tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7156155574748541602024-02-19T00:38:45.544-05:00Bill WileyBill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.comBlogger159125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-51696288495686248622021-10-29T18:08:00.003-04:002021-10-29T19:13:29.199-04:00Out of My Comfort Zone and Into the Nail Salon<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwFFQoZC7vg396Vk21zRxAqh_ogh9Fg7UpuFz-1QfwpEsH4q3XGiQuJj320QPNi3PQJOgfkxXIh4f25R_AnG-h2fiDnz2OX0tdbol8tHQbATO1t1i6pVngwkYYpfYMN2X1LPIRb_CnGCI/s3264/IMG_1185.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwFFQoZC7vg396Vk21zRxAqh_ogh9Fg7UpuFz-1QfwpEsH4q3XGiQuJj320QPNi3PQJOgfkxXIh4f25R_AnG-h2fiDnz2OX0tdbol8tHQbATO1t1i6pVngwkYYpfYMN2X1LPIRb_CnGCI/s320/IMG_1185.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br />So for the past 7 years I have carted Other Bill to and from appointments with a plethora of MD specialists. Dermatologists, Ocular Oncologists, and Paleontologists, because we are getting old as dinosaurs. I consider it an honor and nothing more than my husbandly duties. But throughout the Covid years, it has been especially irritating, because instead of sitting in an air conditioned waiting room, I’ve been reduced to uncomfortably squirming in my hot car for hours while he gets tortured alone by various physicians. Now and then he wants to “Do Something Special” for me, which usually takes the form of a seafood dinner or a pulled pork sandwich from our favorite barbecue place.<o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">So last week he made the “Do Something Special” announcement, but it took a different turn this time. Instead of shrimp and crab claws, he said he wanted us to go get pedicures.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I was skeptical and hesitant. The last time I thought about anything pedicure related was when I heard the appalling news of a coworker who had to go to the hospital for IV antibiotics after a bad pedicure left her with a nasty, ugly, painful infection.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">My response to his idea was one word: “Why?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Now I’m sure there are actually some <i>straight</i> men who get pedicures, and I suspect there is a greater percentage of gay men who partake in foot related hygiene. I have, however, gone nearly 65 years without paying someone to touch my feet. The little homophobe I carry around in my head tells me it is just unmanly. I consider it a silly luxury done mostly by Karens who do nothing but complain, beginning with the clipping and not ending until the undertipping. Besides, people don’t want to be looking at my ugly feet. My baby toes are bizarrely curly-cued, and I have a ganglion cyst on my left ankle. They are also OLD feet, and my toenails are rapidly starting to look like the thick, yellowed clippings that Nancy Reagan, according to her diary, found in Miss Lillian Carter’s bedroom of the White House when they moved in.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Other Bill said there was a guy in his office who swore by pedicures and got them all the time. The guy is straight, which perplexed my little internal homophobe guy.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Thinking that I would be a lot happier with an all-you-can-eat stone crab claw dinner, but remembering the gift-horse-in-the-mouth thing, I figured I could gently get him to change his mind.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Where do you want to get it done?” I asked, knowing he hadn’t researched anything, and I was right.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“I don’t know, the closest one, I guess,” he said.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I made a face and then described my co-worker’s infection. In vivid, full-color detail that I made up. I lied about things like purple pus, Novocaine-free incisions, and radical pain.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">He said he would research it. The next day he came home with a name of a place. No one recommended it to him, and when I pressed him and on the location, it was, shockingly, the one that was closest to us. Clearly he had Yelped “Nail salons near me.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Let me do some research,” I said, figuring I could come up with dozens of excuses as to why it wasn’t convenient to do research. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Nevertheless, I searched for the best pedicure, just in case. The highest recommended joint was in Miami Beach, a city that is closed off to people who are as unattractive as we are. They have gated checkpoints. Even if we could forge the online screening and the notarized selfie-uploading process and get an appointment, we would probably have to pay $50 more just to park.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The next highest rated on the list was, oddly enough, The One Closest To Us.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I was hoping if I said nothing, he would just forget about it and bring home a nice fish instead.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">He didn’t. After asking me about my research, I told him the name of the one I found, hoping he wouldn’t put two and two together and say, “Isn’t that the one I found?” To his credit, he remained mute, but I did notice the Eyebrow Arc of Irony.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">So he made appointments, and I reluctantly drove us there, wishing, like Elaine on <i>Seinfeld,</i> that I was fluent in Korean so I would know what the technicians were saying about my calloused, nasty, 65-years-of-neglect, Lillian Carter dogs.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">So, you know those wonderful massage chairs we used to go sit in at the mall until the manager of The Sharper Image threatened to call the police unless we left? This pedicure place HAD THOSE! <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">True, I was way out of my comfort zone at this joint, but some mechanical neck-kneading was just the thing for it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">So soon my technician arrived with a box of unknown liquids and tools. I told her it was my first time, and she -smiled. I sensed she didn’t understand me or, more likely, was thinking, <i>Great, another </i><a href="https://www.sunnysidecircus.com/countries/south-korea/food-drinks-south-korea/gaebul/" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #954f72; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">gaebul-</a><i style="font-size: 11pt;">headed jerk who doesn’t know he’s supposed to tip me.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">She gave me a menu of pedicure choices, one of which was a vegan pedicure, which made me wonder if I had to eat my toenail clippings. I selected the midrange one, and was prompted to order a flavor of sugar scrub. Being a native Floridian, I chose tangerine.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">She put a foot bath condom over the soaking bucket and a towel on the footrest, and before I could blink she had clipped all my toenails with the speed of a Weed Eater. She then pointed to the water, directing me to soak my feet for a few minutes in a hot bath. It felt really good. After that she took out my left foot and held up something that looked like a dental tool, but it was a tiny spoon-shaped pedicure pusher-backer. Then with speedy precision she snipped away my ugly overgrown toenail foreskin. Amazing! <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The best part, though was this: After she put some sort of goop all over my feet, she whipped out this cheese grater and started painlessly scraping all my callouses and dead skin off. And there was a <i>lot</i> of it. Sixty-five years of it, to be exact. Other Bill pointed it out to me, and I looked down, and saw this mountain of Parmesan heaped up on a towel.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Gross!” I said.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Other Bill, who is connected to my brain via Bluetooth, made the cheese connection and said, “We should have spaghetti for dinner tonight!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Then came the orangey sugar scrub, a big glob of moisturizer that she rubbed from toes to knees, a brief leg massage, and finally, steaming hot towels. Just as if my feet were flying first class.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I am a changed man. I don’t care who makes fun of it. When I touched my feet, they didn’t even seem like mine. “I’ve never had soft feet before,” I told Other Bill.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I was allowed to remain in the chair until Other Bill was finished off. Embarrassingly, his cheese scrapings couldn’t hold a candle to what I had sloughed off.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I really enjoyed the whole experience. It has totally opened my mind. Now I’m wondering what other services I have missed out on that I might now experience. Waxing? Eyebrow threading? Anal bleaching? Maybe next time Other Bill wants to Do Something Special for me, he’ll hire me a muscular, curly-haired green-eyed Italian hustler for an hour or two. Or maybe…MAYBE a<i> female</i> prostitute.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Probably not. A man has to draw the line somewhere.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ofFjp-vwDpHUdgKeBu1nUiv_NvIItzEJzYwSJQ7E-HIwrYZJcMaXx3vXvLvIRwD5-bskUTSwX0vqVrGt_Qr4dSn0txrK6zRIxsXsdJpl5d0HrztcJ0oqOVufr1IIPraDdWxdCmPc2Vl6/s3264/IMG_1188.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ofFjp-vwDpHUdgKeBu1nUiv_NvIItzEJzYwSJQ7E-HIwrYZJcMaXx3vXvLvIRwD5-bskUTSwX0vqVrGt_Qr4dSn0txrK6zRIxsXsdJpl5d0HrztcJ0oqOVufr1IIPraDdWxdCmPc2Vl6/s320/IMG_1188.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-7611086495144006482021-10-17T15:15:00.008-04:002021-10-17T15:27:17.568-04:00They Really Should Warn You About This.<div class="separator"><p style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><o:p> </o:p><br /><o:p> </o:p><br /><o:p> </o:p><br /><o:p> </o:p><br /><o:p> </o:p><br /><o:p> </o:p><br /><o:p> </o:p><br /><o:p> </o:p><br /><o:p> </o:p><br /><o:p> </o:p></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">For years my urinalyses have indicated trace amounts of blood. My old MD said it was probably because of the blood thinners I have been eating from conception until this very day. My new doctor, an osteopath, said maybe it was time to have that checked out and referred me to a urologist. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The first visit was very sublime. The office was just a table with paper on it, a stool and a chair. He prescribed for me a CT scan, and said when I came back, he would look into my bladder to see what was going on. He asked me if it was all right to examine my penis, and since I’ve never said no to any man who asked me that question, I agreed.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>I guessed that at my next appointment he would be putting a teeny, tiny, possibly microscopic camera in my wee-wa under general anesthesia, but when I confirmed it, the urologist said, no, but “we’ll make sure you’re very numb.” Fine. Let’s just get it over with and confirm the Coumadin culprit, and I’ll be on my merry way.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span>So I got the CT scan, no problem, and returned to the uro, and on the way I convinced myself that there would be no insertion into any orifices, but I would swallow a salt-grained size video camera instead of having, say a Polaroid Land Camera jammed up my urethra.<br />I was escorted into this room that was waaay different than the previous appointment’s room. The first thing I noticed was this giant chair with stick man legs and feet. On the seat and floor were Great Dane-sized, absorbent doggy pee-pads.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjyGSJ8GBft0mu8j5N7kN8IQtTQUHtnCkciMwCaKk50DNdUUS4aCoGVtDO1RlXuuUj6hj6HiKYdpq40QjE2w-KOla8S2JA53xv799pMxPb9B17TcPPw72Sxz370MeQ26gvxL8wyjnk6PH/s4032/IMG_0752.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: georgia; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjyGSJ8GBft0mu8j5N7kN8IQtTQUHtnCkciMwCaKk50DNdUUS4aCoGVtDO1RlXuuUj6hj6HiKYdpq40QjE2w-KOla8S2JA53xv799pMxPb9B17TcPPw72Sxz370MeQ26gvxL8wyjnk6PH/w202-h269/IMG_0752.HEIC" width="202" /></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Jesus, I thought, did they mix me up with someone who was having an abortion, or maybe the CT scan revealed I was pregnant, and they were terminating </span><i style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">my </i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">pregnancy? I began to quiver.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHw5hNv2CjFAF0IY9VC6Mdc2U_Q14cORSY3rqB3j8LivMi3tGh836Q6dk1n8Fyhdv7iNza2F3q38IsWzwQpu0xPEyoHU4Lusk2Dx22hY4IQaUlGuSBJvnSGBQdGHYXThTyAtD5D7brCwvy/s4032/IMG_0754.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHw5hNv2CjFAF0IY9VC6Mdc2U_Q14cORSY3rqB3j8LivMi3tGh836Q6dk1n8Fyhdv7iNza2F3q38IsWzwQpu0xPEyoHU4Lusk2Dx22hY4IQaUlGuSBJvnSGBQdGHYXThTyAtD5D7brCwvy/w212-h283/IMG_0754.HEIC" width="212" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The next thing I noticed was a large, pre-loaded syringe with an unusually large needle. I thought that this was the lidocaine that they were going to inject into my quivering schmeckle, but there was also a band-aid next to it. Now, how in the hell were they getting a band-aid to stick to <i>that</i>?</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqJPYHNdDjNu5pOunfmknQOfI9BgGSn9u0Wpp71malijuSv2m4FxJkIBJSuwgVkrZYAQM04HqnkD_CRQRLM0AgXyZPng5uhNJzVLgKEiag87pshdd_R4EiUhXxYkO9uqpnfMU1pIqDWZc/s4032/IMG_0755.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: georgia; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqJPYHNdDjNu5pOunfmknQOfI9BgGSn9u0Wpp71malijuSv2m4FxJkIBJSuwgVkrZYAQM04HqnkD_CRQRLM0AgXyZPng5uhNJzVLgKEiag87pshdd_R4EiUhXxYkO9uqpnfMU1pIqDWZc/w281-h320/IMG_0755.HEIC" width="281" /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I turned around to see a cart with a computer monitor on it, and next to it was what looked like one of those wands you pull out of a tube at a do-it-yourself car wash. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">It was soaking in a large clear tube containing—what—sulfuric acid? This was nothing shy of a Halloween Horror Night torture chamber. Although during my tenure as a homosexual, I had met many a penis that could most likely easily accommodate this wand, mine was not among those so gifted. Far from it. I broke out in a sweat.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtjrPVYWOhn7SxuEcrzUy-Zifcr-i7hNoIKYVY0bvB9pZSIXyN0U0fjNQzp0admCcykPTjimv3lD1ux7vfVLRYNmdNZWWL_bZ_Np2NOifixFOx1D9hQp8cdgLX_kCYaTAm_5_-cae9_EfE/s4032/IMG_0757.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtjrPVYWOhn7SxuEcrzUy-Zifcr-i7hNoIKYVY0bvB9pZSIXyN0U0fjNQzp0admCcykPTjimv3lD1ux7vfVLRYNmdNZWWL_bZ_Np2NOifixFOx1D9hQp8cdgLX_kCYaTAm_5_-cae9_EfE/s320/IMG_0757.HEIC" width="240" /></span></a><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The final thing I observed was a scoop of clear wet gel that looked like, and I’m dating myself here, Flubber (Google it). Next to it was a syringe full of lidocaine, this one with no needle, just a ridged tip. Finally there was this metal wire thing that looked very similar to the speculum they put in Other Bill’s eye to stretch open his upper and lower eyelids before his monthly eye shot. Where was this instrument going, and what would it stretch. I had a pretty good idea, so all I could do was sit down, whimper and weep. </span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span> <br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The doctor then came in. “How are you doing?” He said.</span></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“I’M FREAKING OUT!” I said, using my outside voice.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">He tried to calm me down and went through what he was going to do. “First, we”ll give you a shot of an antibiotic—”<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Where?” I interrupted, gazing with terror at the needle in the syringe.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“In your butt,” he said.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I let out a huge sigh of relief. Like a deflated balloon. No needle to the pecker.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">He continued, “Then the nurse will sterilize your penis.”<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I pictured a vat of boiling water. Then: Wait, did he say nurse? Probably a <i>female</i> nurse? <span style="font-size: 11pt;">I surely didn’t sign up for that. The last time I exposed myself to women was 20 years ago when I was still attractive enough to be allowed on a nude beach. And at least I got to see <i>their</i> goodies too. Not that I wanted to.<br /></span><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Then the nurse will squirt some lidocaine into your urethra, and we’ll wait until you are good and numb and then do the procedure.” <br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">He didn’t elaborate on what “the procedure” involved.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“It’ll only take 30 seconds or so. You will experience some discomfort, but it’ll be in and out before you know it.”<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was drenched in sweat. I looked over at the car wash wand and then back at the doctor.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Do you want to do it or not?” Doc asked.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I’d be a lot more willing if I had a Valium,” I said, sucking sweat from my mustache.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">He totally ignored that. If he were a top-notch doctor, he would have pulled a bottle from his pocket and offered me two or three. Instead, he was probably thinking “Great, another junkie.”<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“So do you want to have it done or not?” He repeated.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I’ll give him this: at least he offered me an out.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I sighed and consented.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Great, just remove everything from the waist down, and the nurse will be in in a minute,” said he, before I had a chance to change my mind. <br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">There was a paper blanket now on the octopus big stick-man-legs chair. I didn’t know if I was supposed to move and sit in the chair, or leave my bare ass sitting in the vinyl chair I was in. I opted for the latter, because it was farther away from where the nurse would enter. I modestly covered myself with my shorts and underwear as the nurse came in.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">She was a jovial Jamaican woman who came in and said, “Oh no, baby, I need you in the big chair, but first stand up and face the wall, and I’ll give you your shot.”<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">When I was a kid, I was sick a lot. I frequently visited my chain-smoking pediatrician for tetracycline shots, an antibiotic no longer in use because it forever stains your permanent teeth a dark yellow. The shots were thick. It felt like they were injecting a quart of Miracle Whip into my ass. This shot, however, was almost painless, thank you Jesus.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">She caught me cowering at the car wash wand. “Has that been autoclaved?” I asked.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Oh no,” she laughed, “too big for the autoclave.”<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">That’s exactly what I needed to hear. “But it is sterile, though, right?” After all, I didn’t give up penetrative sex in the AIDS era only to be infected with god-knows-what.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Of course,” she comforted.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />After the shot she had me sit in the big chair, and she said she was going to wash my penis, put some numbing gel in it, and then clamp it.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“CLAMP?” I said, once again using my outside voice.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Yes, it won’t hurt. It’s just to keep the gel in.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />So it was a clamp, not a stretch-me-out speculum. They really should give you a briefing on these foreign objects before the patient is allowed to draw terrifying conclusions.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">She then bathed my organ in cold betadine. I was surprised that she could even see the little fella, because it, and the rest of my body shriveled up in terror. The goop and the clamp followed, and she said the doctor would be in shortly.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">This gave me time to ponder why anyone in their right mind would choose to be a urology nurse. Is there something rewarding about giving penis baths and clamping dicks that would steer one into this career path? I mean, I guess it is a little more attractive than a proctology nurse. Does the RN salary rise with the scale of the gross-o-meter?<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Soon the doctor came back in, with yet a different female nurse, and my blood pressure spiked. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">As he donned gloves, he said, “I’ve never had this procedure done to me, but I did do it to my father.” <br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">He must <i>really </i>hate his father, I thought.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“You know, I said, “all rookie cops, before they are allowed out on the road, are mandated to be tased,” <br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“All of them?” He asked.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>All</i> of them,” I emphasized. “So you should try it.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />He pulled the car wash wand out of its soupy tube, and he said, “I promise to be as gentle and as cautious with you as I was with my father.”<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">This meant nothing to me. M</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">aybe his father abused him as a child, and that was how he finally got his revenge.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then I felt this painful poking and stretching down there. I was gnashing my teeth.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“I can’t seem to get through,” he told me. “Your pee-hole is too small.”<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">He actually used the word pee-hole. So great, in addition to pain and suffering, he added to that size-shaming. And in front of the nurse, who instinctively knew what to do when he told her to go get the sound.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Because I look at a lot of porn, I already know what a sound is. There are some men out there who find erotic pleasure having stainless steel rods inserted into their <i>pee-holes</i> all the way down through the urethra into their bladders. Maybe some women enjoy it as well, but I don’t watch that side of porn. I’m not judging, just having a hard time understanding. Which is the exact sentence my mother used when I came out to her.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">So the cold metal tapered rod, the circumference of a magic marker was then brought into my view.