Thursday, March 28, 2013
What is your reward for trying to help me out a couple of days ago? A rehash of an old post, of course! I wouldn't be me if I actually gave you something valuable.
What follows is a repeat from Good Friday of a few years back (and two or three times before then, too, because that's the sort of lazy slug I am.) I've always given it serious thought when putting this out here again and this year is no exception. In the end, I still believe every word in it. Whether I put it out here or not, the sentiments expressed in the piece are still in my heart. So, if God is omnipotent, and likes a joke as well - both of which I believe wholeheartedly - I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by re-publishing.
The only other thing nagging at me is whether or not it's self-serving to publish it again. After all, I just said "I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by re-publishing" and that sure sounds self-serving.
Nah. As I say, God knows what's in my heart. I might be misguided - I'd say it's 7 to 5 in favor of that proposition - but I have to believe He would find my intentions to be good. And, as everyone knows, the road to heaven is paved with good intentions!
Well, it's something like that. Enough blathering! Enjoy. Or, if you don't enjoy it, be a better Christian than me and say a prayer for my forgiveness.
I MAY NEED YOUR PRAYERS ANY MINUTE NOW
It may be Good Friday as you read this. If you're here immediately as I posted it, it's Maundy Thursday. If you're late getting here, it could be Easter. If any case, what in hell are you doing reading this crap, you heathen? You couldn't possibly believe that anything I have to say is divinely inspired. Get your ass to church.
OK, now that the easily-guilted holy rollers are gone, let’s get down to business.
Jesus is hanging on the cross. He looks down and sees Mary Magdelene crying.
Jesus says, “Mary...”
Mary looks up, still crying, and says, “What is it, Lord?”
Jesus says, “Mary...”
Mary again says, “What is it, Lord?”
Jesus says, “Mary, it’s... amazing.”
Mary says, “What, Lord? What is it? What’s amazing?”
“I can see your house from up here!”
Whoa, Pilgrim! Don’t go away mad. You may think it’s just a crummy blasphemous joke, but I can justify almost anything. Nothing up my sleeve... PRESTO!
See, Jesus is closer to heaven and he can see Mary’s house IN HEAVEN. He’s telling her that her faith has saved her and that she will spend eternity in paradise. Hah!
And I guess that’s today’s lesson: It all depends upon your point of view. This is "Good" Friday, right? Why? Why do Christians call this "Good" Friday, when this is the anniversary of the day when their savior was murdered, the day He was nailed to a tree and died a miserable, painful death?
It's because without the cross – without that death - none of us can ever see our house in heaven, no matter how high up we are here on earth.
Hey! That was pretty good! Quick! Are the easily-guilted holy rollers still within shouting distance? Call them back. Maybe this is divinely inspired.
Let’s see if I can wriggle out of another one.
So, see the painting up above, of Jesus on the cross? There’s a plaque nailed to the cross, just above His head. The plaque reads "INRI." Want to know what it means?
I’m Nailed Right In.
Well, what it really means is lightning bolts should be coming any minute now, and I’ll be going to hell immediately, IF God doesn't have a sense of humor. However, I believe that God has an amazing sense of humor. My belief is that, when we die, we’re going to find out that this whole thing was one long and involved joke. And we’ll laugh and laugh and laugh when we hear the punch line.
Or, if you don’t find that terribly convincing, try this on for size. If God doesn’t have a sense of humor, what can we expect in the afterlife? An eternity without laughter? Hey, kill me now and leave me dead. None of that resurrection shit for me, thanks.
Or are some jokes theologically sound and others not? Maybe. We all have subjective senses of humor, I guess. Maybe God does, too. If so, the only way to know for sure is if we can hear God laugh. Then we’d know what He finds funny. Let's try it. Everybody be very quiet for a minute. Here goes.
Two nuns cycling down a cobbled street. The first one says "I've never come this way before."
The second one replies "Must be the cobbles."
So, I don’t hear God laughing. I’m assuming you don’t hear anything, either, right? Well, that's OK, it wasn't a great joke. Maybe we'll try again later.
What it comes down to is having faith. One way or another, you've got to have faith. If you don't, you're screwed. My faith lives in the belief that everything is for the best and that everything will be revealed in the end. Now, if what's revealed in the end is that God has absolutely no sense of humor at all, and He's royally pissed off at me for this, then that's the way it goes; I'm doomed. But, if God has no sense of humor, I've been doomed for a long, long time now. You, too - so at least we'll all fry together.
