Page 126: Wicked!

"Oh, Clarice, your problem is you need to get more fun out of life." -Dr. Lector, The Silence of the Lambs

WARNING: This blog contains attempted humor that some people may find offensive. If you have a delicate constitution, please click over to these pictures of stuffed teddy bears.

Okay, now that we've gotten rid of the sourpusses, we can get on with it. I can't help that I have an extremely wicked sense of humor -- God made me this way. Ironic that God could create such wickedness, isn't it? But I suppose "that's just the way He rolls," proving that there must be a cosmic humor of divine proportions.

Ever since I was a tadpole, inappropriate and over-the-line-humor have left me in stitches. And nothing delights the wicked more, of course, than spreading wickedness. Getting an entire group laughing at something rather wrong has unnatural appeal to me. It's sort of like the endorphin high runners get, but with a lot more maniacal glee and explosive laughter.

I have only laughed to the point of death once in my life, and it happened during my college years at the beautiful mountain filled Baptist encampment of Glorieta, New Mexico. We were the featured band there, and one late night, giddy from all our performances, my pal Mark and I were sitting on the front porch of our bunkhouse at 4a. (That's Mark on the left, along with my old roommate Mike, on board our tour bus.) We were talking into the wee hours about the very serious matters of life, death, philosophy, and theology. Mark is gold, one of the best guys you could ever meet, and also pretty seriously minded -- the perfect guy to sit around with under the stars and talk about the Universe. And then out of the blue, Mark said, "Do you know what they call a herd of masturbating cattle?" I looked at him, perplexed. "Beef Stroganoff!" he asserted. Did Mark just say that? I was instantly in stitches, riotous laughter that turned into a roaring fit that started to hurt some ten minutes later, when I really, really thought I needed an ambulance and ended up literally ROTFLOL, Rolling On The Floor, Laughing Out Loud. In pain. I have never laughed so hard in my life.

Which brings us, Gentle Browsers, to the delicate topic of "funeral humor."

Oh, it's so wrong, but yes, funerals are sort of Prime Time for the humor-twisted. (Hey, if people aren't laughing during my funeral, I've clearly failed at life.) A funeral is the perfect time to get tickled, for all the wrong reasons. Mom Bess and my Ohio sisters were headed into a funeral a few years ago, and since they have my same "Bad Gene" humor, I knew I could get them in a precariously giggly state right before it started. I lobbed my call in as they walked up the church sidewalk. "Mom! Mom, put me on speaker. I want to read you guys something. It's very important! Okay, Mr. Google helped me find this... THE list of the Top Things NOT To Do at a Funeral. Are you listening? Do NOT do these things during the service…"

1. Stand up in the middle of the service and announce that Grandpa wants an air conditioner down there.
2. Walk around telling people that you've seen the will and they're not in it.
3. Strike up a conversation with the older people attending the service, and at one point of the conversation say in a loud, raspy voice "You're NEEEEXXXTTT!"
4. When no one's looking, slip plastic vampire-teeth into the mouth of the deceased.
5. Tie cans behind the hearse and shoe polish "JUST DIED!" on the back window.
6. Walk into service and say, loudly, "what's that SMELL?"
7. Tell the undertaker that your pooch just died and ask if he can sneak him into the coffin.
8. Ask if anyone wants to see the old "saw the casket in half" trick.
9. Wear an “I’m with stupid" t-shirt, especially if you’re a pallbearer.
10. Loudly rebut the claims of the eulogists… "Lucy cared about everyone…" "NO she didn't!"
11. Put super-glue on the lips of the deceased right before the widow's final kiss.
12. Tie a fishing line to a five dollar bill, and see who's really mourning and who just wants to be five bucks richer.

By the time I got to "slip vampire teeth," I could barely talk amidst peals of laughter, and the giggles on the other end of the phone told me my mission was accomplished. I was wickedly pleased. "My work here is done. Please give my respects to Martin's family. Toodles!"

An hour later, my phone rang. It was Jennifer. "I hope you're happy, Mr. Smart Aleck. Mom was shaking during the entire service, tears down her face, and everybody thought she was crying, but she was holding in laughing herself silly. And every time somebody stood up to say something nice about Martin, Tracie would slip me a look and shake her head 'uh uh.' I thought Mom was going to lose it. "

"Then," Tracie interrupted, "Jennifer held up the entire car procession to the cemetery when she had a Pee Emergency 2 minutes before we left the church -- and our car was the first in line. The entire procession had to sit there waiting on her to get back. She had the car keys or we would have left her. Awful!"

"You all are terrible," Mom intoned. "The only good thing I can say about all this is that Martin would have thought all of this was very, very funny. In fact, I think it's safe to say...he probably would have died laughing...!"