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Oh my god!” I shrieked, as my eyes rolled up in my head. Picture Bill Murray in Steve Martin’s dental chair in <i>Little Shop of Horrors. </i>But an eye-roll of fear, not anticipatory pleasure.<br /><i><br /></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>“</i>It’s okay,” he said, “I’m not going to put it all the way in.”<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Was that supposed to bring me comfort?<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then there was this horrendous sharp pain when the sound went in, and again when it went out. <br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then at last the wand went in. And in. And further in. The doctor was trying to talk me through it by telling me to inhale and exhale deeply. All I could do was push on the stirrups. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">My fight or flight response was pushed all the way over to flight.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">An image came up on the screen, and I didn’t look at it. The doctor was using his whole body to twist the car washer to get a panoramic view of my bladder.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“I don’t see any cancer cells,” he mused.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I didn’t care. I just wanted it out.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Oh, but I do see thickening of the bladder wall. Look at the screen. See that? That’s your prostate. See how it is choking your bladder? See those wrinkles there?” Those are stretch marks.”<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Thirty seconds my ass. Surely I’d been in agony over an hour. Finally he retracted the wand, which was just as painful coming out as it was going in.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Do you feel the urgency to pee?” He asked.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yes, and the urgency to run like hell.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Okay, we’ll get you cleaned up and you can use the toilet,” he said. The toilet being a potty chair in that room that funneled down into a plastic jar.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The doctor left, and the nurse lifted the lid. “You can stand or sit, just make sure it goes through the funnel.”<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was feeling too faint to stand, so I skittered over to the toilet and sat down. Peeing right next to a nurse. This whole event was an exercise in humiliation. I looked over at the big chair. The Puppy Pee Pads were drenched, and I noticed my ass was wet. Without my knowing it there had been some kind of fluid (perhaps windshield washer fluid to keep the camera lens clean?) being pumped into me during the procedure.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The nurse finished entering data and said, “The doctor will be back soon. Have a nice day!”<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Too late,” I said, looking down at at my sad, bleeding willy.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">While I was was waiting, I wondered why, in the name of God, you get to have twilight anesthesia during a colonoscopy, but with this you get only a squirt of clear toothpaste up your wiener that doesn’t do shit.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The doctor came back in and said that if I didn’t have surgery, I could look forward to a lifetime of catheter wearing. “And you don’t want to do that,” he told me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />Maybe I do, I thought. Maybe I could learn, like porn star amateurs, to enjoy sliding things in and out of my winkie the rest of my life.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">He explained the surgery, and being the junkie I am, I got excited that it would be under general anesthesia. He explained he would go up there again and shave down my prostate to its 16-year-old dimensions. I immediately pictured him sticking up there a Norelco Triple-Header or a belt sander. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">He further explained that after I recovered, the down side would be that I could still get a boner and have an orgasm, but I wouldn’t be able to ejaculate.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 11pt;">Why is that a down side? Was I expecting at this age to become a father? With whom?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 11pt;">The hell with it. I’ll suffer through the surgery, and screw the retrograde ejaculations. Think of the money I’ll save on paper towels.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span>When I was</span> in second grade, my doctor gave me a book to take home called “A Visit to the Hospital,” which explained in 7-year-old language what would happen when I got my tonsils taken out. Here and now, I am offering to pen “A Visit to the Urologist”, suitable for senior citizens, that explains that no one is going to stick a needle in your tinkler, and that metal thing is a painless clamp, not a pee-hole dilator.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 14.666666984558105px;">don’t think I’ll mention the sound, though. Some people like surprises.</span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 0px;">I </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; 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font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p>Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-32413843195750300442021-08-05T11:09:00.000-04:002021-08-05T11:09:23.288-04:00A Trip to the DMV<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizmt5fffUiNnXteYpAER_jWDJ2Q7stftOt0xYyaEJ7R248w-XcHYpOTThyphenhyphenONaW4VyppXvUQNsV2D8I23QFc17P5Yp9TeJTjO71PoscH2G2ksETk3SlDgHH68Ka6Yqbm8rAwk9uyl-6XdLg/s2048/12CE02A1-2701-4252-9060-6B3C8A0FBA98.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizmt5fffUiNnXteYpAER_jWDJ2Q7stftOt0xYyaEJ7R248w-XcHYpOTThyphenhyphenONaW4VyppXvUQNsV2D8I23QFc17P5Yp9TeJTjO71PoscH2G2ksETk3SlDgHH68Ka6Yqbm8rAwk9uyl-6XdLg/w212-h159/12CE02A1-2701-4252-9060-6B3C8A0FBA98.jpeg" width="212" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">It has been almost eight years since I was last forced to go to the Florida DMV. The last time I went to renew my license, things couldn’t have gone more smoothly. I made an appointment, got there on time, went right in, got my picture taken, paid, and was in and out in ten minutes.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Since then, our thoughtful governor who is fiercely advocating that all Florida residents get injected with the Delta variant, has grasped control of the DMV and turned it into hell on earth. During the early Covid days, they still had appointments, but they were impossible to get. Plus they only scheduled two weeks out and were always booked due to the limited number of appointments each day. And now they don’t even offer appointments.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">By the way, and I know this has been a long time coming, but I have decided to let everyone know that my gender is now female. It was a difficult decision, and with it came gallons of tears. Like many of my trans/non-binary sisters/its/they-them people, I did not spend months with gender reassignment surgery or grueling laser hair removal (which, if you know me, would have resulted in a 10 pound weight loss), or wardrobe replacement shopping. I became female through a simple typo by the DMV in 2013. I don’t know if it was a homophobic act by one of the snarky, overpaid-for-what-they-do DMV clerks, or just an honest mistake, but my license lists my sex as F. I noticed it about 5 years ago, but decided to wait until the next renewal so I didn’t have to pay $25 to correct an error (or deliberately hostile act) the DMV made. This is a prime example of the motto of the state of Florida: “Never accept responsibility for your mistakes, unless you can charge for it.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">The Florida DMV now allows you to renew your license online with a credit card. But, I found out after searching weeks for a phone number to call, if I wanted to go back to being a testicular hanging person in the eyes of the state, I would have to make a personal visit to Hell and bring 3 forms of government identification: a passport, a certified copy of my birth certificate, and another document. It was as if I were applying for a DOD top secret security clearance.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Great. So Other Bill and I took a day to not only renew our licenses, but to get a sticker for our new hybrid car so we have free passage in the I-95 express lane, which also cannot be done online. I carried with me my current passport, my expired passport, a certified birth certificate copy, a photo of my previous driver’s license that listed me as male, as well as my genitals, which I was prepared to put on display if need be.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">So we got up early and left at 7 am to get to the DMV, which opens at 8 am. When we got there we noticed the line stretched from the entrance to South America, and after fighting to find a place to park, we got in line. There were easily 200 people ahead of us. People in line were sitting in lawn chairs they brought from home. I sat on the wet pavement with a folded beach umbrella. Tropical Storm Elsa was approaching, so I was hoping for a big storm that would chase away the unbrella-ed. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">While we were waiting, I wondered how many people in line thought they were there for the virus infusion. Even after the doors opened, the line failed to move. I waited for what seemed like hours but was only five minutes before announcing to the crowd, “Fuck this shit.” We left.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Florida, in its infinite wisdom, has contracted with a company to issue tags and titles, so I drove us to one of those joints (after we got back from Brazil). Big bold letters pasted on their windows read, “WE DO NOT RENEW DRIVER LICENSES HERE.” But I hoped we could still get the hybrid sticker. We got there at 8, and there were only 4 people in front of us. But they didn’t open until 9. Other Bill went home for the house phone so we could pass the hour playing Words With Friends. He also brought back cookies. Gotta love him. So we played for an hour while we inhaled the vape stench of the fourth in line and listened to the off-key hymns sung in Spanish by the first in line. I was glad <i>someone</i> was praying.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">A little after nine am, Herr Bigshot came out and loudly announced the procedure for registering (via the one kiosk inside the door). He told us there were four fields we had to enter: Cell phone number, first name, last name, and if we were there for vehicle registration, title, or handicap registration. I repeat, four fields.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">The first three in line each took 10 to 12 minutes (3 minutes per field) to complete this difficult task. Oh, and they all had questions that required lengthy answers. I tried not to crack molars while weeping and gnashing my teeth.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Finally, I registered, and we took a seat. I already had the form filled out, so when we were called, things sailed by quickly, I’ll give them that. I suspected by the attitude and look of our clerk that she was an ex-DMV employee. She had thick glue-on eyelashes that could have easily been pulled off and used as whisk brooms, Ginsu Knife-filed acrylic nails, and her eyebrows had been shaved and redrawn, ala Divine.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">But we did escape with the sticker. A $5 sticker cost us $8.81 with the contractor’s surcharge.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">So after all that, I decided that rather than go back to the DMV and wait in the hell line another time, I would just renew it online and keep my state-assigned gender reassignment.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">So my pronouns are she/her, and I expect you to abide by that. I will also accept they/them, but only in writing. Thank you very much. And remember: Trans Lives Matter.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-48134087215432617712021-01-23T16:08:00.002-05:002021-02-03T17:55:22.881-05:00How I Spent My Inauguration Day, by Bill Wiley<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">January 20, 2021<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Hello, beautiful, warm Florida winter day. And what a day it would be. The Orange Menace would leave the White House, and sanity in Washington would be restored. On top of that, Other Bill had a 2:45 appointment at Marlins Park to get his first Covid vaccine. It only took 109 phone calls to try to get scheduled the previous day, but by gum we had done it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I was not fortunate enough to qualify for getting a vaccine due to the vast generation gap between Other Bill and me. 21 years to be exact.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: It’s 21 months, not years.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">So at about 1:45 we turned off the TV and got into my 12 year old Honda Civic and headed down to Miami.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: Due to the advanced age of the author and his illogical fear of getting lost (he <i>does</i> have a GPS), it should be noted that he is terrified to drive down I-95, recently renamed the George Zimmerman Honorary Expressway of Death. After crossing the county line, all music is turned off, and conversation is ceased so all that is audible is the weeping and gnashing of teeth of the driver as luxury SUV’s and sport bikes flip him off and try to run him off the road. And now, back to his story.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">We made it confidently and safely to Marlins Park, an enormous baseball stadium that looks like a giant spaceship. There were no vaccination signs, so after passing what I thought were blocks of parked cars, I found a policewoman and asked her where the entrance for the Covid vaccine was.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“See these cars?” She asked, doing a sweeping, Carol Merrill arm gesture aligning with the rows of “parked” cars. “This is the line for both testing and vaccines. Go down to 17<sup>th</sup> Street and make a left, and find the end of the line.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I thanked her, and we went on our way. Seventeenth Street was 5 blocks away. The end of the line was Mallory Square in Key West. After we arrived, I made a U-turn and began what was to be a generational wait in a car with granite seats.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: The end of the line was only 7 more blocks.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Thus began hours of horn honking and clogged traffic turning onto 17<sup>th</sup> Street. Some entitled cars cut in front of us, and we could do nothing about that, because this is America, and even worse, Miami, and if you want to live, you just assume that everyone has a Glock-in-the-box or an AR-15 on the floorboard. There was one mild altercation with a woman in a giant Lexus (it’s <i>always</i> a Lexus), whom I thought was cutting in front of me, but was just making a turn from the wrong lane. She zipped down her enormous window and cursed a blue streak at me. Fortunately, it was in Spanish, so there was no way for me to be offended, because, um, nolo comprende, as they say in the Latin legal community.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">At one point a cop came into my view. I could hear him asking the person in front of me if they were there for a test or a vaccine.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Great!” I told Other Bill. “The line should be cut down now, because probably half of these people are here for a test and will go into another lane somewhere.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">It was the first of many ultra-naïve statements I would make that day.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Indeed, the cop wrote something on the windshield of the car in front of us, and they got out of the line and drove away. So the line decreased not by 50%, but by one car.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The officer came and asked me why we were there, and I almost said, “because there’s nothing I like better than idling and wasting gas,” but quickly thought better of it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“We had a 2:45 appointment for a vaccine,” I said. At that time, it was 3:30.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“That’s okay,” he said, and he scribbled a day-glo “V” on my windshield, and we proceeded with the speed of a banana slug.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“So what time do you think I’ll get the shot?” Other Bill asked me.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Hmmm, I don’t know, 4:30?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">That was ultra-naïve statement number two.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">An hour later, or was it two? Who knows. The entire process was a time warp. Anyway, eras later, we pulled into a stadium entrance and the single lanes then became three lanes. Now we were progressing, I thought.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">That was unspoken ultra-naïve statement #3.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Not long after that, everything stopped. No one moved for a half hour. People began getting out of their cars. To stretch, to smoke. I got out, brushed the granite dust off of me, and did some attempts at toe-touches. It was then I looked back and saw that the long line behind us had disappeared. What had happened? Were they sent home? This was unanswered question number one.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">We both began worrying that due to the prolonged stationary status of the cars, combined with the disappearance of the line behind us, they had run out of the vaccine. I thought it would only be a matter of minutes before they would make us turn around and go home.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: Nothing about this prolonged shit show was measured in a “matter of minutes.”)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Many moons later, traffic began to crawl again until we reached a turn in the road. More delays as three lanes were merged into two. As we made the turn, I assumed we were now in the final stretch of the process.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">That was mega-naïve assumption #1.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Not long afterward, the 12 year old Honda Crapper began to complain. When I stepped on the gas, it sputtered and snorted and stalled. Repeatedly. Visions of pushing a dozen-year old piece of junk the rest of the way danced in my head. I wondered how many people in line were running on empty. There would be money to be made here as a gasoline vendor or snack seller.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I eyed two porta-potties that were put out for law enforcement use. I had earlier consumed my recommended daily allowance of iced Diuretic Tea, and although I didn’t have to go, I thought it would be a wise idea. Since we were once again not moving, I put on my rubber gloves and adjusted my N-95 mask and proceeded to go to the can.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: Ever since the beginning of the pandemic, the author has become a paranoid germaphobe. He has had to file environmental impact statements with the EPA due to the volume of PPE he’s gone through. He is easily spotted at Aldi, being the only one wearing an Ebola-grade hazmat suit with taped gloves and cuffs. He keeps a bottle of isopropyl alcohol in his crappy Honda Civic for post-possible-exposure gargling and nasal snorting. “It may sting a bit,” he says, “but it kills bugs dead, like Raid.” And now, back to his show.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">After that, I threw out my gloves and went and cleaned my hands.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s note: That would be a Silkwood shower with the above mentioned alcohol with a side of Brillo.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">There was a cop at the “last” turn in the road, and Other Bill asked her if she knew how much longer it would be.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Mmmm, probably two more hours,” she said.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">It was then I wanted to go pick a fight with one of the people who had earlier cut in front of me. With any luck, maybe he would shoot me in the head. We were already on hour 3.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Instead I insisted that Other Bill go use the Porta-Potty. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“But I don’t have to go,” he said, like a toddler.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Will you be able to say that in two hours when you can’t get back to the john?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Reluctantly, he complied and then came back and washed his hands.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: Other Bill thinks the author’s worries about sanitation are ridiculous, but he nevertheless appeases him by washing his hands in isopropyl whenever he touches something.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">There was another lengthy pause with no movement. Were the shot-givers taking a lunch break? Unanswered question #2.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">In time, an official with an iPad stopped at our card. “Do you have your bar code?” He asked.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“I never got a bar code,” Other Bill said.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“They should have sent you a bar code,” he said.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">OB then tried to shift the blame to me, “Did <i>you</i> get a bar code?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Let us take a short time out to talk about Other Bill’s complete inability to comprehend technology. Every time he has to sign in to an app, he doesn’t remember his login credentials, and then gets mad at the laptop for not letting him change the password. I have watched him look for hours to try to locate the Escape key on his keyboard. I have endlessly shown him how to share a URL, yet he still struggles mercilessly. The primary macro that runs in his brain is text that reads: “I don’t know how to do that.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Editor’s Note: Other Bill just finished reading the above paragraph and didn’t understand it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I am sure there was a bar code on his phone, or in one of three of his email addresses, but he insisted he never got anything.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Naturally, he doesn’t have any of those email accounts on his phone, because his phone is pretty much a single-task machine. Making calls is its only function.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">So then I began the Herculean task of trying to install his Gmail account on my phone. My phone is a 2006 Android relic that should be hanging in a technology museum somewhere. We were in the heart of Miami, yet I could not get a signal. Then we began worrying that if we couldn’t get the damn bar code we’d have to go home. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“What’ll happen if we can’t find the bar code?” Other Bill asked the portly official.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Well, you can still stay in line and see if the nurses will still give it to you.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I hadn’t cried for a long time. It had been hours since my ugly Lucy-esque bawling during the inauguration when the poet spoke. I felt that familiar tingle in my sinuses.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: It was the isopropyl.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Cowering in fear, we soon were approached by Ashley. Sweet and understanding and well-informed Ashley, who also had an iPad, but also had an alphabetized list that was as thick as the Biden family Bible seen earlier that day. Other Bill’s name was on that list, so in no time he was registered, and she put another mark on our windshield. We were so grateful and relieved that we are going to buy her a Mercedes SUV.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: No, they won’t.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">There was another tortured lifetime of no movement, so I decided to walk up to try to see the front of the line. I walked up until I could see a tent, which I assumed was the vaccination site. That was mega-naïve assumption #2.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I told Other Bill when I got back that there were “only” about 30 cars to the tent.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The sun was setting, but we stayed put.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The two adjacent lanes split off. We passed the empty decoy tent I saw earlier and made another turn into a dirt parking lot with another 18 blocks’ worth of zig-zagging cars. Suddenly, I felt the urge for a cigarette. For the first time in 40 years. I wouldn’t have said no to a bottle of vodka, either.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">As we joined the zigzag, Other Bill passed the time and started naming drivers for each car. There was Smokey, directly in front of us, who got out of his car every hour and smoked a cigarette.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: Every time Smokey lit up, your author would shut the car windows to keep out the Covid Smoke Germs.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Each time we zigged or zagged, Other Bill would continue the stories he made up about Smokey, OT (which stood for Old Timer) or Whip, who was the one who always whipped around the hairpin turns, and the woman he called Mo, named for no apparent reason.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: By this time, the author was biting his tongue, trying his best to not shout out, “Will you please shut the hell up about these characters and get me a Benson and Hedges Menthol Light and a fifth of Absolut?!” He passed the time trying to calculate how much it would cost him to divorce Other Bill. Sadly the bottom line was too much.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I was worried sick about the dog, because she had never been left alone at night this long. By then, I figured, she had already peed in the house. Likewise, I also had to pee again. I have to confess that during this pandemic I keep a portable urinal in the back seat of my car, because when I take Other Bill to the oncologist in the mornings, I have to sit in the car for hours while he goes down the assembly line of doctors, technicians, and nurses. So while that is going on, I can simply relieve myself into the pot when I’m in the back seat. I figured that it might be just as easy in the front seat. At this point we were too far away from the porta pots and were not allowed to leave our cars. So I set to work.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Big mistake. I won’t go into details except to say that I may never wear those pants again.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: Those pants are still unwashed and in the laundry hamper.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">By the time we realized it would be after 8 until we could leave, it was dark as midnight out. After our 18 zigs and zags were complete, another official stopped us and asked us for our consent form.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“I don’t have a consent form,” Other Bill told her. I knew it was somewhere in his email with the bar code.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The official supplied him with a blank form. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Now, I have been meaning to keep a pen in my car at all times, but they tend to get tucked into a shirt pocket and taken inside the house and then washed in the laundry. All we had was a Sharpie. It wouldn’t do.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Do you have a pen?” Other Bill asked her.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“I’ll find you something,” she said, and soon returned with a stubby golf pencil. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Naturally, neither of us brought our reading glasses, because we had no idea we would be filling out a paper form in the dark with a writing device that wouldn’t fit in our hand. Other Bill, with his eye problem was more useless than I was, so I started checking boxes.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I came to section 2 of the form, which asked, inexplicably, for insurance information. I was ready to spit nails. Fortunately, the official told us we could skip the insurance data, and Other Bill put his card away, which he couldn’t read. I think it might have actually been his library card, but since it’s not nice to tease the blind, I said nothing.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">By this time we could see two never-before-seen tents, and we were happy to see masked workers entering data into iPads and giving shots.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Then a National Guardsman came by and asked how many shots we were getting.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Just one,” I told him.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Oh good grief, I thought, we have sat here six hours, and now they are counting people to see if they have enough vaccines. We gritted our teeth and held our ground.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Unknown minutes/hours later, a nurse came and also asked how many in our party were getting shots.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“One, unfortunately,” I said solemnly, pointing at Other Bill. “Just him.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Do you want to get one? I can give you one if you want one,” she said.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I looked up, and there was a blinding halo glowing around her head, and I heard the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Are you serious? Really?” I asked, close to tears.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: Again, isopropyl.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Sure, no problem,” she said. “Let me get you a consent form.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Other Bill told her he loved her and would have hugged her, had it been legal for him to exit the Civic.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">We were both ecstatic. We couldn’t believe we were that lucky. She came back with a fresh consent form, and I was shaking as I filled it out with the nub of graphite.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The vaccine is very fragile and has an out-of-freezer shelf life of 4 hours. Since we were second-to-dead-last in line by that time, we learned that they had two use-it-or-lose-it syringes left. I was lucky enough to get one of them. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">And then, after 6 and a half hours, it finally happened. I have been never been happier to take a needle in the arm in my life.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: Except for that one time the author tried heroin. JK!)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">We never got the woman’s name who made our day (and night). But we will find out and buy her a Lamborghini.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: In the unnamed woman’s wildest dreams.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">So after the shot, we were released, and we were ready to get home. The dog was hours late for her evening meal and potty walk. But we couldn’t go yet. We were directed to another lane where we had to sit for another 15 minutes, presumably to be monitored for reactions.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">And then it was over. We raced home in the I-95 express lane.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: The author always sets his cruise control at 55 and not a click higher.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">It was once again a beautiful day. Biden was in office, Trump was at the beach, sulking and calling attorneys, and the two of us were 50% vaccinated against this horrible disease.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">And when we arrived, the dog was there, toy in mouth, happy to see us. Miraculously there was no dog poop or pee anywhere. It was a great day after all.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">(Editor’s Note: Look on the dog’s favorite chair you never use. You’ll find a gift from her.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The best news is, we get to get to go through it all again in 3 weeks.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Maybe this time Other Bill will bring his bar code.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUa3OPEYKuJZYhpYxX37jdUzcbOMArFHHuS7zaD52baKMKgSOPYb1nLBXpJoK0w8aretVqb3bFTJiBPSEmXuXjdp8gsgQEraAJhSPEFiAk8QXre7WW2bCIZ7ckzmwZHQ_ctCy2UKFoUxlh/s2048/557C745E-4327-4F18-AB74-AFF57F52307B.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1583" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUa3OPEYKuJZYhpYxX37jdUzcbOMArFHHuS7zaD52baKMKgSOPYb1nLBXpJoK0w8aretVqb3bFTJiBPSEmXuXjdp8gsgQEraAJhSPEFiAk8QXre7WW2bCIZ7ckzmwZHQ_ctCy2UKFoUxlh/w494-h640/557C745E-4327-4F18-AB74-AFF57F52307B.jpeg" width="494" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Using my unsurpassed skills as a graphic artist, I have made this map of our journey.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-58044053174452071882020-08-09T17:50:00.003-04:002020-08-09T18:18:52.770-04:00Fireworks in the Cold Mouth<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJ7hEvrjWs6h9pZP19heDUIfHrDhy4M__eMg164W3xsQZUmkwpxnLmNPgqQiM2ZsfQCxtMH3cpJ2PR-98ynEUshlFdgP8sw1jCgn6I_a8yL82t0cRWdU8f3zbdqA4bB8l9J-9NBp717vB/s2009/71946A2E-B8AE-4165-813E-0EA44233253A.jpeg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1264" data-original-width="2009" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJ7hEvrjWs6h9pZP19heDUIfHrDhy4M__eMg164W3xsQZUmkwpxnLmNPgqQiM2ZsfQCxtMH3cpJ2PR-98ynEUshlFdgP8sw1jCgn6I_a8yL82t0cRWdU8f3zbdqA4bB8l9J-9NBp717vB/w328-h206/71946A2E-B8AE-4165-813E-0EA44233253A.jpeg" width="328" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">When I was a kid, I was fortunate enough to escape the Florida heat and my messy, angst-filled adolescent life there and spend summers in Denver with my Aunt Kay and Uncle Earl. Once or twice during the summer Earl would fire up his massive Ford LTD and head up to the Dolly (shoulda been <i>Dolley</i>) Madison Ice Cream store at University and Bonnie Brae. I guess the franchise didn’t realize they spelled her name wrong until after they did the paperwork, and then decided: <i>Screw it. I’m not paying for that just because it's missing an E. </i>Earl would come back with peppermint ice cream for me, because he knew it was my favorite, and butter brickle for the two of them. I usually ate twice the peppermint compared to what the two of them consumed of the brickle.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">I had been a picky eater all of my life, and my aunt had a way of getting me to try new things that no one else had the patience for. I wouldn’t eat apple pie until she made me taste hers. Before Aunt Kay got me to try a mixed green salad with homemade dressing, I would only pick at an undressed iceberg lettuce wedge. I never had lettuce and tomato on a hamburger until she got me to sample one. She always made sun tea with a mix of gunpowder and jasmine teas, which I would only drink with a fist full of sugar added to the glass. She reduced my sugar allotment until I discovered that it tasted so much better unsweetened. I still drink it every day. She would always say, “What’s the matter? Are you afraid you’re going to like it?” I had heard stories from my cousins about her setting the clock on the oven and standing over them with a fly swatter until they ate their vegetables. I think they always complied by eating or hiding the vegetables in a drawer at the end of the table before the timer rang. She was always much more gentle with me. It was because I was so crazy about her and loved both of them so much that I figured the least I could do for their hospitality was to be a little daring with new foods.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">So there came a time where I had eaten all of the peppermint, and all that was left was some butter brickle. Just the word “butter” when paired with “ice cream” didn’t sit well with me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Why don’t you try some?” She offered.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">“No, thank you!” I said politely.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">“What’s the matter? Are you afraid you’re going to like it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">Reluctantly, I took a small teaspoon of it out of her bowl and put it in my mouth, and the strangest thing happened. The clouds in the sky parted, and a flock of angels appeared, crooning Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus. Fireworks of brown sugar syrup exploded from my taste buds. <i>Where can I meet the person who created this wonderful concoction so I can thank them</i>, I wondered.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">And just then a tiny hologram of DollEy Madison appeared on the platter of leftover corn flake chicken.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Congratulations, Bill!” She chimed. “You are now one of the chosen who holds the secret of an obscure ice cream flavor. Share it sparingly, for it will not be around forever.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">And then she disappeared. And Earl never again had to bring home two different flavors. We all shared a butter brickle bond.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">It was just the best stuff in the world. But Dolley was correct. Eventually her ice cream store went out of business, and the butter brickle became extinct as things like frozen yogurt and gelato, and the I-gag-when-I-think-about-it Dippin Dots took over the frozen confection world.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">Off and on throughout the years, I tried to find a company that made my favorite dessert, but it was nowhere to be found. A few years ago before we flew out to San Francisco for vacation, I found online an ice cream shop in Oakland that served butter brickle! After the plane landed and we settled in at our one-star hotel, I couldn’t get to the BART station fast enough so I could once again, after four decades, have those wonderful exploding taste buds, and maybe once again see the hologram. Maybe this time it would be a Kay and Earl hologram! So we schlepped over there, and in eager anticipation, I ordered 3 large scoops of it, as did Other Bill, because I assured him that it would be the the culinary experience of a lifetime. What they brought out wasn’t butter brickle, and it was grey in color. It even tasted grey. It was slimy and chalky at the same time. I took a few bites and left two and a half scoops on the table. Grey matter ice cream was a huge disappointment. Even Other Bill couldn’t stomach it, and that speaks volumes. It is a known fact that he will eat rotten catfish nuggets just so they don’t go to waste.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">The old adage “If you want anything done right, do it yourself” applies here. So this weekend we paid five bucks and a bag of avocados for an electric ice cream maker. If you think I have the patience or the youthly muscles to sit and turn a crank for 45 minutes while not watching porn, think again. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">Even with electricity, ice cream is a pain in the ass to make. And it is crazy expensive. To do it right, it takes 2 days to cook the milky, sugary mixture, chill it overnight, mix in more ingredients the next day and go temporarily deaf while the machine screams, whines, and churns.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">The best thing about making your own ice cream is that you can be sure it is real, high-fat, high-sugar ice cream with no artificial ingredients. Look at store-bought ice cream cartons carefully. Most of them say, ”Frozen Dairy Desert” or “Janitor in a Drum.” It’s not real ice cream and tastes pretty nasty.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">I haven’t had real butter brickle ice cream in probably 50 years, but tonight I again the tasted the frozen delight that Uncle Earl treated us to every summer. Again my tastebuds sparkled and an orchestra played. I thought a hologram was about to appear, but it just turned out to be my cataracts. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span face="" style="font-family: Palatino-Roman; font-size: 13.5pt;">In the end, it’s worth the cost and aggravation to have my taste buds conjure up those memories. So thank you, Dolley. And thank you, Uncle Earl and Aunt Kay.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-41446796220349008192020-03-16T10:49:00.001-04:002020-03-16T10:49:51.209-04:00Corona Falls<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrdjY3G_3qT-yhhyphenhyphendrr5GyUtT24gv4bsd6Ya0PxFIdpgw5_8eSqnQ-o_YTxKhB9ZFOvhDrZ2H_i9botmC28qlSbZ4TOm29ID9R_cF2CJP5clen5Vap7n5egYC2d_MORb_Y0xEyj5ne0Vbw/s1600/49B845BC-C4F9-48B4-8D82-9A6E1F598E21.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="318" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrdjY3G_3qT-yhhyphenhyphendrr5GyUtT24gv4bsd6Ya0PxFIdpgw5_8eSqnQ-o_YTxKhB9ZFOvhDrZ2H_i9botmC28qlSbZ4TOm29ID9R_cF2CJP5clen5Vap7n5egYC2d_MORb_Y0xEyj5ne0Vbw/s200/49B845BC-C4F9-48B4-8D82-9A6E1F598E21.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">As soon as I retired, I shifted into budget mode. I asked myself what </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">I could</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> do to reduce costs and maybe at the same time save the environment.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">My</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">self answered, “think about paper.”</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">My first idea was to stop using paper towels. My aunt Kay made hand-</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">drying</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> towels </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">using old </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">cut-</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">up bath </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">towels with strings attached that looped </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">over a kitchen cabinet knob. So I set out and </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">hacked</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> up a bunch of </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">ancient</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> towels, stitched seams in them with my Viking sewing machine </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">(</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">the same model Kay had</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">)</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">, and I attached loops of seam binding</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> to them</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> to hang on suction cup hangers in the kitchen. In two and a half months, we have gone through </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">just </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">two rolls of paper towels, thank you very much</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">But then there was toilet paper.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Do I have your attention, Corona virus losers who are now Googling “corncob wipes?” So I decided to get ourselves a bidet attachment for our toilet.</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> This was the end of December, before the words “social distancing” became a catchy phrase.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">I bought one for thirty bucks. I could have bought a used one for less, but, hey, </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">c’mon</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">, I have SOME dignity, don’t I? All the You Tube videos l</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">ooked like it was a simple, ten-</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">minute installation, so in just a few days, the butthole washer arrived.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">True to form, I installed it with nothing more than a screwdriver and a pair of pliers. I had seriously debated earlier about buying one </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">that was </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">more complicated </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">and</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> would give our puckers a </span><span class="s2" style="font-style: italic; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">heated</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> douche, but decided that, hey, this is Florida. The tap water here is never that cold.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">So just as I was putting the tools away, nature called, so </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">I sat down on the toilet seat and gave it a, how you say, shot. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">My life has </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">not</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> been the same since.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">That fountain</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> spray</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> of water couldn’t have been </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">aimed </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">more perfect</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">ly</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">. Immediately I thought, “How did the makers of this device know exactly the right trajectory that would both feel arousing</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> in an </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">analing</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">al</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> kind of way</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> and cleanse </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">better than a pressure washer on a s</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">idewalk?” </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">It was amazing. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">It was tingly and effervescent, as if someone </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">was </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">feeding</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> my anus a Perrier with lime. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">I was liking it too much</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">, and </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">I found myself dancing around on the toilet seat so the spray could hit other areas. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Think Hokey Pokey: You but your butthole in, you put your butthole out, you put your butthole in and you shake it all about. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">I didn’t want to even get off the toilet, </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">but I forced myself to. I have an addictive personality and didn’t want to spend the whole day there. Plus</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> I had to figure out the drying issue. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">I had read </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">on a no doubt unreliable website </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">that in Europe, people keep small towels next to their bidets to dry the drippings</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">I thought, well, maybe I’ll </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">stich up some butt-drying </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">towelettes</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">one day</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">,</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> but </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">for now, </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">I </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">just </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">unrolled a few squares of toilet paper and patted my </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">boyhole</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">. Amazingly enough, there was no brown mark. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">There are times, as an old man, </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">that </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">you have poop episodes </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">which</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> frequently involve wiping and smearing for hours. You have to flush multiple times so as not to stop up the toilet and back up the septic tank. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Some</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">times you have to do the Bunny Hop out to the garage </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">with </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">your shorts </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">around your ankles because</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> you </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">mistakenly </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">thought two rolls would be enough. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Often</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> you think you are done wiping, but </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">then </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">another milky turd slips through and you have to start from </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">“</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">square</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">”</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> one. With the bidet, you can flu</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">sh out your hole until eternity</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> and only wipe once, when you are sure there is nothing more to get rid of. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Score one for ecology!</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Americans, as a (w)hole, don’</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">t know what to make of bidets. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">They think that they shoot up dirty, bacteria-infested used toilet water into your b-zone, but the truth is, bidet water is the same stuff that comes out of the tap </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">that you</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> would drink </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">from </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">if only you weren’t some sort of </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">giant-</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Lexus-</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">SUV-</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">driving, </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">white-</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">priviledged</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">, entitled</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">,</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">designer-water-</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">drinking, environmental pariah who doesn’t give a shit about the plastic problem we have on earth.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Wait, I am getting off track here.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">So we have </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">been </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">enjoying the bidet titillation for a couple of month</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">s now, and then, out of nowhere</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> came the Corona virus, and people </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">are now Desperately Seeking Charmin. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Since I retired and got off a lot of my anxiety meds that I needed so I wouldn’t murder my supervisor and supervisor’s supervisor and chief of police, suddenly, I am less anxious about everything.</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Could those meds have been </span><span class="s2" style="font-style: italic; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">making</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> me anxious? Nah</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">, it was just the paper-wiping holes I had to work for.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Other Bill</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">still has toilet paper </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">supply </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">anxiety, even though he too i</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">s a proponent of the bidet by a,</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">um, wider </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">margin. So because I am retired and we joined Sam’s Club so we could get free drugs, he sent me off earlier this week to ens</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">ure we could get to the year </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">2525, if you were still alive, without </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">having to re-purchase toilet paper.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">As a new customer to the big box world, I often lose my shit</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> (in keeping with the theme of this essay)</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> when I go into Sam’s Club. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">I always get migraine auras walking through </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">there</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">. Horrific hot white light and tons and tons of plastic that I know isn’t going to get recycled, </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">will </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">end up on Plastic Island in the Pacific, where no one gets voted off. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Normally when I’m there, in order to avoid the headache, I just beeline to the pharmacy, pick up my free bottle of antidepressants </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">and </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">get the hell out</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">.</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> But on that day I had a mission to procure rolls of old school </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">flushable </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">anal cleaner for Other Bill. That</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> involved wandering </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">around </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">134,000 square feet (look it up) of </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">overlit</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> retail space.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Because it was the early days of Corona, (well, early</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> for </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Americans</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">, because </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Cheeto</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">-head </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">initially </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">said</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> the whole thing was fake news), I saw that no one was leaving Sam’s Club without an Eiffel Tower of toilet paper and a pickup </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">load</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> of bottled water that came from the same source as my </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">bidet but packaged prettier. I was too embarrassed to ask where the TP was, so I had to </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">roam</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">aimlessly to try to locate it.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Sam’s Club has no sense of organization. They have tube socks next to the coffee which is next to the 6 pound bag of </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">feta cheese which is next to the iPad that is </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">bigger than your living room TV</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">, which is next to boxes of 3,000-count tampons,</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> which is next to a 20 pound </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">opaque </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">tube of what they call ground beef t</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">hat</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> you can’t see</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> but could </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">just as </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">easily be wet topsoil. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">It’s like the stock people are </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">all on meth and just find a hole anywhere</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> to </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">shove</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">stuff in.</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Weeks later, dehydrated and </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">reminiscing about my doctor who used to give me Percocet for migraines</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">, I finally arrived at the almost empty aisle of toilet paper, and </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">with the help of a sweet old lady in a wheelchair, </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">we hoisted up a shrink-</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">wrapped load of 45 rolls of septic safe generic toilet paper. </span><span class="s2" style="font-style: italic; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">45 rolls</span><span class="s2" style="font-style: italic; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">!</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> Who buys that? Who has room for that? I have never bought that much toilet paper </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">at</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> one time in my life.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">I called an Uber and had them </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">deliver</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> the huge package to my car. I gave her a big tip and a good review</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> because it wouldn’t fit in my trunk, and she helped me tie it down on the roof of the Civic</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">. When I got home</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">, I had to shoehorn the huge package in through the garage door, and then</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> I swallowed a fist full of </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">free </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Lexapro and called Other Bill on the phone.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">“Honey, you’ll have to park outside the garage in the driveway when you get home tonight. But I can guarantee you you’ll have a clean butthole for</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> years</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> to come.”</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">And after I calmed down, I thought that maybe we should get a second bidet for our other toilet. When two men in their mid-sixties</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> with unpredictable colons</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> live under one roof, you can never be too careful. I looked all over the place</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> online</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">, even at analdouche.com, and the cheapest one I could find was $47. For a used one. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Price gouging </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">during a state of emergency is</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> illegal. I’m calling the cops. But not the chief of police. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">That bitch hates me.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">I love retirement.</span></div>
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Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-19624852477845188632020-03-06T11:42:00.001-05:002020-03-06T11:42:50.995-05:00A Gift from God<br />
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Every day around 4 pm, I take our dog, Jackie, out for her second walk of the day. We live in an older part of the city where blocks are bisected with alleys where people can throw their yard clippings and store their garbage cans. It’s so much more civilized than having to haul cans to the street twice a week. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Jackie and I like the alleys. For her, there is always something interesting to sniff or to attempt to snack on before I pull her away. I like alleys because I don’t feel inclined to pick up her poop with a bag. It’s an alley. It’s a wasteland. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Or is it?<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have found many useable discards during our walks. On one walk I found two dozen big plastic storage tubs with lids. We brought them home. One day we will pack them with our possessions and move to an assisted living facility. It’s called planning ahead.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNXrrGyLmR-6B0QIPhApAAZEjEoq2n0qXL2kJ3gV_IYJGBv22ZeqlRuFCr775VgCjfNkHW1bHp7Ca7BI_oClLLAMFSTOyhiPyXI4eotN3mEhfJ6b3mHBPTZ6pUqL9-z6G3e4CCnkkXG-Up/s1600/E1B74571-0758-4955-AE07-D7767B440A5A.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="249" data-original-width="320" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNXrrGyLmR-6B0QIPhApAAZEjEoq2n0qXL2kJ3gV_IYJGBv22ZeqlRuFCr775VgCjfNkHW1bHp7Ca7BI_oClLLAMFSTOyhiPyXI4eotN3mEhfJ6b3mHBPTZ6pUqL9-z6G3e4CCnkkXG-Up/s200/E1B74571-0758-4955-AE07-D7767B440A5A.jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Handi-Cart</td></tr>
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Another time I was very excited to bring home a big plastic wheelbarrow-like device that tilts down so you can rake leaves into it. They used to make these things out of steel, and they were called Handi-Carts. Now they are plastic and are made by, I dunno… Tupperware? My alt Mom, my Aunt Kay, had a Handi-Cart, and we spent endless hours throwing weeds and such into them and wheeling them back to her alley in South Denver. So more and more, alleys are kind of sentimental to me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0hi3WpFxY304NRSvVUWLOGISjjQ95OrCwGDg7ER-U59G3HhdYoFULDPWi7kH2ZPt9sDZ5aFNvUpLrqio6MUvdVutnJpLHmKhx1Z1n6SVWSc4oB1AZkiFHI4A9Jq-jtYBRI_bAxE9y8mS/s1600/F0928CA4-4F5B-48A5-BACC-0989348D6822.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="887" data-original-width="897" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0hi3WpFxY304NRSvVUWLOGISjjQ95OrCwGDg7ER-U59G3HhdYoFULDPWi7kH2ZPt9sDZ5aFNvUpLrqio6MUvdVutnJpLHmKhx1Z1n6SVWSc4oB1AZkiFHI4A9Jq-jtYBRI_bAxE9y8mS/s200/F0928CA4-4F5B-48A5-BACC-0989348D6822.jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plastic-Cart</td></tr>
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Oh, and then there was the time I found a potted marijuana plant in the alley behind a former house-flipping neighbor whose home was frequented by the police for domestic disturbances. We won’t discuss what I did with that. Suffice it to say, like more than half of the things I buy to plant in the yard, it died.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So this afternoon, Jackie and I were strolling down the first alley south of our house. Every other day we walk down the second alley south of the house so she has more time on her feet. And she knows when it’s the second alley day, because if I try to trick her into walking down the first alley, she pulls on the leash and gives me a dirty look.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As we approached the end of the alley (and she still hadn’t pooped and had therefore forfeited her end of walk treat), I looked to my right and saw a banana box filled with Whitman’s Sampler boxes. Lots of them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Continuing with the alley sentimentality theme here, a Whitman’s Sampler is a box of assorted chocolates. I don’t know why they are called Samplers, but it has something to do with embroidery and the fact that they have been in business since 1842. Sentimentally, my father always used to give my mother a one-pound Whitman’s Sampler box on Valentine’s Day. Dad was a very practical guy, so I’m told, and he told my mom, “Why piss away money on a heart-shaped box draped in satin ribbon and only get a half pound of chocolate, when, for the same price you could get a pound of chocolate, for Chrissake.” My mother, who ate candy like a child on Halloween when she gave up smoking, did not disagree. And my family, all of them, loved the word “Chrissake.” And I still do. I especially like that Spell Check can’t figure it out, for Chrissake.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So still stunned by what I saw, my first reaction was that someone had thrown away a bunch of empty Whitman’s Sampler boxes. I used to keep my mother’s empty Valentine boxes to stash gumball prizes, favorite Hot Wheels cars, Super Mini-Balls, and my hand made Creepy Crawlers. At first I thought maybe I found a collection of vintage toys, but again, the boxes were all unwrapped. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I peeled off the cellophane of one box and opened it to make sure it wasn’t filled with exploding manure, making me an overnight YouTube sensation. True to form, it looked like my Dad’s Valentine gift to my mom: glistening milk chocolates of all varieties. Only this was a 12 ounce box instead of a pound. It’s like now when you can get a 4 ounce six pack of Coke and can think it’s not bad for you. I counted the boxes. There were seventeen boxes of them. I was looking at almost 13 pounds of free chocolates. Needless to say, I didn’t do the math until I started this paragraph.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This was like one of those awful “Only in Florida” or “Flori-Duh” website offerings, I thought. How could this happen? “Man Wakens from Diabetic Coma Begging for Gumball Toys.” Am I dreaming? What do I do now? The thing is, time was of the essence. If I left the box there, I risked having someone else take possession of it. Naturally I thought, “You can’t <i>eat</i> this.” The chocolates <i>looked</i> normal, but what if it was laced with crack or PCP or cocaine or that stuff that killed Michael Jackson or even worse, CBD oil? What if it was really a box of Coronavirus? <o:p></o:p></div>
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But then I though, “WWOBD?” What Would Other Bill Do? And then I knew what I had to do. I hefted up the box, which was easily 20 pounds. Banana boxes are double thick and heavy. Plus I had a 40 pound dog yanking on the leash, sending me tripping back up the alley in my flip flops until we finally made it home. I dropped the box in the foyer. Okay, so it’s not really a foyer. It’s a walkway where everyone sheds yard waste and tiny palm nuts when they come in. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I was sweating like a rotting peach and jumped into the shower. Not long after I got out and dried off, I heard the garage door hum open, and Other Bill came inside, home from work.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I kissed him and said, “Come here, I want to show you something.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Is it something bad?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No. Well, maybe,” I said.<br />