(The following will seem totally unconnected, but wait for it.)
I remember watching The Mike Douglas Show one day when I was a kid, and he had this comedy troupe on. For the life of me, I can't remember their name. However, the bit they did has stuck with me forever. It was a parody of Moby Dick.
Ahab and Ishmael are standing on the deck of the Pequod. Ahab is looking through a telescope. Suddenly, he sees something and gets all excited.
Ishmael: "What is it? What do you see?"
Ahab: "IT'S THE GREAT WHITE WHALE!"
Ishmael: "Give me a look."
Ahab hands him the telescope. Ishmael puts it up to his eye and looks out at the sea. After a little while, he takes the telescope down from his eye and hands it back to Ahab. He says:
"Eh. It's a good white whale..."
I know why it's called Good Friday. It's because people were saying, "What a horrible day! They've croaked Jesus!" And so it had to be explained, over and over, that this was actually not a bad thing when you consider how it plays out in the end. So, "Good" Friday.
But why not really get the point across? Why not go all the way and call it Great Friday? Or even Super-Duper Amazingly Fantastic Friday, All Sins Forgiven Or Your Money Back? A little salesmanship wouldn't hurt.
Well, that's about it for me. I'm doomed, right? Eternal damnation; fire and brimstone; some guy with horns, in a red union suit, poking me with a pitchfork.
Nah. See, Jesus died for our sins and that even includes crummy jokes, Thank God. And, if you're an atheist or otherwise not a believer in Christianity, I got you to actually consider this stuff for five minutes. I got you to read the name - Jesus - 12 or 13 times. I figure that's got to count for something.
Have a joyous Easter and I'll see you on Monday - unless I'm struck by lightning.
(Which, by the way, I would consider proof positive that God has a sense of humor, although personally I'd find it much funnier if He did it to the producers of Real Housewives of Orange County.)
ADDENDUM: Hilary believes it was The Ace Trucking Company who did the Moby Dick routine, and I do believe she's correct.
Soon, with more better stuff.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
I'm sitting here with an article I've tried to sell a couple of places with no luck.
(Maybe the reason it's not selling is because I write sentences - such as the above - which would give you the impression that I've been trying to sell the piece to periodicals which have recently experienced a downturn in their fortunes. That's not what I meant. Any downturn in their fortunes will likely occur after publishing my stuff.)
Be that as it may - and it sure seems like it, these days - I have written something I consider humorous. Your job, should you choose to accept it, is to tell me the names of your favorite humorous magazines. I will then read your suggestions and send the piece to an unsuspecting editor or two. If the piece is finally published someplace, I'll give the person who first suggested the magazine it is published in a small token of my thanks (said token being larger or smaller depending upon the size of the check they send me.)
Don't be afraid of being too obvious. Lord knows that never stopped me. What I mean is don't skip a favorite because you assume I already would have thought of that magazine. You should never assume I've thought of anything.
That's all for today (except to say "Thank You!" in advance for your assistance.)
Soon (which has become a very relative term around here, but you know what I mean), with more better stuff.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Nobody Reads My Texting
[Sung to the tune of "Deep In The Heart Of Texas"]
I tell you all I'm at the mall
Why don't you read my texting?
I think it's news when I buy shoes
Nobody reads my texting!
I wrote a bunch about my lunch
Why don't you read my texting?
Me!Me!Me!Me! - I had sushi
Nobody reads my texting!
I had a date but I was late
I couldn't stop my texting!
Now I'm alone 'cause she went home
She couldn't stand my texting!
So I told you what I'd been through
You didn't read my texting...
You told me to STFU
Nobody reads my texting!
[Dedicated to a great humorist - and he's still alive, so I'll assume he's still funny - Frank Jacobs.]
Soon, with more better stuff.
P.S. Co-writing credit on this goes to MY WIFE (who, if she had her own blog - hint, hint - could regale you with her wit on a much more regular basis.)
P.P.S. Yes, the artwork is mine. No, I'm not proud to say that.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
[Since I'm re-printing this for the umpteenth time, I'll head off the sort of commentary I've received before. The hideous "Irish" dialect I use here? Yes, I know that no real Irishman speaks that way. It's a caricature, as many portrayals of the Irish still are in film and on TV, and without even half the thought given to it as I gave while concocting my intentionally abominable character. If you find it offensive, well, DUH! That's the point.
