulously cross-checked the master inventory:  four 2” metal screw thingies-check, three plastic wire nut whoozits-check, one metal plate gizfotchy-check, one rubber gasket thingamajig-check, two lamp holders-uh, oh…

    Back to the store.

    Two hours later, I returned with the parts I needed.  And some anti-freeze, Monkey Grip, and something called Crack Filler.

    After pulling my new extension ladder out of the garage, up I went to start wiring in the motion detector.

    Minutes later, after getting up from the ground, I went downstairs to pull the outdoor lighting circuit breaker.

    After several hours of twisting this, wiring that, and filling the air with all sorts of Anglo-Saxon expressions of goodwill, I finally achieved success.

    Restoring power, I ran back and forth under its sensor, making chipmunk sounds for effect.   After noticing the light coming on when called for, I pronounced it a job well done. 

    While I inspected the job, my son (who had wandered away from his X-Box when he heard a chipmunk) stared at the underside of the brightly-lit detector. 

    “Hey, Dad, what’s that written on the underside of the sensor?”

    Deciding to eschew (French for “disregard.”  Or “atchoo.”  Which doesn’t make sense) the ladder, I squinted my eyes at some squiggles written on the plastic. 

    “Oh, that?  It’s probably Chinese for ‘Use only 60 watt bulbs’ or something like that.  Don’t worry about it.”

    My testosterone at maximum level, I could conquer the world.  I confidently strode into the house, thumped my chest, and announced to the womenfolk that I was Conqueror of Darkness.

    “Here,” my wife flung a pork loin my way and pointed at the grill, “now you can be Lord of Fire.”

    The motion detector did its thing for several weeks.  It could spot the movement of the smallest of critters, energize its halogen lamps, and instantly bring the driveway to near-solar intensity.

    Our property became an impregnable fortress, secure from wanton acts of nature.  And, if called upon, could be an emergency airfield.

    Last week, though, we had a rainstorm to match all rainstorms.  Streams overflowed, gutters choked with sodden debris, cars stalled in flooded intersections, and our neighbor, “Frank the Drunk”, started hauling pairs of zebras and ducks into his bass boat.

    Oh, yeah, and our motion detector stopped working.

    Initially refusing to shut off, even during the day, it was merely tricked by the gloom of the storm.  Or so I thought.

    But, when the sun finally came out and we needed sunglasses, the light still refused to turn off.

    Seeing that, I thought that somehow the designers of the thing hadn’t taken torrential downpours into account.  Obviously, water had gotten into the whole shooting match and shorted out the wires.

    Of course, since I’m not exactly Marconi, the thought of WHY something that was shorted would still WORK never crossed my mind.

    Armed with an industrial size tube of waterproof silicant, I once more ascended my ladder to remedy the situation (this time I shut off the power).

    After coating all possible openings with the waterproof goop (of the motion detector), I descended the ladder making sure I didn’t go crashing into the garbage cans, forcing a visit to the local ER.  Re-energizing the circuit, I returned to inspect my work.  Voila!  The lights had gone off!

    Mentally exchanging high-fives with myself, I put everything away and proceeded to fix lunch (OK, cookies, Totinos, and a Diet Coke).  Once it got dark, we’ll just see how good of a job I did!

    Well, darkness came and went.  And, the motion detector worked as well as a clock made of cheese.

    Perplexed, I figured I’d have to take the whole thing off, dry it, and re-install it.

    Balancing precariously on the ladder, I twisted the sensor and grimaced as a cascade of water rolled down my arm into my armpit.

    That figures!  Cheap Chinese, Japanese, whatever, piece of crap!  What frikkin’ genius thought to put the controls on top of the sensor so rain can just roll right in and fry the thing? 

    As I was mentally spending my refund after I returned this hunk of junk, I noticed the words that my son had pointed out as I was congratulating myself a few weeks ago.  Words that were printed on what I thought was the underside of the sensor.  Words that, when turned the right way, clearly stated:

    “THIS SIDE UP.”