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He looked down at the banana box, and his bright blue eyes bulged. He knew there were no vintage toys inside.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Where did you get this?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I found it when I was walking Jackie.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Who would do this?” he asked. The humanity! And then I realized I had done the right thing by schlepping it home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Without even pausing, he dug into the tiny pleated cupcake holder of chocolate covered peanuts and snarfed them down. Didn’t even think about it being poison or contaminated. An hour later, he ate another. An hour after that, I had one. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-20610552574499368112020-01-17T14:53:00.003-05:002020-01-17T14:53:47.316-05:00You Take Me to the Nicest Places.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Now that I’m retired, I get to repeat the phrase I’ve always longed to say: <i>I’m living on a fixed income.</i> It is a built in excuse for being cheap. Sorry about this cheap bottle of wine I brought to your party, but I’m living on a fixed income. I would love to contribute more than $10 to your campaign, Mr. Buttigieg, but I’m living on a fixed income.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I will be the first to admit I’ve always been cheap. And anyone who has ever known me will not disagree. When my father died when I was a pre-schooler, the first thing out of my mouth wasn’t “what happened?” or “how did he die?” but instead was, “how are we going to pay for everything?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">After that, and my mother took over, being cheap was pretty much hammered into me at every turn. I was told to order the cheapest thing on the menu, to walk home from school instead of paying a dime for the bus and to always buy used, never new. I bought clothes from the thrift store after I got my first job and Mom stopped paying for them, and I still do today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">But nothing drives cheapness home like when I am forced to find overnight lodging. When I was a kid and we had the rare opportunity to travel, motels were $20-$30 a night. The $30 ones sometimes had Magic Fingers bed vibrators, which I loved, but we usually had to settle for beds that didn’t jiggle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And today, I can’t understand why a place to stay overnight costs ten times that. Look, Other Bill and I love to visit San Francisco, but try finding a room for less than $250 or $300 a night. You can’t find one on line. You have to go to my own personal Dark Web of Lodging Dives to find it. We have always stayed at a place that doesn’t link to travel websites. When we first started going, we could get in for around fifty bucks a night, but it has been slowly rising, and I’m sure it’s close to a hundred now, if not over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">One time we arrived there in the middle of the night and got to the room, and there was only a single bed. We went down to the front desk to address that, but the clerk said she wasn’t allowed to leave the desk unattended, but if we wanted, there was a mattress in the basement we could schlep up to our room. So we did. Fortunately it was still in the plastic wrap, but we had to fold the flimsy mattress in half to get it into the tin can of an elevator.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">There are no frills at the places we stay. And by frills I mean things like bath soap, ice, swept floors and washcloths.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">The next time we stayed there I noticed that the bed was unusually firm. After a week we took the sheets off to wash them (you were expecting, maybe, maid service?), I realized that for the past 7 days I had been sleeping on a box spring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">A few years ago we stayed at a cheap motel in Tampa. I grabbed the phone book to look up an address (you were expecting, maybe, Wi-Fi?), and a hypodermic syringe fell out. Other Bill looked horrified, and I tried to cover by saying, “Oh, it was probably just a diabetic who left it behind,” but the trace amounts of blood left in it proved me wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Our shabby accommodations rarely feature “free breakfast.” If it does, breakfast consists of a Little Debbie snack cake and a canister filled with Cheerios that you can scoop out with a paper cup. (You were expecting, maybe, a spoon?)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">We recently took a trip to Wildwood, Florida. That’s where I got my first speeding ticket when I was 18. The sheriff had radar, but fortunately not much of a nose, because I was drunk at the time. Anyway, take a look at this picture, and pay attention to the scale. I used a quarter so you could understand the size of the white thing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">You probably think that this is a sliver of soap that a normal person would probably throw out, but you’re wrong. This is actually what a national budget hotel chain considers a bar of soap. This is not an optical illusion, and this soapette is brand new, unused, right aout of the bag. We considered ourselves lucky. Oh, and they had washcloths, too!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB0x3IrCS0leRj2YY_QyG8pWOYQPkHTAzzco_JwtQ4Ofcy5bwD6RThy2VQeo8bNg-9M2OiEByG3hMGxYSY_1F4jJI36Ar0OqiQJ-jgWSjCFsFkSH9f_-bpeT16ZRIZTJLFmsvpD84H6wh0/s1600/door.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1539" data-original-width="767" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB0x3IrCS0leRj2YY_QyG8pWOYQPkHTAzzco_JwtQ4Ofcy5bwD6RThy2VQeo8bNg-9M2OiEByG3hMGxYSY_1F4jJI36Ar0OqiQJ-jgWSjCFsFkSH9f_-bpeT16ZRIZTJLFmsvpD84H6wh0/s320/door.jpg" width="159" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia;">We’ve been to this chain more than once, mainly because they allow you to bring your dog in the room. And if your olfactory bulb is even half alive, you’d know that as soon as you walked in the door. Here’s a picture of the door of a neighboring room in Wildwood. Looks like a dog was left out all night and was scratching to get in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">But the room was $50, and it had two perfectly fine beds, a TV, a spitting shower, and a great view of the drug dealing and prostitution in the parking lot of the adjacent truck stop, so we didn’t really <i>need</i> a TV. Still no Magic Fingers though, except maybe in that parking lot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">It’s nice that Other Bill puts up with this. Other men, I’m guessing especially straight men, don’t have this luxury of understanding spouses, because let’s be clear: most of these places are not in the nicest of neighborhoods. But Other Bill makes friends with the homeless people in the neighborhood and actually bought one of them a pair of shoes. How do you not love a guy like that? Even I wouldn’t do that, because, well, see paragraph 2.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Before I retired, people would say, “Wow, I guess you can finally live a little, travel, stay at nice places?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">It’s a nice fantasy, but I doubt I’ll be able to change my ways. 57 years of Life Without Father still has its skinflint claws embedded in me. It’s one of the several characteristics about myself I hate. I still pick up a penny in a parking lot, even though it hurts my knees to stoop down. I hang clothes on the line instead of opting for the more convenient and slightly costlier electric dryer option. I never run my car through an $8 car wash when I can do it for free by hand in my driveway. It would take years of therapy to change this, and there are still no guarantees. Every time I catch myself choosing price over comfort, I ask myself, why, Why, WHY?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Because I’m living on a fixed income. I have an excuse now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-15379274977092673332019-08-13T17:48:00.000-04:002019-08-13T17:48:47.667-04:00Working out with Rodents<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">For the past few years I ignored them as they deprived us of summers filled with ample avocados to eat and share. Squirrels would eat them up when they were the size of a grape, and the rest of our hot season was filled with the absence of homemade guacamole. Live and let live was my motto. I always felt bad that I had made a squirrel suffer.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">This year however, the little rat-bastards somehow missed their chance, and we have had a bumper crop of very sweet avocados from our two trees, but now we are in competition to get to the ripe avocados before the squirrels do.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">For whatever reason, our invaders do not want to eat the avocados in the tree where it’s safer to do so. They prefer to eat them on the ground served on a nice platter of freshly mowed St. Augustine. So what they do is they will nibble the stem, and let gravity take over so the green fruit drops to the ground with a very audible THUD!</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">My perch on the couch is adjacent to our front door, and even though we have sound-blocking impact windows and doors, my ears have been trained to respond in a Pavlovian way to the THUD. With every THUD, I drop my book or my iPad, jump up off the couch and fly outdoors so I can scoop up the avocado before the squirrel sinks its unhygienic choppers into it.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">I have to admit that these squirrels are great motivators for my daily exercise. Nothing tends to get me off the couch once I’m home from work. Other Bill will suggest activities:</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">“Wanna go to a movie?” He’ll ask.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">“Nah.”</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16.7px;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">“Museum? Zoo? Beach?”</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">“Nah, it’s too hot.” (Yes, I realize movie theaters and museums are air conditioned, but the heat excuse seems to work as well as any.)</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16.7px;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">But it’s never too hot to run outside and meet up with a competitive rodent.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16.7px;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">Take yesterday, for example.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16.7px;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">I heard the THUD, inserted the bookmark, closed the book, scooted my feet into my flip-flops and went out the door. On the trunk of the yellow pod tree, nose pointing toward the ground was a plump grey squirrel, right there at eye level. On the ground at the base of the tree was a perfectly oval, unblemished avocado. The squirrel looked at me with his beady little rat-eyes and then at the avocado. Like he had a chance. Then I clapped my hands, and he scampered up to the crotch of the tree and started angrily barking at me.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16.7px;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">I picked up the avocado, examined it and imagined it in a nice cool summer salad. I held up the prize toward the angry, screaming rodent. “Not this time, you rabid monster!” I scolded back, and returned back inside to my book. And the cushy indentation I have made into the couch.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16.7px;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">I got through a half a page of my book, and there it was again: THUD!</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">Back up, shoes on, and a race to the door. This time the intruder was bolting down the avocado tree, and I ran around the little peninsula in the yard, clapping my hands as if I were happy and I knew it, and once again I beat the squirrel to the green bounty.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16.7px;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">On a recent Saturday, this happened sixteen times in less than an hour. It was starting to wear me out.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16.7px;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">I think this squirrel has a career in fitness instruction. Maybe soon I’ll see an infomercial on TV:</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 24px; margin-left: 36px; text-indent: -36px;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt; font-style: italic;"> Do you have trouble motivating yourself to go to the gym? Do you lack the willpower to pick your lazy sexagenarian ass off the couch and get on a treadmill? Hi, I’m Rocky, and welcome to Body by Squirrel.”</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 24px; margin-left: 36px; text-indent: -36px;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 14.67pt;">Hey, it beats being shot at while stealing birdseed.</span></div>
Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-16966604851038840682018-01-04T17:13:00.000-05:002018-01-04T17:13:50.699-05:00Iguana Relo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7XlIvTFA6CHQ-g5OK5Lrh209mWBr4SifuIVNdE4tZjr0S3z4CDjG_2PHbpajklmhtYTUEi-rFespVWXTDTdI3-2Zv2ZMSoGLsG4iKtoO3T7_7tqsObNM29eseBIH-lf4RlNO47tSuodf/s1600/iguana8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1088" data-original-width="1269" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7XlIvTFA6CHQ-g5OK5Lrh209mWBr4SifuIVNdE4tZjr0S3z4CDjG_2PHbpajklmhtYTUEi-rFespVWXTDTdI3-2Zv2ZMSoGLsG4iKtoO3T7_7tqsObNM29eseBIH-lf4RlNO47tSuodf/s200/iguana8.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Here in South Florida, you pay a price for perpetual warm
weather. Half the year you’re on the lookout for hurricanes. The rest of the
time you are trying not to murder an invasive species known as French Canadians,
who still drive like there are a couple feet of snow on the road.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There are also non-human invasive nuisances. Cockroaches the
size of Montana and stinging caterpillars, for example. I have friends from the
north who come visit and scream when they see a lizard in my garage. You’d
think that by now the Geico spokesreptile would have done something to
eliminate their fears, but no.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The same northerners whose hair stands on end when seeing a
lizard will practically snuggle up to all the “cute squirrels” in my back yard.
I hate squirrels. Shave a squirrel’s tail, and you’ve got a rat. My beef with
squirrels is that they eat the avocadoes off my tree when the fruit is the size
of a grape. All of them. Every. Single. Avocado. And what is guacamole without
avocadoes? Peppered onion lemonade. Enjoy a Dorito with that sometime.<o:p></o:p></div>
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These days, it’s the iguanas that are getting under my skin.
Don’t get me wrong; iguanas are fascinating to watch. Some idiots even keep
them as pets. They are sort of a link to prehistoric times, but they eat
plants, usually the plants you’ve slaved over to keep alive. Far be it for them to munch on a few weeds or French Canadians and gain my respect. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This year we have had one iguana that has been particularly
annoying. He is a fat five footer with a long striped tail. Every day this
monster will climb a tree, jump on the roof and wander over to the top of the
screen enclosure that covers our pool. He will then relieve himself of both
number 1 and number 2 and then return to its tree. Such a hostile move,
especially since we have been feeding him hibiscus flowers and bougainvillea leaves
all of his slithering life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We have cut down every tree that is close to the house. We
have wrapped sheet metal at the base of palm trees to keep the invaders from
climbing up them. We have actually studied the diets of iguanas and purchased
Purina Iguana Chow to set in a humane trap that this guy, and all other iguanas
ignore.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So on New Year’s Day as I was fruitlessly attempting to
transfer data from an old phone to a new one, I heard the THUMP on the roof
that is all too familiar. I went outside and looked up, and there he was,
looking down on me with scorn and superiority. Apparently iguanas are capable
of flying from treetops onto roofs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’d had enough. I had chased Iggy off the roof before, but
it was a new year, and it was time to mobilize. Other Bill grabbed an empty
trash can, and I grabbed the push broom and the ladder and ascended to the
roof. Bill remained on the ground, posing as a giant basketball hoop, and I
intended to brush Iggy down off the roof and score two points into the
Rubbermaid. Iggy had other ideas. Iggy sprouted his wings and flew onto a
nearby palm tree and started climbing up. I smacked him with the broom, sending
him sailing downward, nowhere even close to the Rubbermaid goal. The minute he
hit the ground he ran, and Other Bill gave chase. As a quick side note, what do
you think of when you hear “Rubber Maid”? It sounds like a latex-themed
straight porn movie to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Anyway, with the iguana on the run, I figured it was yet
another loss. They run too fast for our old knees, so I proceeded to use the
push broom to brush some of the shmutz off the roof tiles, because everyone
knows I hate to waste an opportunity to do a little cleaning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But then Bill called victoriously to me from the other side
of the house, “I got him!” I found this a little suspicious, because Other Bill
is reluctant even to cut up a fryer, and touching a live amphibian is above his
pay grade.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I made my way down from the roof, and Other Bill was
standing there proudly with the can over the giant wrinkled thing. I got the
lid of the can and slid it underneath, and we flipped the can upright, and I
folded up the tail and dropped it into the can. Score! High fives all around.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then we had to figure out what to do with it. It’s illegal
to kill them, and besides, the only gun I have is a BB gun (see squirrels,
above). When confronted with a BB gun, an iguana will just sit back, light up a
Marlboro and bark out a grizzly-throated, Suzanne Pleshette-style laugh.
Someone suggested I put it in the freezer to kill it “humanely,” but a) I don’t
consider freezing to death a comfortable way to die. That’s why we live in
South Florida, and b) I figured if I did that, I’d be cleaning iguana poop off
of a frozen pizza or two. Or a chicken that Other Bill wouldn’t touch with his
bare hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So we loaded Iggy into the car and drove a few miles west
where there is a park with a nice canal and dozens of other of his kind to befriend.
I popped the lid, and off he ran at lightning speed for about twenty feet, and
then he just stood there, still as a frozen iguana. Other Bill walked up to
him, and they just looked at each other.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m worried about him. Why isn’t he moving?” Other Bill
asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s moving,” I said, “he’s watching every move you make.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Bill walked around it, and the lizard’s head followed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I don’t know,” he said. “Something’s wrong with him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well what do you want to do, take him home, put him to bed
and nurse him back to health?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Other Bill said, “Well, I don’t understand why he’s not
moving.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“He’s just getting his bearings,” I said. “And probably
wondering where he’s going to take a shit now that he can’t do it in our pool.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Reluctantly, Other Bill returned to the car with me, and we
went home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m not convinced this will be our last dealings with roof
iguanas, but at least now we have a system.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And maybe next time I’ll aim better and make a basket in the
Rubbermaid.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Salutation"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
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Now if I can just find a Rubbermaid big enough for a French
Canadian. The trash can, not the movie. Get your mind out of the gutter.<o:p></o:p></div>
Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-52215903248952761352017-11-28T18:19:00.000-05:002017-11-28T18:58:41.015-05:00Gimme a Break, It's only a Car<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPLF5PLrK8X4beC3DbAZBjBXJMWLGHvLgLSVpu_23nAjJdEqThPa_ZqtHF8l5W3h2f-7cXU3DCQtYxlQipZDsHUf9gU6bxjIKD4d0pG4ssetJz9cevA5D0bxeHUpEoIoFnkorNQqX4oZnt/s1600/IMG_1976.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPLF5PLrK8X4beC3DbAZBjBXJMWLGHvLgLSVpu_23nAjJdEqThPa_ZqtHF8l5W3h2f-7cXU3DCQtYxlQipZDsHUf9gU6bxjIKD4d0pG4ssetJz9cevA5D0bxeHUpEoIoFnkorNQqX4oZnt/s200/IMG_1976.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<a href="about:invalid#zClosurez" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a>
Well I feel just awful. It's like I just dropped my old
dog off at the kill shelter.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have a bit of a problem when it comes to cars. Okay, not every
car. I have had lemons that I was more than happy to trade in. That
underpowered Suzuki Samurai, for instance. You know you made a mistake when
tractor-trailers are passing you going up a steep incline. And that Suzuki
Vitara (I know; shame on me. I didn’t learn the first time.) It wasn’t even a
<i>Grand </i>Vitara, which is one of the biggest oxymorons ever produced. Yeah, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> Vitara, whose check engine light
refused to ever go out, and no one could figure out what was wrong with it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There are cars, though, that I get attached to in a less
than healthy way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="about:invalid#zClosurez" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
There’s the first car, of course, by which all other
standards are measured. I had saved up $1000, and when I was 16 I bought a
bright red, two-year-old VW Superbeetle that I nicknamed “Chigger.” Also not
the best car ever made, but it was more than a car; it was my freedom. It was
my escape out of a house of thundering alcoholics. It was the car I drove home
one early, pre-dawn morning when I realized that there was no more pretending
to be straight. It was a car I wrecked and repainted twice, and the car on
which I taught myself how to change oil. Ten years after I bought the car, I
was leaving the country for a year, and I sold it at a profit for $1200. When
does <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> ever happen? And I cried
when I turned over the keys. Gimme a break, I was only 26.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When my cousins gave me my Aunt Kay’s 1972 Volvo not long
after she died, it arrived from Denver on the back of a car carrier. It was
severely oxidized, and the driver’s door was several shades of blue lighter
than Old Blue, because it had sat in her garage for years next to a window
where the sun bleached it out. The driver of the carrier told me, “Be careful.