If you'd like to see how the Irish were depicted in the popular press during previous centuries - that is, abominably (and, perhaps, there's relatively little for me to complain about now) - try THIS. Anything that follows here is mighty tame by comparison.
I suggest, for the most enjoyment on your part, that you now endeavor to forget this introduction, referring back to it only if you find what follows offensive.]
Ah, Sweet Jayzis, ‘tis Saint Patty’s day! Time fer th' wearin’ o’ th' green!
I’ll be startin’ me day off wit’ a pint o’ Guinness, an' then a big tub o’ corned beef an’ cabbage. After that - Tura Lura Loo! - I’ll slap ME WIFE upside her gob an' t’row me 26 kiddos down th' stairs, so they'll be gittin' ready fer mass in a proper way. After th' sarvice, I’ll punch Fadder O’Malley in th' mush an' head on over to th' pub wit' Murph, Mac, Murph, Quinn, Tommy Fitz, Timmy Fitz, Jimmy Fitz, Murph, Sweeney, Sully, Sully, Big Sully, Fahey, Sully, an' O’Brien fer a few quarts o’ whiskey. Faith an' begorrah! Then we’ll have a grand time whalin’ th' bejeezus out o' each other 'til the green blood runs in rivers, I tells ya! Toity toity toy! Then some more corned beef an’ cabbage an’ more whiskey an’ more Guinness while we tell each other tales o’ how, if we was still in the Auld Sod, we’d be beatin’ the snot out o’ whole armies o’ English arseholes. Ptooie!
O! Then th' topper to th' whole grand day! Th' parade, by Jayzis! Won’t it be a foin sight t' see all th' lads an' lassies dressed in their foinest an' marchin’ down th' avenue? Ah, where’s me shillelagh? Another pint o’ Guinness, O’Reilly, and póg mo thóin!
Ah, th' barmaid is a foin homely lass, she is, but I’m a married man! Where’s ME WIFE? I want another 6 kids! Ah, ‘tis a foin day!
O’Toole, how are you? Go shit in yer fist, ye boghoppin' sonuvabitch! Where’s yer 42 kids? (*smash!*) Ah, Mullins! I thought that was you! Saints be praised, it’s good to see yer face!
An' I don’t suppose ye were after forgettin’ th' time ye tripped me durin’ recess in th' fifth grade, ye bastard! Go n-ithe an cat thú, is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat!
Jayzis, Mary an' Joseph! I’m so drunk I can’t find me own arsehole an' it’s time fer me to go meet me 32 brithers an’ sisters who’re on th' police department an' me 64 uncles on th' fire department an’ me 487 cousins who work fer the state because we’re all goin’ to Seamus McCarthy’s house to play th' harp, drink more whiskey, eat more corned beef an' cabbage, an' then brawl all night until we collapse in the street in a drunken bloody stupor. Erin Go Bragh!
I’m partly Irish. You don’t get a name like Sullivan or a face like mine without some Irish blood, but - God help me – I sure do hate to admit it sometimes.
The Irish are just about the only ethnic group that you can defame with impunity. Nobody is holding rallies to change the name of the Notre Dame athletic teams. The Fighting Irish. Try calling some college team The Hotheaded Hispanics and see how far you get. Throw an Irish cop with a larcenous streak into a movie or a TV show and nobody blinks. Hell, make him a drunk who beats his wife and has 12 unkempt bratty children. You might as well go all the way. It’s not like anybody is going to complain, least of all the Irish themselves. The Irish are just about the only group that generally ignores most of the stereotypes people throw around about them. For that matter, many of us seem to take pride in our rotten image.
When I say “us”, I say it with some reservation. Yes, I have Irish blood, but unless I tell you, you wouldn’t know that I actually have a higher percentage of Hispanic, not to mention French. I also have Yankee, which is English in origin, of course. And some Scottish. The Irish is pretty much only pasty skin deep.
So, by the stereotypes, this is my make up:
I’m a red-headed Irish Hispanic, so I must have a hair-trigger temper. However, being French, as soon as you stand up to my temper, I’ll surrender. Since I’m also English, I’ll probably make a very wry joke while doing so. The Scot in me would like to make a buck out of the whole deal.