    Ooops.

    Back to the store.

Journey To The Center of My Bowels

My, how time flies! This coming Monday, I’m having a medical procedure. Not going under the knife, mind you. Nothing is going to get lanced, excised, or biopsied (okay, maybe so, but I’ll be knocked out and won’t notice). No, I’m going to get my fourth colonoscopy. Why four, you ask? Aren’t you a (relatively) young man? First, thank you for that “young man” thing. Second, while these rectal invasions generally occur every ten years, I’m on the “Five Year Plan” (which was also used to describe Soviet agriculture. This, I hope, is unrelated). This is because the doctor found some small (benign, thank goodness) polyps during my first go-round. Even so, you say, since you’re only 62 (almost 9 in dog years), you should only be receiving your third, not fourth. Well, my very first procedure had to be rescheduled since I didn’t completely clean out the works (I’ll spare you the gross details). Anyway, in honor of this upcoming auspicious event, I thought I’d reprint the description of my “Colonic Deflowering.” If you’re “of an age” you’ve probably had one of these already. If you’re not, it’s coming for you, tough guy.

Anyway, enjoy. And don’t forget your fiber.

WARNING:  THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS GRAPHIC BITS OF INFORMATION VIS-À-VIS MY LOWER GASTROINTESTINAL SYSTEM.  YOU’VE BEEN WARNED.

  One of the benefits of turning 50 is that, besides grey hair sprouting from my nose, needing Pepsi to burp, and developing the nail fungus known as “Old Man Toe,” I got a chance to feel what it’s like to spend a little time in a Turkish prison.

  The word “colonoscopy” is Greek in origin.  Its entomology (no, wait a minute, that’s the study of ‘insects.’  I meant ‘etymology’-I can never get those straight) derives from “colonos” which means “butt” and “scopy” which means “look see.”  (NOTE: NOT its real meaning.  But it should be, amirite?). 

  As befits my advancing years, I was recently treated to the full Monty (coincidentally, the doctor’s actual name).  I felt sorry for the poor guys whose HMOs wouldn’t pay for a complete procedure.  They were only able to afford a “semicolonoscopy.”  (waka, waka, I’m here all week…don’t forget your waitress).

  The day before, I was directed to drink a couple bottles of what’s called Fleet Phospho Soda.  This, once again, is a Greek term meaning “Ass Rocket Fuel.”  Boy, howdy, does that stuff work!  I haven’t felt that emotionally attached to my lavatorial facilities since my surgery in 1988 (some of you know which surgery I mean.  Okay…hemorrhoids.  Happy?).

  Anyway, I felt like one of those water rockets we bought as kids.  Remember those?  You know, the kind you pump up with water until, when you can no longer pump them up, you just pop the cork and let ‘em fly?  Yeah, a lot like that.

  I could never predict when it was time for, uh, Old Faithful to erupt (so to speak).  Needless to say, I left my white pants in the closet with the rest of my Miami Vice wardrobe.

  Falling asleep the night before was an adventure.  Luckily for me (and my terrified wife), my own personal levees weren’t breached while I slept.  Although, by the time I woke up, I was so full that I felt like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloon (I don’t know which one, but I’m sure it can’t be one of the popular ones.  Perhaps the Sinclair dinosaur?).

  Throughout the day, I had to fast (which was pretty easy since I’m ‘half-fast’, anyway).  Although I couldn’t stray too far from the bathroom because, whenever I had to, uh, you know, I had to, uh, you know.  Thank goodness I had plenty to read.  Plus, that handheld Yahtzee was a godsend.

  I grew so famished throughout the day that I started licking the Sunday paper ads for Burger King.

  Finally, my wife drove me to the rather unfortunately named “Dr. Mengele Center for Endoscopic Surgery-Sponsored by BEANO!”