Page 125: The Power of "I Can"

I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.
- Jesus of Nazareth

I can see clearly now; the rain is gone.
- Johnny Nash



This story may not make sense to you; it may in fact invite ridicule. I know. But the events related here are 100% true...

Facts are not as powerful as faith. I know people who believe sheer out non-factual absurdities, but believe them strongly to their toes because they are sure they are right. Such confident faith, right or wrong, has power -- amazing, miraculous, out-of-the-ordinary-possibilities type of power.

As a child, I had a serious eyesight problem in my left eye. I was in the 1st grade when I realized almost everything was dim and blurry. I got my first pair of early 70's horn-rims in 1972 -- with bifocals, no less. The vision in my left eye was 20/400.

By the time I was a freshman in High School, I was utterly sick of glasses. I was overweight and my "stylish" metal frames made me look bookish. Through shear force of will, I lost 50 pounds, did a trendy middle part-of-my-hair, and then…

I stopped wearing glasses. I simply put them down. I didn't like them. And I was sure that I didn't need them. The Optometrist in 1978 disagreed -- he prescribed a new pair, yes, still with bifocals. Poppycock, I thought. I don't want them and I'm not going to wear them. I'll force myself to see better.

On my driver's test in 1979 when I turned 16, I passed the eye test with nary a batted eyebrow. When my eyes were tested again in 1981 for college, I tested at 20/25 in both eyes. My mother had given up by then on asking me to wear my glasses, and suddenly I had proof definitive in my hands I didn't need them anymore. How could this be, my mother asked. "My eyes are fine because I forced them to be fine," I replied. When pressed for a better explanation -- one that made sense -- I had none. I should have thought of Matthew 17:20.

That was a long time ago. A year ago, I realized my close-in vision had become dismal. I struggled to read the paper. I tried reading glasses (1.50) and was amazed at the clarity and improvement. Soon, there were 6 pairs of reading glasses in my house -- one everywhere I possibly sit and read -- and a pair in my car, along with a pair at work. Yes, that's 8 total, but "that's just the way I roll."

I was catching up with my old friend Jerry Sheridan in Philadelphia a few weeks ago, and the subject of reading glasses came up. Jerry mentioned that he didn't wear them because, he knew once he started, he would be hooked for life.

Somewhere in the back of my head, there was a distant "ding." And I put my reading glasses down. In the middle of our Philadelphia trip.

I reviewed a contract today that I couldn't get into focus a couple of months ago. I now read the paper, including the small print comics, with nary a problem by 60 watt lamp light. I haven't had a pair of reading glasses on since August 9. You have to understand, my eyes are fine.

Because I very strongly believe my eyes are fine, so much as to will it so. Oh, it wasn't magic. I told my eyes they were going to function, I picked up the paper, and I forced the ink into focus. Force became ease within a couple of days. And such is the power of "I Can" -- it scales mountains, by the power of sheer force.

Move that mountain. You can do it.

Page 124: Flaming Dr. Peppers from Hell

Click here for Page 124

Page 123: A Romper Room with Wings

Southwest Airlines -- known affectionately as "Southwurst" -- is lovable for one big reason, their fares. After that, the list of Things To Love runs amazingly short -- the skies darken, the Dracula theme music swells, and the Unhappy List unfolds a hundred yards long.

I grew up on a ranch, so I'm really fine with the boarding process, which greatly resembles a cattle chute operation -- line up by ear tag, and then stampede for a place in the trailer. HAWWWWWWW cattle! HAWWWW!

We were returning from our Philly/New York vacation, and had a lovely 2 hour delay on the tarmac while The Three Stooges fiddled with a defective stall indicator. "Hey, what's the big idea?" Chief Engineer Moe asked. "Give me that wrench!"

"But I'm busy finishing me Brew!" Second Engineer Curly replied, sipping an sudsy evilish-looking dark ale. "Three more of these babies, and Woo Woo Woo!!!" Of course, he was immediately conked on the head with the wrench, and so it went for a couple of hours. But soon we were duct-taped up and ready to rattle into the sky, shaking like a '73 Plymouth.

Amazingly, repair crew antics weren't the lowlight of the trip; it was the plane full of shrieking 2 year olds. Now, we've all had two year olds on a plane before, but like me, you've always gone out of your way to keep the little dears entertained and quiet as a courtesy to the other passengers…right? Well, those parents didn't get on this flight. Toddler Ted in front of us had a milk and jelly bib from breakfast (his shirt) and hair that hadn't been cut or combed since his christening two years prior. He had the amazing ability to shriek like a banshee for the entire duration of the trip, absolutely delighting his parents. They honestly thought it was the cutest thing since Cabbage Patch Kids, and the idea that it might be a nuisance never crossed their tiny, unevolved mollusk brains. "Look at our little Junior! EVERYBODY can hear him shriek! Isn't that CUTE?"