I like to eat potatoes at every meal, but I’ll have snails, greasy beef and haggis with them. Oh, yes, with jalapenos on the side. I’ll also have a heaping helping of spotted dick for dessert, but petit fours will do in a pinch.
I’m up for just about anything sexually, of course, but would you mind not shaving your armpits? I might slap you around a bit, but later you can tie up the English side of me and put a whip to my butt, so it’ll even out. Since I’m also a Scot, if you want me to wear a kilt while we’re doing it, I’m OK with that.
I think Jerry Lewis is a genius, but Monty Python, Cantinflas, Billy Connolly and the first half of this post also make me laugh. I drive a Jaguar low-rider powered by peat, but never on toll roads. I wear a beret on top of my sombrero, as well as a derby under it. I work for the government, I sponge off of the government, I am the government, and I want to overthrow the government.
Ah, that’s enough of that, I suppose.
(Just in case you’re really wondering, about 1/3 of the above is true. I’ll leave it to your imagination which 1/3.)
(Not the Jaguar, that’s for sure.)
So, I don’t really have much of a point here, but I’m glad you came along for the ride. If I’ve upset you in any way, just be thankful that it isn’t Bastille Day. Or Cinco De Mayo, for that matter.
Soon, con mas (whatever the French word for “better” is) stuff, Bucko.
Saturday, March 09, 2013
[This is a repeat. I probably shouldn't have told you that. The folks who will recognize it don't need to be told that information, and the folks who won't recognize it don't need to be told that information, either. So, I've told the truth for no good reason whatsoever. Ugh. I need a drink.]
(L to R: Glen "Big Baby" Davis of the Orlando Magic, a Buick)
MY WIFE just heard a weather report stating that we could be in for hail the size of pennies. I'm sorry, but that's just wrong. Hailstones do not come in the size of monetary units. Think about it. Hailstones are generally spherical. You can't say that they're the size of flat metal objects, circular though they may be. If you do, you'll have a confused populace trying to differentiate between hailstones the size of pennies and hailstones the size of dimes, and dimes are smaller than pennies, but they're worth ten times as much, so while people are standing around outside trying to make sense out of what you've told them, they're already full of holes and laying on the pavement, their life's blood flowing in rivers towards the sewer. And a fine kettle of fish that would be. And don't even get me started on kettles of fish. The only more disgusting idiom is the ever-gross "put a bug in someone's ear." Yuck!
Be that as it may - and it damn well is, so get used to it - the correct equivalents for hailstones use sporting equipment. Golf balls, baseballs, softballs, basketballs. That's the scale. Anything below the size of a golf ball is just hail. Anything above the size of a basketball is just ridiculous.
(I personally believe that the end of the world will include hailstones the size of Buicks. But, since a Buick isn't sporting equipment - unless you're a horny teenager, and you count the back seat - I would never actually describe them that way. I'd say, "Hailstones the size of Big Baby Davis, if Big Baby Davis had wheels and a chrome-plated ass.")
Well, that should take care of the hailstones. While we're at it, though, we may as well get the rest of it straight.
If you've got a tumor - and I hope you don't - the equivalent measurement is a piece of fruit. It can be the size of a grape, an orange, a grapefruit, a cantaloupe, or a watermelon. If your tumor is larger than a watermelon, you could say that it's the size of Big Baby Davis's ass, but nobody will believe you.
"Football Fields" is a valid equivalent measure, but not for hailstones, tumors, or Big Baby Davis's ass, although that's a close one. It has to be for something that is the size of one football field, or at least two football fields. You can't say that something is the size of one-and-one-quarter football fields. If you do, people will say that your brain is the size of a kumquat. They will be wrong, of course. Small brains come in the size of tiny vegetables, i.e., peabrain (although "birdbrain" is acceptable, but only because everyone knows that birds are peabrains, unless the bird in question is Larry, in which case we're talking basketballs again, so Big Baby Davis again.)
Football fields are particularly good for measuring cruise ships, by the way. If you were to fill a big room with brochures for cruise ships, and then swing a cat by it's tail, you'd almost assuredly hit an advertisement with "football field" in the text, if that's your idea of fun. Apparently, you can also use them to measure destruction. Go here, if you want to be depressed. Of course, if you think rain forests suck, it will make you giddy.
