As we traveled last weekend, I made sure I got my laps in at the hotel pool, because as readers know, I am swimming across Lake Michigan. One added benefit is that I made a new friend at the pool. I do consider myself America’s friend and sweetheart. He was an older gentlemen, and we were alone in the pool area, ostensibly to swim laps. But he confronted me with, “Can I ask about your weight?” Uh-oh. I looked for the closest exit in case his next question was an invitation to join him in the hot tub. But it wasn’t. He just had a question about my weight. Then my mind flashed to this tweet I had seen and wondered if his question might go this way.
But our conversation didn’t go that route. I told him that he could ask away, and he asked me this legitimate question.
The 40+ year old mystery had eaten away at my soul like athlete’s foot has eaten away my pinky toe, leaving just a stump of flesh and bone with a nail. Hmm, upon further review, that’s what a pinky toe is normally. Bad analogy. Regardless, the mystery of the band I saw in my first concert while on my first date has been solved. Okay, technically it wasn’t my first concert. I had been to a zither concert (no kidding) with the neighbor kid across the street and his dad. But that doesn’t really count, because we just explored the building and screwed around while the zitherists were zithering. Anyway, the mystery involved my first rock concert on my first date, and it has been solved.
I hurriedly gushed out all the details to my wife. Her crossed arms and steely gaze signaled to me that she would be mad if I left out any detail. When she told me, “You realize that I don’t know any of these people you’re talking about,” I understood that she wanted me to fill her in on every little detail so she would feel she knew the people. I hadn’t seen my wife so excited to hear one of my stories since I regaled her with news of how I resolved my ingrown toenail issue.
Editor’s Note: Sorry about a second toe reference in the first two paragraphs, but the idiot insisted it remain in this post. Might be some sort of weird fetish.
Anyway, I shared the mystery resolution with my wife, and now I’m prepared to share it with you.
Here we are on the eleventh day of my Twelve Days of Blogging, and I’m exhausted. I think I even have a case of the blog sweats, although the sweating may be due to recent overeating or snow removal.
We got our first real snow of the season Tuesday with precipitation continuing into the night. It was light and fluffy and beautiful … at first. Who knew the temperature would rise overnight? By the time I got out to shovel at 10PM, it was raining and the snow was as heavy as and the consistency of wet cement. There was no way my snowblower could handle that, so I seriously considered my options as my middle daughter and I tackled the driveway with shovels.
This seemed like an easier option …
I’m not sure I can legally buy a flamethrower in Illinois. If I can’t, it’s good to know that I can make one using a Shop-Vac and gasoline. It’s easy. Take a look …
I fear that if Trump is re-elected, there will be a civil war in this country. For that reason, I have decided to carry a weapon. Ironically, I have taken Trump’s words to heart and will acquire the weapon he fears the most. No, not truth. Not Nancy Pelosi. Not guns. Listen for yourself …
No, she didn’t take the popsicle stick from the garbage and sharpen it into a stabbin’ shiv. She’s trying to kill me with the mac & cheese. No, she’s not trying to poison me, but she just about killed me by putting it in the garbage.
I enter this picture as the first piece of evidence …
I enjoy our backyard pond. I dug it myself. While digging, I could have gone in a couple directions which I explained in this blog post. I have shed blood over this pond, and lost my boyish good lucks in the process. Despite the macabre aura of blood and death surrounding this pond, it was my quiet place, until my pond was literally visited by blood and death last night. Now it will have to be my quiet place of blood and death.
I’ve given the staff of Jim Flanigan Looks at the World some time off over this holiday weekend to spend time with their children, some of whom also happen to be their nieces and nephews, but they wanted me to pass along this holiday snapshot I took of them at our Christmas party …
Without that good bunch of guys, I would not be able to keep a steady stream of drivel coming your way. Now without their efforts this weekend, here’s the unsteady stream of drivel I have lined-up for your reading pleasure …
First, travelers carrying these specific identifying carry-on items will be exempt from the additional security restrictions imposed by Travel Ban 2.0 and will be allowed free access in and out of the USA …
I had 3 experiences yesterday that I don’t like, all before noon. I don’t want to go into great detail, as I will save that for my analyst. Here they are, in no particular order except numerical, actually alpha-numerical if you look at #2.
Sure, there is no doubt that I would have taken Trump’s official inauguration poster offered by the Library of Congress for $16.95 and altered it for comic effect. Blacked-out tooth, bald head, Alfred E. Neuman’s face, spelling error, etc. were all viable comical possibilities guaranteed to have my readers rolling on the floor with laughter as they typically do when reading any of my posts. If you are not doing that, please start. You don’t know what you are missing. That helps make my posts seem much funnier than they actually are.
Anyway, as you can plainly see, my handiwork was rendered unnecessary as Team Trump took the wheel and steered their inauguration poster directly into a brick wall with a basic spelling error. If you cannot find it, please stop reading this blog and head immediately to the Breitbart site, or better still, turn on Fox News where the ability to read is optional and actually a detriment to the enjoyment of their “news.” You will feel much more comfortable in your new destination.
There is not much I can really do as once again Trump’s reality trumps whatever I had planned in the way of a satirical rendering. I guess I could add some punchlines:
Kellyanne Conway gave us a sad reminder last night on MSNBC to never forget the Bowling Green Massacre that was perpetrated by radicalized Iraqi refugees in 2011. Her words that touched my heart last night … “I bet it’s brand new information to people that President Obama had a six-month ban on the Iraqi refugee program after two Iraqis came here to this country, were radicalized and they were the masterminds behind the Bowling Green massacre.”
It was only six years ago, but I have to admit I do not remember images of mourners laying flowers on the victim’s graves in Bowling Green, Kentucky.
Let’s all take a look back at the facts surrounding the Bowling Green Massacre:
My plan was to march with my wife and two of my daughters in Chicago today at the Women’s March. I wish they did this two months from now so it would be the Women’s March March. I think that would make the march be more inclusive of stutterers and help swell the number of marchers even more.
However, it feels like March in Chicago today, and it appears that there will be a record number of marchers, with or without stutterers. Alas, I will not be marching as my wife took ill last night. I have concerns about succumbing to the same malady and definitely do not want to be on a crowded train going to or from the march without access to a bathroom. Even if there was a handy bathroom, no single bathroom can control this illness (suspected norovirus) that just a week ago put our sleepy Chicago suburb on national news due to the outbreak closing our local high school for days.
Although I can’t march today, my heart and spirit is with all women and all marchers today including one of my daughters, family and friends. Stay strong.
My critics will say that the title of this post can apply to just about any of my posts. In fact, I was just informed via Facebook from a relative (through marriage, thank God) that I am definitely not funny. Well good, then that will make this post easier to write.
There is a song in the movie MASH called “Suicide is Painless.” It’s not. It may be painless for the suicider or suicidee (I am not sure of the proper term to use), but it is certainly not painless for those that they leave behind. If I wanted to make this post all about suicide song titles (and I don’t), I would follow with R.E.M.’s “Everybody Hurts.”