Not to be outdone, the Gruesome Twosome in the row behind us quickly brought the competition up a notch. "LOOK ATT DAT MAWMMY!" Number one yelled, some fifty three times. Mawmmy apparently didn't have the strength to respond. "MAWWWWMMY! LOOK DATT!!!" Number Two wasn't pleased. "WAAAAAAAAAAH," he squalled. I mean, why should Number One get the entire airwaves to himself?

But the Olympic Champion was the waif in the aisle across and up one. I've flown over a million miles and I've never seen anything like it. This little lamb, with a dirty mop for hair and an unnerving scream for a voicebox, did the most amazing thing. He stood on the tray table for half the trip, jumping up and down on it like it was a trampoline, and then leaping over the seat into the arms of his adoring mother in the next row. The poor lady in the row with Daddy and the Miracle Jumper looked suicidal. She exchanged several glances with me. "It's okay," I whispered to her. "You weren't using your sanity anyway, were you?"

I forgot to mention the opera. To complete this perfect Quadfecta, the gentleman in front of us had two daughters who started singing, in perfect unison, "Old Macdonald Had a Farm" for the entire take-off and ascent. They were able to cover cows, sheep, ducks, geese, horses, pigs, and goats before we even rumbled down the runway. Curiously, they never mentioned the jackass on their farm (ahem -- the father), who was seated right next to them but uttered nary a word during the entire aria.

Within 30 minutes, I had gnawed off all my fingernails into stumps. Keaton and Kellen sat like perfect gentlemen, but took it all in with amazement.

"It's simple, boys," I explained. "What we need here is a royal, first class spanking -- I'm talking a rear end rump whuppin' -- for each and every one of these parents."

Truly, it was a romper room with wings.

When I got home, I put an extra $20 in the Private Jet fund. Baby steps, you know...

Page 122: "That's Hot!"

Howdy, new neighbors! Yeah, we're from a few houses down. Congrats on moving into the neighborhood and we'd like to give you a big rousing WELCOME to Texas. Glad you're here. Say, is your icemaker hooked up and running back there? It is? Good. NOW EMPTY YOUR ICE BUCKET into this here ice chest, real nice and slow like, and nobody will get hurt. Yes, this is a real BB gun. Have you ever spent a weekend picking shiny copper BB's out of your rear end? No? Oh, this would be a terrible time to find out what it's like. Enough small talk. Trigger finger is so sweaty, it could go slip-n-slide on this boomstick any second. YOUR ICE. NOW! YES, THROW IN THOSE FROZEN PEAS, TOO. Oh, and welcome to the cul-de-sac!

The events in the preceding story are fictional. Well, for the moment. But heat has a way of making people sweat, and when people sweat, they get angry. And when they get angry, bad things happen. It's gonna turn ugly, folks. If this "high pressure zone" and 106 degree temps continue, even our saintly grandmothers are going to go vigilante for some refrigerated air and a bucket of ice cubes.

I was sitting in the Batcave, drenched with sweat. I called down to Engineering. "Nunzilla, this is the bridge! Set A/C to MAX! We need cold air in 3 minutes or we're all dead!"

"That's all I can give ya', Capt'n!" Nunzilla yelled. "The A/C can't take much more o' this!"

Lord. That's what I get for having an Irish nun for the head of engineering. I should have sprung for a full blooded Scotsman. Why, Scotty could have produced cold air with a kleenex, a transistor, and a fingernail clipping. What do I have? Three A/C units gasping for air like Rush Limbaugh on a mountain bike. I was beside myself. "Nun! Jettison the warp core or something. Just frikkin' figure it OUT. Kirk out!"

Through the heat and on a completely unrelated note, my mind vaguely recalls my favorite Scotsman joke -- of course, Scottish jokes always involve the renowned cheapness, frugality, and drinking of the Scots.

A tipsy Scotsman was in the outhouse when he accidentally dropped a dollar into the loo. "Oh dere," Angus said. "It aren't worth a wee dollar to go ahfter it!" So he pulled out a ten and threw it in. "But it's cert'ly worth goin' ahfter eleven dawlarhs!"

Yes, folks, it's hot. Clearly, The Landlord is determined to keep the thermostat set to INFERNO IN JUNE for yet another week over Texas. If it keeps up, I suggest we all move to the Wal*Mart, right over near the dairy aisle... there is always a February breeze blowing over the milk and cheeses.

How hot is it? Mrs. Kathryn reports that the eggs at the grocery store can only be bought pre-poached now.

It's so hot that my elderly Great Aunty Murle reports she saw the squirrel in her backyard "panting and fanning his nuts, trying to keep 'em cool..."