(I don't trust that math. Six football fields a minute? That would be 360 football fields an hour, and 8,640 football fields each day, which translates to 3,153,600 football fields a year. That would be more than 141 billion square feet. Do you know anybody with square feet? Of course not, so there you go. Pseudo-science!)
Finally, one blog post by Suldog = 10 minutes of your life you'll never get back. I don't think anybody will dispute that. Maybe Big Baby Davis, but he has an ass the size of a Buick.
Soon, with more better stuff (the equivalent of which has yet to be officially determined, but I'm thinking a hungry ferret in your underwear would be a good approximation.)
Saturday, March 02, 2013
That's how old I am today - 56. I'm as amazed by that as anything in my entire life. I smoke cigarettes, eat boatloads of unhealthy food, don't exercise six months out of the year, did enough cocaine over the course of four years to kill a small herd of elephants (and dabbled in just about every other illegal substance, along the way to the coke), have consorted (in every sense of the word) with deadly people, and otherwise have led a life that would not lead one to believe that I would ever reach this age. The only reasonable explanation is that there IS a God, He takes care of idiots, and He doesn't like you nearly as much as me or else He would have steered you away from this drivel and given you a better five minutes of your life.
In honor of me, I am listing everything I can think of pertaining to the number 56. If you have any others, feel free to enlighten me (or, at least, try to enlighten me, as past experience seems to show that it's not an easy task to accomplish.)
56 was the number of games in which Joe Dimaggio hit safely in succession in 1941, setting a mark which has yet to be broken. In the opinion of many, it will never be bested.
(One thing I've learned in my 56 years is that sooner or later, everything happens. If the world keeps spinning and baseball is still being played, somebody will top it. It's that monkeys-typewriters-Shakespeare thing.)
(By the way, if you give a million monkeys a million typewriters, odds are one of them will replicate this post and without the grammatical errors. Frickin' monkeys! No wonder I'm not making sales to the magazines and newspapers I've been pitching. If you love me and want to give me a birthday present, kill the next typewriting monkey you see.)
According to Wikipedia, which is generally at least as reliable as a typewriting monkey, 56 is the sum of the first six triangular numbers (making it a tetrahedral number), as well as the sum of six consecutive primes (3 + 5 + 7 + 11 + 13 + 17). It is also a tetranacci number and a pronic number. Adding up the divisors of 1 through 8 gives 56. Since 56 is twice a perfect number, it is itself a semiperfect number.
(I understood about 1/4 of that. Or maybe it was 1/3. I used to think I was pretty good at math, but after reading that gibberish I'm 110% sure I know poop.)
(Which is what 583,236 of the million monkeys will be flinging at each other while another 416,763 are trying to write Shakespeare. That leaves one monkey left over, sitting in a corner and wondering if his parentheses are really necessary.)
56 is the atomic number of barium, as well as the code for direct dial phone calls to Chile.Call someone down there and ask them if they have any barium you can borrow. If you reach a typewriting monkey, see if he knows who Joe Dimaggio was.
There is an actual town in Arkansas named 56, except they spell it out (Fifty-Six) which probably makes the city limits signs unreadable for most of the inhabitants.
(Yeah, I know that's hideously insulting for no good reason, but the place has only 163 residents. The odds of one of them actually reading this are about the same as a million monkeys having 56-game hitting streaks.)
(Man, I've driven that joke into the ground with a sledgehammer and we're only about halfway through this thing, or maybe 3/4 of the way through, if it's a Tetrazinic Prenomial Prone Position Number, which I just made up, but the monkeys probably think it's a real thing, the stupid shits. I mean, what the hell - who still uses a typewriter these days?)
56 was the uniform number of the following sports figures: Jim Bouton, Lawrence Taylor, Sergei Zubov, Brandon Hunter, and Jarrod Washburn.
56 was the number of men who signed The Declaration of Independence in 1776.
(No monkeys signed it. They were all loyalists.)
Finally, if you divide 2,875,486,901 by the total number of times I've unnecessarily used parentheses in this piece, add Sergei Zubov's career goals, subtract Arkansas, then multiply by Joe Dimaggio, you get a headache. If you give a million monkeys a million mortars and pestles, they'll come up with some aspirin for you, sooner or later, but if they come up with Percodan, I get first dibs. It's my birthday, after all.
Soon, with more better stuff (unless you're a monkey.)