  After checking in, I was wheeled into the prep room where I had to disrobe and asked if I had gone to the bathroom.  Ya know, not for nothin’, wouldn’t it have been better to ask before I took my clothes off?  That way, if I hadn’t used the bathroom, I wouldn’t have to parade naked through the waiting room, causing who knows how many people to lose their lunch.

  Oh, and incidentally, I thought it was odd that it was the janitor who asked me to take off my clothes.

  The nurse (moonlighting from her regular job as a Verizon FIOS installer) explained what was going to happen to me.  My eyes grew wide when she showed me a picture of the “instrument.” 

  Jesus, they were going to shove a piece of PVC pipe so far up the exit that I was going to be a piñata for a sadist or, at the very least, a Popeye Lawn sprinkler.

  I was told I would be filled with air and that I was encouraged to fart when I was done (not wanting to waste it, I think I’ll wait until church and then make a joyful noise unto the Lord!).

   As they wheeled me into the operating room, I reminded them if they found any cave paintings, they were the property of the Smithsonian Institution.

  I was told I’d be so pumped full of drugs, I wouldn’t feel a thing.  I told the “Butt People” that, since that was the case, they could do whatever they want.  I wish I hadn’t told them that though.  Because I think I’m going to be on You Tube.  With a monkey.

  Luckily, everything turned out great.  They did find a polyp (and Jimmy Hoffa) which they cut out.  I plan on having it bronzed (the polyp, not Jimmy Hoffa).

  So, that’s my story.  As you can see, everything went well for the most part and I don’t have to lick the paper anymore.

  But, I’ll never look at my garden hose the same way again.

Practice Makes…Something

Well, the election happened five days ago and there is no shortage of hate, disgust, and panic on social media. So, this is the perfect refuge. I’ve made the switch to alternate sites, but they’re not as user-friendly as what I’ve grown accustomed to. Frankly, ditto here, but I’ll keep plugging away, trying this, trying that. I hope to announce this to the world (or what little slice of said world with which I interact) by the end of the month.

Today, I’m going to try monkeying with the text…

strikethrough Ooh, that worked!

text color Hey, that worked, too!

Putting a picture in a post…cool…now if I could only remember how I did it…

And So It Begins

Since nobody will see this (okay, a couple people probably will), I’m just going to go with whatever strikes my fancy. Mind you, I don’t want to end up with a bruised fancy, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. Anyway…here goes…


Prior to my retirement as an Environmental Services Associate (you know them as “custodians”), I pondered whether I should develop my own website. This would be a place where I could express my inner, deepest thoughts. Or fart jokes. Don’t judge.

This summer, I moved from the dumpster fire which is Pennsylvania to the insanity which is Virginia. As of this writing, Pennsylvania is still a dumpster fire and the jury’s out on Virginia. I relocated to Virginia Beach to help out my daughter and new son-in-law get on their feet. In a year, though, I plan on moving farther south. I’ll still be close to them (and my son and his future wife, who live in Richmond, but I’m tired of hearing sirens. I want to virtually disappear somewhere rural where, hopefully, my Yankee accent won’t get me into too much trouble.

What energized me into going with this website is the fact that Facebook, where I usually post my own brand of silly, suspended me for a month due to “violating community standards.” I have no idea what I could have done. When I tried to investigate, I could not actually see what got me tossed “into the can.” Moreover, the most recent troublesome post was January, 2019. That’s right, over a year and a half ago.

So, therefore, I decided to launch this website a little earlier than I had originally planned. I’m still finding my way around Word Press (i.e., not exactly sure how it is I post pictures…I do that sort of thing a lot). In a few weeks, I’ll reactivate my Facebook account (they suspended me…I suspended THEM. Screw those fascists). At that point, I’ll direct my friends there to find me on this site. It will contain most of the stuff I already post on Facebook and will be free. At least for the time being. It would be nice to have some money coming in. After all, I am a pensioner now. For now, though…enjoy?

Well, that’s all for now. Supper’s calling and “Jeopardy” will be coming on soon.

Stay safe, both of you.