"Now, that's hot!"

Page 121: Mind Tricks

Our minds -- so powerful, so full of possibilities. And occasionally, so misleading. Open minds are the best minds, because sometimes you have to take a really close look to really understand what is going on...

No, nothing is actually moving in the picture; it's an illusion. Enjoy!

Page 120: Got Squabbles?

"Daddy, name something you really do not like," Kristin said.

"I don't like it when people don't get along," I instantly replied. Anyone who has worked with or for me knows that I insist that people get along. I especially dislike friend and family squabbles. I hate it when friends bicker or talk behind each other's backs. I don't do that. If you're my friend, I have your back; I don't talk behind it. Period.

Family squabbles. Maddening, but every family has them. It seems like the normal irritants are always (1) old sibling rivalries and (2) new sibling-in-law rivalries, where the spouse of a sibling isn't liked by some in the core family. In my own family, there is a ridiculous situation that has gone on for over 50 years where an aunt, my dad's youngest sister, does not like my mother. It started in the 1950's -- a comment my mother made when she was 16 or 17 and my aunt was 13 -- became a tiny old wound that never healed. It turned into a bigger and bigger wound, and then yielded deep scars that abscessed over the decades. Later, my aunt assembled and maintained a book documenting my mother's "transgressions" over the years. Obviously not a healthy thing, but to my aunt, a major life issue.

In my youth, this aunt and her husband were golden and special to me. I spent a great deal of time with them and we had many fun adventures. My uncle helped me run the concession stand for the men's baseball league. I took trips with them. They let me drive their car, a zesty 1973 Ford Maverick, all around the country backroads at the age of 12. I never intended to get involved in "the squabble."

My family situation is complex. There is the family I grew up with in the Central Texas ranchlands, and the other family I never knew up in Canton, Ohio. After finding the Ohio clan, there was a period of years where, for good reasons, I didn't want my parents to know. Oh, I planned to tell them, when the time was right. But some years later, this uncle took it upon himself to tell my parents about the Ohio family, and I am certain that his motives were not pure. He intended hurt and injury in the telling.

When I discovered this betrayal, I wasn't angry. I have never used this word in this forum nor will I ever likely again, but I will use it now, and I also invoked it when discussing my uncle with my parents shortly afterward. No, I wasn't angry. I was fucking furious. My uncle had no right to tell my parents anything, and to this day he probably doesn't know how lucky he was that I lived 1300 miles away in Philadelphia at the time. With steam billowing out of my ears, I called my parents to assure them that I loved them as much as always and just didn't want to hurt their feelings in regard to the Ohio family.

I've studied the teachings of Jesus, Zen, New Thought, and psychology far too long to carry around anger. It's destructive -- so, I dealt with the anger toward this uncle and let it go. But in the process, both this aunt and uncle died to me. Not physically, but to me, it was as if they were dead. I didn't feel any anger toward them. I felt nothing toward them, and I resolved in my mind that if I didn't see them again in this lifetime, that was fine with me. I should mention that their two sons, Rody & Cousin Ricky, are like brothers to me and we've never (and will never) speak a cross word. We didn't discuss this matter.

Ten years passed.

At Cousin Ricky's wedding reception a few weeks ago, this aunt and uncle were there. They looked very aged to me. I took a deep breath and spoke to both of them. Later that evening, I reflected on the many old memories of old good times and their kindness in my youth. The irony was not lost to me that even though they really do not like my parents, they still were always quite fantastic to me.

So I wasn't harboring anger, but the net effect was I got caught up in the whole thing as well. The thing I dislike the most: a squabble. Perhaps true forgiveness isn't a mechanical matter, and doesn't really happen until you are willing to be at a point where you were before the transgression.

As I write, my grandmother Mama is in the hospital with recurring blackouts, and I sent Cousin Ricky a message to let him know. We exchanged a few messages. "I think we should all go to Brownwood and be together for Christmas again," Ricky said. "For Mama. It's time."

Hmmm. A part of me is really quite fine never having a "Brownwood Big Family Christmas" ever again. It was my favorite time of year as a child, but now, seeing people gathered together with canyon sized wounds and bad opinions of each other, it seems to have lost its luster. But Ricky makes a great point. "For Mama." Perhaps the gift to an 88 year woman of her drifted factions together once again would be a very nice thing. Oh, everyone will be civil -- this is not a bunch that wears feelings on sleeves. Yes, Ricky, a bigger part of me knows that you are absolutely right. A gift for Mama. But could it be -- a gift for me as well?

Looks like it will be a white Christmas in Brownwood this year. And of course, I'll give my aunt and uncle a big hug and it will be good old times once again… and as in old times, when we pack up to leave and I throw out "Love You Guys!" as I've always done, once again, I'll mean it.