That car don’t have no brakes.” I idled it into my driveway, stepped on the
brake and nothing happened. I had to yank the emergency brake to keep it from hitting
the garage door. It looked old and depleted. Its driver, the person I loved
more than anyone else in the world, had died at 89, and the car seemed to
reflect my sadness about that. Just as I wanted to bring Aunt Kay back, I
wanted to restore Old Blue. I had spent all my teenage summers with that car,
washing and waxing it, riding with Kay and her dog up to her cabin in the
mountains. So in no time I had it worked over and repaired, stripped down and
repainted so it looked as good as the day Kay got it when she was 65. It was a
solid work horse of a car, but when it became mine in 1996, it had only 20, 000
miles on it. It only had an AM radio, and the air conditioner didn’t work, and
it had an enormous steering wheel on it, because it didn’t have power steering,
and you needed a big wheel to fight with just to make a left turn. I had to get
rid of it when I moved back to Florida 16 years ago, but I sold it to a very
earthy older couple who recognized my emotional attachment to it, and they
swore to continue to baby it. I believed them, and maybe that car is still on
the road today. It wouldn’t surprise me. Cried when that one was driven away,
too. Gimme a break; I was only 44.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I did a really stupid thing when I finally ended it with my
ex. I had money from the sale of our house that was burning a hole in my
pocket, and in 1992 I went out and bought a 30 year-old Cadillac Sedan
deVille.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had grown up fascinated with
fins. Every day we drove my father to work past the Cadillac dealer in downtown
Tampa, my face was pressed against the window in utter amazement at the
enormous cars that looked more like rocket ships than automobiles. the seville lasted for a year, and it was a blast to ride in. It was like my first car in that
it, too, was freedom that could be bought with money. It was my celebration car. More like a boat on a still
lake than a rocket or car, the Cadi could easily fit in six of my co-workers to
drive to lunch. It got seven miles per gallon. It was more of a novelty car
than a car I had an emotional attachment to; kinda like my ex. One day a light
on the dash that read “GEN” came on, and it was confirmed that the generator
was kaput. This was before the internet lit up and buying parts became as easy
as owning a keyboard and a credit card. Needless to say, NO ONE on planet Earth
wanted a 31 year old bomb that could only run as far as the battery would take
it. I placed ads in the local paper, the Washington Post, and Autotrader. I
even paid to have a photo ad flash on the screen at the local multiplex, while
the deVille sat, deflated, in my garage. I was at the point where I was going
to investigate having the fins made into a piece of furniture and
scrapping the rest of it. But finally, a collector bought it for $400, “because
he wanted to do me a favor.” I’m sure he managed to do himself a favor after he
restored it. He also called and bitched at me because the car blew out a tire
while he was towing it back to Timberville. Too bad. Buyer beware. It probably
didn’t want to go with him. No tears, but god, what a joy to drive. My freedom
hadn’t disappeared. It was just time to move on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Which brings us to the car I abandoned today. Ten years ago
I bought the second brand-new car I’ve ever owned. I even had a color choice,
and I chose the red one, because it was the same red as my first car, the
Volkswagen. It was (oh, god, I’m using past tense already!) a Honda
Fit with a 5 speed manual transmission and so much fun to drive. It had great pickup, and the front wheel drive
made it so maneuverable. I’m a little sentimental about the Fit, because it was
last car I bought before Bill got cancers (yeah, that’s plural). It’s the car I
had when we got married. It’s the car we took mini vacations in, and it has
never, ever, in ten years given me a mechanical problem. We had to get rid of
it because due to Other Bill’s declining peripheral vision, we had to buy him a
car with blind spot detecting mirrors and a backup camera. It’s like driving a supercomputer.
(And I thought my first car was technologically superior because it had an
8-track AND a cassette player in it, and had two door speakers and Chris
Sestile’s old stereo speakers in the well behind the back seat. No one else and
pseudo-Quadrophonic in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">their</i> cars.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Fit was a tough sell as well, almost as tough as the
Cadillac. Seems no one on planet Earth wants a car they have to manually shift.
Plus when you sell a car outright today, you have to sort out the scammers who
will “send a company to pick up your car, because I’m in a wheelchair/the army/jail, and I can pay by Paypal if you just click this link…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then there was one guy who communicated by text only. Wanted
to come by after work last week at 11 pm, because he could get a ride then. I
figured he was either psychotic or young. He later agreed to coming this
morning, but he’d have to Uber. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not my
problem, so the date was set. I had been victim of so many fraud attempts, and
I was still skeptical, so my buddy-cops made sure I was followed during the
test drive just in case anything funny happened. This will most likely be the
last car I sell outright. I’ll just have to suck up the low trade-in values
henceforth. I knew the kid was going to buy it the minute he sat in the driver’s
seat. He was a skinny boy with tattoos, and he smoked. He didn’t smoke during
the test drive, but still. He drove too fast, wound the gears out too far, and
he rode the clutch. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt bad
subjecting my little four-wheeled friend to second-hand smoke and rough
handling for the rest of its life. I don’t know why I feel that way. It’s not
like it’s human.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But sometimes a car is more than just a car. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I didn’t cry when the kid drove off, cigarette dangling from
his mouth. But the day’s not over yet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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table.MsoNormalTable
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Gimme a break, I’m only 61.<o:p></o:p></div>
Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-9857191593090268112017-07-24T19:25:00.000-04:002017-07-24T21:42:55.899-04:00Fear and Loathing in Big Lots<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjkgHbTtxrd4GkKt0PKWmWm_iJD8mZCZUAQtijVstP7nSwiFX3FXiUecpM5L9kRWEA6T-IEYcz_HvyBQCjPhUC9JypUaXV_EI8I8CkzK8T9mxcXeJwfTJc8d8bqYxkzR7gRMKcObmUPV8/s1600/bits.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjkgHbTtxrd4GkKt0PKWmWm_iJD8mZCZUAQtijVstP7nSwiFX3FXiUecpM5L9kRWEA6T-IEYcz_HvyBQCjPhUC9JypUaXV_EI8I8CkzK8T9mxcXeJwfTJc8d8bqYxkzR7gRMKcObmUPV8/s320/bits.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Other Bill
and I, sadly, spend more time than is probably healthy at Big Lots. It only
makes sense for two people who are both gluttonous and cheap. Why spend $6.50
on two bags of vanilla Oreos at Publix when you can get three bags at Big Lots
for less? Sure, the expiration clock is ticking faster on the Big Lots cookies.
And it’s quite possible when you open the bag that all the Oreos will be
crumbled into a sticky powder, but that just makes the cookies more amenable to
serve as an ice cream topping instead of its intended use as a milk-dunking
dessert.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">It’s not
rocket science to figure out why some things end up at Big Lots, otherwise
known as the next-to-the last-stop-on-the-retail-train-to-the-dumpster. Things
like chili con carne in a mylar envelope, and pumpkin-banana cake frosting were
obvious losers. Hormel and Pillsbury are only human. Not every idea in the
world food market will catch fire and sell like Starbucks. And things like half-priced giant bottles of Advil that expire tomorrow are only a natural for the store of
the desperate and destitute. It’s always hit-or-miss with Big Lots. You never
know what they’ll be stocking, which makes that the ultimate draw of the store.
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maybe this time I’ll find those tins of
anchovies for 60 cents again!</i> Something that you can always depend on Big
Lots to stock, however: Pop Tarts. That’s right, they always have a huge
assortment of flour-encrusted jam slathered with jawbreaker icing. At
radically-slashed prices. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">At our Big Lots
there is always one area in a dark corner under the $2 gallon jugs of white
vinegar known as the Reduced For Quick Sale shelf. As if
it’s not bad enough that you end up in Big Lots, this shelf always makes me a
little sad. Products there look like they have been in trailers where domestic
violence is the norm, and they have been returned to pay for bail. Boxes of
Jiffy cornbread mix that look like they’ve been hit with a rolling pin. Dented
little cans of Young and Early peas. So heartbreaking. Wrinkled, dirty bags of
egg noodle crumbs. Sometimes I have to buy stuff from there just to show it a
little love for products that lived a tormented life of abuse. Give the food a little
dignity, for crying out loud!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">When we were
there recently, one of the first things I noticed was a huge box of
rainbow-colored unknown chunks that looked like those tooth-cracking candy
hearts with love notes on them. Only these were much smaller and asymmetrical
and had no messages on them. They were in clear plastic cellophane bags with
matte-finish, generic black and white labels. It looked like something that
fell out of a government-issued military MRE. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Their labels
made them seem almost as pathetic as the Reduced for Quick Sale items, but not
quite. First of all, they were placed in the front of the store looking so
colorful they caught the customers’ eye when they first came in. But you’d
think they would have some fun and jovial name like Zip-Zaps! or Krazy
Konfetti! (exclamation points not optional.) Sadly, whatever happened to these things, they never even made it to
the marketing department. The label read, simply, “Asst Dehydrated Marshmallow
Bits.” Not very appetizing, is it? And a far cry from creative.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Naturally I
had to buy a bag, because a) I didn’t have my phone to take a picture of it,
and b) They were only $1.25. And besides, you never know at Big Lots. You turn
your back on something they have half a store’s worth of, and in no time, some
kid who ran off with his mother’s SNAP card has whisked every one of them out
of the building. You know this because the next day there’s a picture of a
parti-colored, comatose child under a headline that reads, “Boy, 9, in Hyperglycemic
Coma after Marshmallow Bit Overdose”, which would have been more eye-catching
if it had instead read “Zip-Zap Overdose.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">So I blame
the marketing department of these Bits. I picture a scenario where the national
sales director gets on the phone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">“Look, Biff.
I’ve got 620 thousand units of this rat-bait rotting in the warehouse. When are
you going to get your marketing guys to come up with a goddamned name for
them?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">“Just as soon
as we can hire another marketing director, Maurice. You didn’t hear that Kevin emptied
his desk and walked out without notice last week?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Maurice does
a face-palm and pops a Xanax. “This is the third marketing director in 5
months! Why can’t you keep someone in the job, for Chrissake? What was it this
time? Pay, hours, or benefits?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">“Neither,”
Biff says. “He wanted his office painted a different color, but corporate
denied it.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">"Asshole Millennials," sighs the sales director.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Three weeks
later, and Maurice is on the phone to Biff again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">“Goddammit, I
told you months ago to get a name for these tooth-rotters, and—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">“How about
Tooth Rotterz? You know, with a Z,” Biff suggests.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">“What? Are
you stoned? You can’t call them that. They’ll never sell. Mothers will be livid.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">“Yeah,
Maurice? Well, what about Screaming Yellow Zonkers, or, or Fizzies, or Trix?
What about those, Maurice?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">“Look you
little weasel. No Tooth Rotters. With a Z or an S. Either you come up
with a name by close of business today, or I’m just going to order them labeled
‘Assorted Dehydrated Marshmallow Bits’, and you’re gonna take the fall for
their failure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">And then, six
months later, they end up at Big Lots, with a dwindling “Best if Used By” date.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Maybe one day
we’ll be able to buy wholesome, fresh snacks at Whole Foods, and purchase name brand
toilet paper that doesn’t dissolve on the first wipe, and cranberry juice I’m
not pressured to drink before expiration, and drugs I’ll consume without
symptoms because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">somebody</i> should take
these!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century schoolbook";">Until then,
there’s Big Lots.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-82553512972120200972017-04-24T17:51:00.002-04:002017-04-24T19:07:02.819-04:00Senior Survivor<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz3seq6z8IP9LbB2L5YtW4ou464_WtTXrVU8LF1KcvL4j5R_gDNO32BSqIt-SaSZUTLBd4aLJlO2FO4X1XDt3r7g1VX9xK5LRd2TOxcbxnimblcsbgNqifVvwI_rHcoiPd2Z3Easnkj-hb/s1600/2229401655_056d235f45_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz3seq6z8IP9LbB2L5YtW4ou464_WtTXrVU8LF1KcvL4j5R_gDNO32BSqIt-SaSZUTLBd4aLJlO2FO4X1XDt3r7g1VX9xK5LRd2TOxcbxnimblcsbgNqifVvwI_rHcoiPd2Z3Easnkj-hb/s200/2229401655_056d235f45_z.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m not proud to admit to this, but I have watched every single
episode of <i>Survivor</i> since its premiere on May 31, 2000. To my credit, it
is the only reality show I have watched with any kind of frequency, because I
find celebrity-based reality shows just as repugnant as those pageants that
feature five-year-old Jennifer Lopez wannabes in hot pants. I also have no
interest in shows that feature, for instance, poor white trash fat kids with
racist, child-molesting parents, or Donald Trump.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I also take pride in the fact that I am not one of those
statistic-spewing <i>Survivor</i> addicts who can name all the players from
every season, where each season took place and accurately recall the theme of
every season. I would rather use that space in my brain to remember jingles
from fifty-year old cigarette commercials (“Chesterfield Kings taste GREAT…because
the tobaccos are!”) Because that is far more important than being able to
recall, say, a list of my current medications to an ER doctor.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And speaking of that, when <i>Survivor</i> first came out, I
always thought I would make a pretty good contestant. My carpentry skills were
sufficient enough that I thought I could build a decent hut, and I was a pretty
good distance swimmer, so maybe back then I could have placed in a few
challenges. And I was pretty secure with my masturbation skills that if I tried
hard enough, I could start a fire. But those days are long gone. I’m too old to
keep up with the young, strapping contestants on the show. People my age are
seldom selected—for this show, or anything, for that matter. We are just too
much of a liability. Not to mention the fact that we aren’t going to win any
beauty contests. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Therefore I’d like to propose to the producers of the show <i>Senior
Survivor</i>. Naturally it will be an abbreviated season, because no one my age
is going to last out in the wild for a month. Two days without our Ensure
shakes, and we’d be snatched up by birds of prey. Frankly, we’d be lucky to
last a week. So the rules are this: Seventeen seniors are taken to a remote
island somewhere in the Pacific. Each day, people will be eliminated by a
majority vote or by breaking the rules. One person each day will be exempt from
the vote by winning an immunity challenge, and people will also compete for
reward challenges.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Day 1 reward challenge: Contestants will put together a jigsaw
puzzle that reads: Outwit, Outplay, and Outlive. The person who completes the
puzzle first gets a Lipitor and takes 9 others to be fed, leaving 7 to fend for
themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Day 1 immunity challenge: The ten players will be given a lavish
dinner of soft, high fiber foods. Before dinner is served, Jeff tells
them that anyone who talks about an ailment, a malfunctioning organ, hip
replacement surgery, their bouts with cancer, their bowel movement status or
how neglectful their children are will automatically be eliminated. This takes
out all ten players out right off the bat. And then there were seven.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hidden somewhere on the island is an immunity idol that a
contestant can play at tribal council at the last minute to prevent him or her
from being voted off the island. Sadly, no one can find the idol because none
of the contestants can remember where they put their glasses.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Day 2 reward challenge: The seven remaining players will have to
stand on one leg on a small block of wood in the blistering heat. The person
who outlasts all the others wins a lifetime membership to AARP. Due to their
declining ability to maintain their balance, all challengers fail the task of
standing on one foot, even in the sand, thus giving the producers more time to
air commercials for Cialis, pro-biotic yogurt, Depends, Super Poligrip, and the
Neptune Society.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Day 2 immunity challenge: Contestants are shown where they
left their glasses, and each receive an iPhone 7 and are told they have 30
minutes to set up their email accounts on the devices. If no one is able to do
it, immunity will be given to the one who can perform the most difficult task.
After a half hour, the immunity idol is presented to the guy who manages to
turn it on.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On Day 3, a special delight for the contestants has been arranged.
It’s Family Day, and contestants are treated to a visit from their loved ones.
Children of all the contestants have been invited to fly in to this remote
Pacific island to visit their parents. Sadly, all these children are too busy
with their own careers, children, and Facebook to make the trip. One contestant
is lucky enough to be visited by his gay grandson, but due to jealousy among
the other bitter parents, he is voted off the island that night at tribal
council.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On Day 4, a special two-hour <i>Senior Survivor </i>airs. Tension
mounts when two contestants are evacuated by the medical crew: one for a broken
hip, and another who threatens suicide if she can’t go to the beauty parlor and
get her hair done. The final four contestants must eat live worms, raw snake
meat, uncooked bat livers and other putrid local delicacies. Surprisingly, all
four consume all the snacks without even flinching. Their sense of smell and
taste have long ago subsided, and everything these days tastes like wet flour.
So in order to break the four-way tie, the players must make fire from flint
and dried palm fronds. This takes up an hour and forty-five minutes of airtime,
and each player at different times must be treated by the medical staff for
exhaustion. Nevertheless, the episode wins the Nielsen ratings for the most
watched show in their time slot. Jeff Probst runs out of discouraging things to
shout at the contestants, so he tosses two Bic lighters a couple of yards away
in the sand, and the two contestants who grab them and set their fronds on fire
first get to stay for the last show.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On the last taped show, the two finalists must plead their
cases to the jury members who will decide which one will be the sole survivor.
The older of the two says, “Plain and simple, you should vote for me because
I’m older than Nell over there.” Nell, in retaliation, speaks up.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“That is exactly why you should vote for me. Because I’m younger,
I am more likely to live long enough to make it to the live season finale in a
couple of months.”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The highlight of the evening comes with the jury member who had
his grandson visit spews out a vitriolic rant, accusing both contestants of
being “jealous bitches,” and says he’d rather vote for Satan than either of
them.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The scene cuts to the live show in Studio City to a packed
theater. Unlike Family Day, relatives of all the contestants fill the seats, because
CBS has cut off their internet access, and they have nothing better to do. Jeff
Probst dramatically reads off the votes, and announces Nell to be the Sole
Senior Survivor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The following night on the CBS Evening News, Scott Pelley
announces that Nell lost her million dollars to a bogus IRS phone scammer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This comes as no surprise, because no one wins at Senior Survivor.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia";"> </span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<script src="https://counter3.fcs.ovh/private/counter.js?c=ye761qyn6s5d3w2a8hsqwruaenn1tf1q" type="text/javascript"></script><br />
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<a href="https://www.freecounterstat.com/">web counter</a><noscript><a href="https://www.freecounterstat.com" title="web counter"><img src="https://counter3.fcs.ovh/private/freecounterstat.php?c=ye761qyn6s5d3w2a8hsqwruaenn1tf1q" border="0" title="web counter" alt="web counter"></a></noscript>Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-56393047900313701382017-03-04T12:10:00.004-05:002017-03-04T12:10:38.403-05:00Subscription Prescription<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHS-msERFX-l3mc5cOUkjjflpNmsoRLkwvbPCB9XDY7z9Rf7idmPgqsAdByjjlviyIoteUU51f-71hjRFraGF3VBhrsjZPsmwNRuSMFeTTVAC7_vAIUB1WYm49EaCoWjleyoL0AQGQGGM0/s1600/subscription.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHS-msERFX-l3mc5cOUkjjflpNmsoRLkwvbPCB9XDY7z9Rf7idmPgqsAdByjjlviyIoteUU51f-71hjRFraGF3VBhrsjZPsmwNRuSMFeTTVAC7_vAIUB1WYm49EaCoWjleyoL0AQGQGGM0/s320/subscription.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I guess I am going to have to stop listening to Pandora and
go back to CD’s and self-made playlists. It used to be very relaxing to tune in
to my Pandora chorus channel and get lulled into a state of Zen by listening to
Gregorian chants and blissful boys’ choirs. So calm, so serene, so soothing,
almost like a sweet narcotic lulling me to sleep. Ah, yes, delicious, heavenly,
carefree sleep until…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>HEY PANDORA
LISTENERS! HAVE YOU SPENT HOURS TOSSING AND TURNING IN BED BECAUSE YOU JUST
CAN’T GET COMFORTABLE WITH YOUR PILLOW? <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I bolt upright on the couch, my heart racing as I gasp for
air. What the hell? Where did my British choirboys go? After a few rounds of
self-induced chest compressions, I reach for my iPad to mute the volume. What
did this screaming pillow guru do to those mellow, innocent, falsetto voices,
and why is the volume for this commercial three times the decibel level of St.
Philip’s parish in South London?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I know I could save myself from being startled, and
possibly from future cardiac episodes, by ponying up a few bucks a month for a <i>paid</i> Pandora subscription, but I think
subscriptions are a pox on the world’s financial well-being. I don’t want to
get to the point where I need a prescription to manage my subscriptions, like a
lot of people I know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pay a subscription fee every month for my gym membership,
my home alarm monitoring, and the cell phone I use less frequently than I
attend the gym, and I refuse to dedicate any more of my salary to anything that
offers “auto-pay for my convenience.” Yeah, for <i>my</i> convenience. Like they’re <i>in</i>convenienced
by not having to chase me down every month to pay my bill.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there’s the yearly anti-virus subscription which I
refuse to use again, ever since I got a surprise bill from Norton for a hundred
and something dollars. That wasted an hour and a half of my day, which I spent trying to track down their phone number and
then waiting on hold to be told, “when you signed up for the service, it
defaults to auto-renew.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well change the default to cancelled,” I told them. And
then, of course, I got a virus on my laptop. Then I got an iPad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The latest offensive subscription menace is brought to you
by the wonderful world of Microsoft, which now offers “Office 365”, so you can
make sure that the next time they create a new feature for Word, we won’t miss
out. So instead of just buying the software, you <i>subscribe</i>, as in yearly fee for the rest of your life. Listen, word
processing software has been around for decades. There is nothing more to invent.
There are no more features, so quit trying to re-invent the wheel by screwing
with the GUI by force-feeding us crap like “ribbons.” I still very happily use
Word 6, the ribbonless, menu-driven version, which is faster and easier, and
you don’t have to spend half of your time scrolling through an endless supply
of buttons for crappy features no one ever uses, like styles or equations.
Microsoft, if you are that desperate for my money, howbout reconfiguring that
awful way your products import graphics and then immobilizes them, or even
better, for the love of God, fix the way you handle page numbering. Every time
I even think about having to do a document that doesn’t have the page number on
the first page but starts the numbering on page 2, I start cutting myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seems like everyone is jumping on the subscription bandwagon,
because most people think: “Well, $10 a month isn’t going to send me to the
poor house, so why not?”<i> Click</i>. And
the commerce world is well aware of our gullibility. They think that no one
multiplies the monthly fee by 12. Just look at Amazon Prime. Who buys into <i>that</i>? Subscribing to Amazon Prime at
$10.99 a month is telling yourself: “I want to get free shipping on everything
I order from Amazon, so I’m going to pay for it.” Is this Alice in
Wonderland? Where do they get their
logic? That’s like saying, “I don’t feel like going to work today, so I guess
I’ll just get in the car and drive to my job instead.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Subscriptions are like heroin. At first they seem great. Everything
is wonderful, but as time goes on, you get less and less enjoyment out of them,
and they cause you anxiety, so you get more, and then they become impossible to
cancel. If you are lucky and find the number to call to cancel, they wear you
down with menus and an insane hold time. If that doesn’t have you tapping the
“End Call” button and you do eventually reach a human, instead of just
canceling your subscription, they try to upsell you on something different.
“We’re sorry to lose you as a faithful reader of <i>Playboy,</i> but if you want to subscribe to <i>Hustler</i> at our special introductory rate of ten cents per issue for
the first three months, we will give you <i>Playboy</i>
for free up until the end of your current subscription. Does that work for you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Canceling a subscription is almost as bad as canceling a
credit card. Recently I fell victim to signing up for one of those airline
credit cards to get “up to four free flights” by paying the $75 annual
fee. What a butt load of crap that was.
First of all, it took them 5 months to credit the miles to my account, and
secondly, the four free flights evaporated into one free one-way flight to
Atlanta. I could have gotten four free flights maybe if I wanted to fly from
Minneapolis to St. Paul or LaGuardia to Newark or Tampa to St. Petersburg. So when
I called them up to cancel this scam, they took it personally. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, I’m so sorry you have decided you no longer want to
receive the benefits and rewards our card gives you. May I ask why you want to
cancel?” Said the lovely Carol Merrill. On the rare times I get a woman who
speaks discernible English, I picture Carol Merrill from the original <i>Let’s Make a Deal. </i>I don’t know why. I
guess it’s because she spent her early years staying silent and pointing at
things, and I hope now she has found a job where she can actually speak to
people and interact.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t want to pay the annual fee,” says I.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, Mr. Wiley, because you have been a loyal member of
our program for almost six months, I’m authorized to waive the annual fee for
you from now on, but you will still receive the same benefits you have been.
Now, how does that sound?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then we go round and round and I end up telling her that
a 32% APR should not, under any circumstances, be considered a <i>benefit. </i>When she refuses to take no for
an answer, I tell her things that are not even credit-card related, like how
they are the worst airline I have ever flown, and their seats are hard, and
they charge for oxygen and they don’t pay the flight attendants a living wage,
and just cancel the damned card already. And Carol runs weeping into the call
center break room, which is just a toilet stall with a half sleeve of saltines
on the shelf, rolled up and fastened shut with a binder clip.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I keep my subscriptions to a minimum so I don’t end up
like Other Bill. We have a joint credit card, but we also have our own cards
that we use to buy our own clothes, nose hair trimmers and novelties with. For
years there was a charge on his credit card for $14.99 a month for a website
subscription that spread possibly nefarious content to its subscribers. He had
only subscribed to get one set of irresistible photographs of an old erotic
model heartthrob. But through years of declining libido and both short and
long-term memory, he had forgotten what the site was or how to unsubscribe. So
then he had to shamefully call his credit card company and admit, after being
told that the vendor was Smut R Us, that his adolescent son must have used his
card without his authorization. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know how teenagers can be, so can you give me their
number so I can get them to stop billing me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t want to end up in that situation, because I’d never
be able to deliver that lie with a straight, so to speak, face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I would consider ending up in a career at a call center
if I could be assured that I’d get all the calls from remorseful subscribers to
websites of questionable taste. “So, sir, is your wife aware that you’ve been
forking over a monthly fee to Wet Women of the West Indies dot com? And what
would it be worth to you to ensure that she <i>never</i>
found out?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could have a lot of fun with that. And maybe then I could
meet the lovely Carol Merrill. So sign me up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or should I just click Subscribe?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-91071600502745715392016-10-16T16:50:00.000-04:002016-10-16T16:50:48.869-04:00Home Sweet Garage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFdtnVkfnd2J7d4wbcDVjBqj2E9NWMZiL_YlIcSOs_rcyY4vmUuz37TPAfY1Iq0lB_bm2HD5YNXpZBlZ2D7fZVhZ9SAAjXAiL_OSdg1k4N3q0VpRycEhkTLOtlzCCPJqf8hkTqpXMyP42R/s1600/carlevator.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFdtnVkfnd2J7d4wbcDVjBqj2E9NWMZiL_YlIcSOs_rcyY4vmUuz37TPAfY1Iq0lB_bm2HD5YNXpZBlZ2D7fZVhZ9SAAjXAiL_OSdg1k4N3q0VpRycEhkTLOtlzCCPJqf8hkTqpXMyP42R/s320/carlevator.jpg" width="283" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was a kid, my mother took us to South Florida for a
beach vacation. We were in a place called Sunny Isles, which back then was a
fun place with wall-to-wall mid-century modern oceanfront motels with window
unit air conditioners and Magic Fingers on the beds and small swimming pools on
the patios. Our motel was particularly luxurious because it had a pinball
machine in the lobby.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I don’t know what happened to Sunny Isles, but I suspect
Florida politics entered the equation. Usually this involves commissioners who get
bankrolled by developers to rape and pillage existing zoning laws. The end
result is that middle class people, the former inhabitants of and visitors to places
like Sunny Isles, no longer stand a chance there, because the rules have
changed. Ergo, all the cute motels have been demolished for ridiculously tall
and unattractive high-rise condo buildings that are only affordable to the 1%. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The worst violator of the Atlantic landscape is a developer
named Gil Dezer. In addition to their fortune in real estate, the Dezer family
owns several antique car museums that you’d think might be of interest to
middle class people if only the admission price to look at a bunch of old metal
wasn’t exorbitant. Gil Dezer has licensed the Trump name on several of his
Sunny Isles and other South Florida holdings, making him possibly the second most
repugnant person on planet Earth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If you drive down Collins Avenue in Sunny Isles after
sunrise, the whole city is dark, eclipsed by the dark shadows of Gil’s and
other rich developer’s towers, making the name of the city nothing short of
ironic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Gil’s latest abomination is the PorscheDesign building, a
600+ foot high glass oatmeal box that caters to people who really appreciate
their expensive cars. Inside the paparazzi-proof building are three robotic car
elevators. After a resident drives in, the car and driver are pulled into the
elevator and whisked up to the resident’s home in the sky, where they are digitally
parked in full view of the owner’s living room. The cheapest condos, the $4
million ones, have two parking places, whereas the $32+million abodes have room
for four vehicles. Because no one that rich should be forced to drive the same
car two days in a row. And where else but Florida can you fork over $32M to
live in a garage? Up until now Porsche Design earned its keep by selling
overpriced watches and sunglasses, and maybe they should have stuck to that,
because if you look at the picture above, which is a rendering of the inside of
the tower, and the picture below, which is the Hot Wheels Rally Wheel carrying
case, it is clear that Porsche Design stole its idea from Mattel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I don’t know, but I don’t think a view of my red 2007 Honda
Fit (which is quickly fading to pink due to sun exposure) is something I want
to look at from the comfort of my living room. Neither is Other Bill’s 2009
Civic that has been wrecked three times. This is why we plugged up the peephole
in our windowless door that connects the garage with the living room. It’s not
something we’re proud of. I guess the PorscheDesign residents will have more
interesting and less damaged vehicles to swoon over: minivans or something like
that.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The PorscheDesign building is already sold out, even though
the building isn’t finished yet. And you know the people who are going to live
there aren’t the type who will put up with any inefficiency or any error, human
or mechanical, that will even slightly inconvenience them. I just hope these elevators (okay, secretly I
<i>do</i> hope these elevators) turn out to
be like the debacle at Denver International Airport several years ago where their
robotic suitcase placing system didn’t work for over a year, leaving passengers
stranded in a sea of luggage to locate their property. What if the elevator computers are hacked and your
car ends up in someone else’s living room? What if the elevator tries to park
two cars in one space? What is that wet slurping sound I hear? Sounds like
lawyers licking their chops!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I imagine the average Porsche Design homeowner, besides
being stinkin’ rich and expecting only the finer things in life, probably owns
at least two high-end super luxury vehicles that they want to park under mood
lighting and in air conditioned comfort. Probably a lot of them actually work
in Miami in power jobs, even though I suspect quite a few live care-free, trust
funded existences. So maybe a lot of the people who do work might have to leave
their lavish habitues at the same time. The elevators hold only one car at a
time. And these entitled people are not used to having to wait a couple of
minutes to get down to the street. Has Mr. Dezer or Mr. PorscheDesign taken this
into consideration?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What do you do when two people with Trump-like personalities
want to leave their homes at the same time? How is that prioritized? Is the
person who pushes the elevator button first the one who gets the first ride? Do
you have to schedule the elevator in advance, like an appointment with your
plastic surgeon? What if there are other luxury vehicles waiting ahead of you?
What if there are five? That could be an entire five-minute wait for a ride to
the street. And you know these are the same people who run their Maseratis
through traffic lights just because they think they shouldn’t have to wait for
30 seconds to meet their personal trainers or delay their Elizabeth Arden
appointment. Is it just me, or do others see this as possible high-rise mayhem?
What will the Dezer employees, the Dezerettes, do when the complaints start
coming in?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I picture condo owner meetings erupting in riots with savagery
equal to a Trump campaign rally. People will be shouting their reasons why they
should have elevator priority over their neighbors. This will no doubt be
resolved by the creation of an Elevator Priority Club, which people can join
for say, oh, I don’t know, a paltry $200,000 a year. The elevators will all
then be reprogrammed, and the most devious of the residents will pay the
programmers an extra fist full of cash under the table so that they will be classified
as Super-Secret Priority Members of the Elevator Priority Club. Then the
outsmarted, jealous, non-Super-Secret owners, in order to sabotage the
elevators, will order their valets or personal assistants to place large
boulders between the open elevator doors on a lower floor.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And what will residents do when elevator maintenance and the
annual elevator inspections take place? Will the Dezerettes, like some deranged
IT department, have to schedule down time? What if you have an emergency during
the time your elevator is being inspected, or even worse, broken? Do you expect
a personality like that to take the stairs and call Uber? And will the generators be able to keep the
elevators running 24/7 after a hurricane hits and cuts the power lines? The
PorscheDesign Tower is, after all Atlantic oceanfront property and is
considered, how you say—vulnerable—during inclement weather. These
inconveniences are not something entitled rich people will take sitting down in
their rich Corinthian leather massage chairs. Lawsuits will be filed. People
will be forced to find parking for their precious babies in nearby buildings.
Havoc will overtake the Dezers and the Dezerettes. The building will have to be
razed. The next PorscheDesign building will have no car elevators, but will instead
have parking levels just like there are in the rest of the condo buildings in
the barrier islands, many of which, unbelievably, are underground. It’s a good
thing people who live there are republicans who don’t believe in global
warming. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNl49ZCVkA8N2fJOPDCrO2POdz8zW29-fqgbK5NPYaVeTOa_oVjgyBg1D2ID4YUuPeTN_TSxtetDxbMiorAiPniNz8QwXpDGp0N4FsXhEWH0iGF5fhLMdxuIdLXX58K3kwJl-w3ZAmFc07/s1600/hot+wheels.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNl49ZCVkA8N2fJOPDCrO2POdz8zW29-fqgbK5NPYaVeTOa_oVjgyBg1D2ID4YUuPeTN_TSxtetDxbMiorAiPniNz8QwXpDGp0N4FsXhEWH0iGF5fhLMdxuIdLXX58K3kwJl-w3ZAmFc07/s320/hot+wheels.JPG" width="234" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know, it’s only a fantasy. I’m sure everything will be
fine, and no one will be discommoded. No doubt having the status of a
PorscheDesign address will outweigh any inconvenience caused by a delayed
elevator. There is plenty to do in your car while you wait for your elevator to
arrive. For instance, if your car is almost a year old, you can just go online
and read reviews of <i>next year’s</i>
Porsche 918 Spider.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just don’t buy a red one. It’ll fade to pink in the sun,
should your car ever see it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-89483679731860085332016-04-28T17:19:00.002-04:002016-04-28T17:19:46.819-04:00The Goyim Guy's Guide to Passover<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVMfJkzkeBeOWsJzH6B-F5TguifDG2WPabZEydiG3aM-f0ncANRDqcsCR1qi19ujAIRVd8Nr94cfkuugjB62evlOg_SWFsWqyiCsLAnApBG7NzQwPwamQqqvr6lohainP2WJJtPOnm4ad/s1600/gefilte+fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVMfJkzkeBeOWsJzH6B-F5TguifDG2WPabZEydiG3aM-f0ncANRDqcsCR1qi19ujAIRVd8Nr94cfkuugjB62evlOg_SWFsWqyiCsLAnApBG7NzQwPwamQqqvr6lohainP2WJJtPOnm4ad/s320/gefilte+fish.jpg" width="289" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So your significant other invites you to partake in a Seder
with his family. You are not Jewish and are wondering: what is this Passover
thing, and how do I not look like a complete idiot during this dinner?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First of all, get hold of an advance copy of the Haggadah,
which for want of a better definition, is the Seder user manual. Do not ask why
it starts with page 44 and ends on page 1. This is not the Curious Book of
Benjamin Button, but is instead, read from the back cover to the first page. Go through this booklet, cover to cover, and
write down all the words you can’t pronounce. Google them and learn their
pronunciations. Also, practice dry hocking from your throat. This will help you
pronounce words with “ch” in them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To get into the spirit of things, go ahead and wear a
yarmulke. There will probably be a selection of them that the host has swiped
from past bar mitzvahs. Don’t choose the white satin one, or you will look like
the pope. Also, it helps if you’re bald, because the yarmulke will stick to
your head from all the nervous sweat you are emitting from your scalp.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Once you sit down to dinner, you will notice maybe that an
exterior door is open and there is an extra place setting at the table. This is
for the prophet Elijah. He is an invisible being who brings good fortune. He
also is present at all circumcisions of Jewish boys, so don’t sit next to him. Those
hands have been near millions of penises.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, you will be called upon to read from the Haggadah. Make
sure you brought your reading glasses, lest you get stuck with borrowing Aunt Yetta’s
cat’s-eye trifocals. You didn’t come here to look like Dame Edna. Or the pope. And
don’t mumble. Speak up. And don’t read the English words from right to left,
you idiot. That’s for reading Hebrew, which are the hieroglyphics that the well-studied
children at the table can read. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Note that this is not the average dinnertime pigfest that
you are used to. This is a ritual. It will be a while before you get a crack at
that pot roast you are smelling, which, in fact, is not a pot roast, but is
called a brisket. You won’t get to eat anything substantial for quite a while,
so hopefully you had yourself a little nosh before you got there. There are
other foods that you might find scary or are unfamiliar with.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Don’t reach for those gigantic unsalted saltines in the
middle of the table until you’re told to do so. That is matzo, and if you were
smart, at the same time you got your Haggadah, you also brought home a couple
of those copier paper boxes from work and chewed on them until you learned to
like the taste. Even after all these years, you didn’t know that paper cases are
actually made of matzo, did you? Matzo is a very versatile food. Even that
mysterious looking cue ball in your soup is matzo. In many parts of the world,
Matzo is used as pavement and is more durable than asphalt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But the most frightening of foods put in front of you will
be the gefilte fish. You are probably only used to fish that is white or pink but
never beige. So be warned: gefilte is nothing special to look at. It’s not a
perfect square of deep-fried seafood-like product you get at McDonalds, nor
does it look like a lovely pink salmon filet you might get at a non-fast-food restaurant
that serves edible food. Gefilte is something even the handsome,
yellow-slickered Morton’s Fisherman refuses to acknowledge. To be honest, if
you’re not lucky enough to be served homemade gefilte fish, it looks like a
slimy little turd. It looks as if someone got a wad of filthy Play-Doh, rubbed
it between their hands to form a narrow, tapered khaki wad and then blew their
nose on it. Homemade gefilte fish looks much more attractive and is in fact
actually edible. The stuff that comes packed in slimy gelatin from a jar is
not. Nevertheless, so you do not embarrass the partner who dragged you to this
affair, you must eat it. All of it. Hopefully you will be offered a bowl of
horseradish to put on it. Take as much horseradish as you can get away with and
ice that fish-turd like a cake, top to bottom, side to side. Turds are much
more attractive when they are bright pink, so take a big bite and get it down
your throat as fast as you can. Doing this will also help you prepare to be a
contestant on <i>Survivor</i>. After this,
you will be able to eat millipedes, larvae, and mammal eyeballs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There will be songs sung that you don’t know the words to.
You need not do a Muppet-style lip-sync, as no one expects you to be <i>that </i>culturally astute. Besides, you did
not come here to look like Elmo, Dame Edna or the pope. Just smile and look
pretty.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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After the soup and main course is served, you’ll be offered
a variety of unleavened desserts. Don’t call the mandel bread biscotti, and
enjoy the fresh macaroons. You deserve them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-66187241779712476732016-03-02T10:00:00.000-05:002016-03-02T10:00:09.696-05:00Quick Fried to a Crackly Crunch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcofr_xTBvxpvAvEu69J-uftlu8SSfy61fsDBlNwLJLlgrhtxHnge5IxLMAWd81Mgl1PZBB_JqvANISHXKu6TYmm4QredRFnDTcxJO0PJOmlXiK0L5nxei5GEmUfz9ARsrDK9rYwdYkeSt/s1600/Direct+cremation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcofr_xTBvxpvAvEu69J-uftlu8SSfy61fsDBlNwLJLlgrhtxHnge5IxLMAWd81Mgl1PZBB_JqvANISHXKu6TYmm4QredRFnDTcxJO0PJOmlXiK0L5nxei5GEmUfz9ARsrDK9rYwdYkeSt/s320/Direct+cremation.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well I finally talked Other Bill into going to a free lunch
sponsored by the Neptune Society, those guys who have been promoting cheap
cremations for the last few decades. All I wanted them to do is tell me how
much it ran to toast a dead body, but apparently you can’t be privy to that
information unless you set up a visit with a counselor or attend one of these
lunch things that are advertised in the paper.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Other Bill never wanted to deal with this. In fact, I had to
twist his arm years ago to agree to getting our wills written. He likes to joke
about wanting us to die together in a plane crash so no one will find our
bodies, or just having wicks inserted in our heads so when one of us stops
breathing, all the other has to do is light a match. But reluctantly he went
along this time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve had a long-standing beef with the whole funeral home
industry for years which I have previously documented here. Now that funeral
homes and cemeteries have gone hi-tech, there is no end to the number of gizmos
and gimmicks they will try to get you to sign up for. No one is going to be
able to walk up to my final resting place and through the miracle of wifi and
global positioning, see my professionally produced (at a huge fee) videography,
because my crispy remains will be in some unknown place or at the bottom of
some body of water, probably illegally. They won’t be on anyone’s mantle,
either.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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My feeling on the afterlife is pretty cut and dry; i.e.,
you’re dead. So why set aside an obscene amount of money for a satin-lined
Posturepedic coffin to lie back and rot in? Your spirit, your love, your sense
of humor, all the things that people will remember you for are also gone. All
that’s left is your decaying vessel, so let’s deal with that as quickly and
cleanly as possible and call it a day, shall we?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So we get to this tv-lined sports bar and go to the special
event room, where a young Peruvian lesbian greeted us and gave us some
paperwork (which didn’t have the cremation price on it). In a few minutes three
more men, all older than us, sauntered in. Two of them, who clearly were in
their 80’s (and probably not planning on living much longer), started hitting
on her. Telling her what a beautiful woman she was. Asking if she was single. She
handled it with grace and dignity, because not doing so could easily have cost her
a sale. But c’mon, guys. Okay, so it’s not always easy to zero in on a person’s
sexual orientation; I’ll give you that. But what did you think your chances
were, being a half-century her senior, that after your death discussion that
she’d go home, pack a bag and move in with you? 50-50? Not even close. So cut
that shit out, for God’s sake. It’s 2016, not the year YOU were born.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One guy in particular was a pain in the ass from the get-go.
Besides practically wolf-whistling and making goo-goo eyes at the presenter, he
also, instead of sitting at the table set out for him, imposed himself on a
kindly French gentleman, who, I suspect, would have rather sat alone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The guy also gave the waitress a hard time. He wanted a full
sandwich and a salad, when the menu option was for just half a sandwich and a
salad. The waitress said he could add a salad to his full sandwich for three
dollars, but then he played stupid, giving her the “I don’t understand why he
gets a sandwich and salad and I have to pay $3 for mine” routine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Then before the knockout lesbian could barely open the
presentation, he started going on and on about how he wasn’t planning on dying,
because he was happy just as he was alive.
If there had been a buttered roll on my table, I would have thrown it at
him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So the presentation went along well enough and was
moderately interactive, with other Bill and I being the only other two in the
room to verbally participate.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The presenter talked about how funeral homes will always try
to “upsell you” by preying on your emotional state and talking you into things
you don’t need, like a pricier casket or other extras they say your loved one
would have wanted. This led to a discussion about pre-planning and making your
needs known.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But the thing about the Neptune Society is, there is a base
price (and I won’t tell you want it is. Go to your own old man lunch) that
requires you to die within a 75 mile radius of your local Neptune Society
crematorium. After that, it’s three dollars a mile, just like the $3 side salad
that the waitress gave that old fart for free because she was sick of the
harassment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Three dollars a mile. Who knew that dying was like renting a
car?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, so we got it. In order for it to be effective, you had
to really sign up with the premium account that was $500 more, and then you
could die anywhere you wanted to, without incurring any mileage surcharges. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But what really frosted my fine hairs was that both packages
came with a “beautiful cherry box” that held a commemorative picture frame and
an urn to put your loved one’s ashes in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If that’s not upselling, I don’t know what is. Before I
could ask if it was cheaper to buy it without the made-in-China box and cheesy
frame, she said it was all part of the complete package and could not be
excluded from the deal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So then they gave us the price of both versions. The
annoying man who wasn’t planning on dying just got up, tossed his napkin on the
table, and walked out of the room. His French table partner rolled his eyes,
and I gave him a sympathetic look.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The patient presenter chatted with us for a few minutes, and
acknowledged that we were a couple even though we didn’t use the secret gay
handshake. We said we wanted time to discuss it, even though, for me at least,
once she uttered the word, “urn” all bets were off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the hooks to the program was how easy this would make
things for your children. At the time of your death all they would have to do
is remove your membership card from your wallet, call the toll-free number, and
everything would be taken care of. No fuss, no muss. Our presenter said, “What
would you rather give them: The card or the phone book so they could start
calling funeral homes during their beginning stages of grief?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t think we’ll need either the card or the phone book.
All we’ll need is Google. You can get a non-Neptune direct cremation for around
$500. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ll use the savings to pay for a full sandwich and a full
salad. And dessert, please.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Photo Via Flickr User
Justin Dolske</span></div>
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End of SimpleHitCounter Code --></span>Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-23004278174120639092016-01-18T18:51:00.000-05:002016-01-18T18:51:02.726-05:00Dreary Air<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I would like to publicly express my gratitude to all of the super-budget, “no class” airlines for still offering free bathroom privileges. I’d also like to thank the FAA for mandating gratis oxygen and life vests, in the case of an emergency situation. (Someone I know actually stole a life vest off of a jet, just so he could watch one inflate when you pulled that cord. It was something to see, and unexpectedly loud.)<br />
<br />
Honest to God, these airlines really hate us. Except for the free use of their toilets, they have taken away everything that could possibly make flying a pleasant experience. Being the cheapskate I am, I am now a master at making online reservations with these guys. If you actually speak to a reservations representative or even get a passing glimpse at a gate agent, they charge you.<br />
<br />
I’ve flown two of these airlines, and they want you to pay a la carte for everything. After clicking NO for booking a hotel, renting a car, buying travel insurance, paying for a carry-on bag smaller than a deck of cards, or forking over money for airport check-in, you are asked if you want to reserve a seat on the plane. I realize that to the inexperienced skinflint traveler this may be a little off-putting, because most people think that by this time they already have made the reservation, but no. Instead, you are presented with a floor plan of a no-class small jet, and are offered the opportunity to BUY a seat for ten to fifty dollars. The first time I thought about flying on Inferi-Air, I shut down the app at that point and decided to drive, because I didn’t want to tack on an additional $40 to $200 for a trip for two. The secret is to realize you can skip the seat reservation process, which then puts you at the mercy of Air Unfair, which will assign you and your spouse two center seats at opposite ends of the jet so in case you crash, you don’t get to die together. This is why I always bring walkie-talkies on the airplane. No one ever asks you to turn off your walkie-talkies, so they are perfectly legal.<br />
<br />
One airline, Spirit, gives you the chance to pay a dollar to use napkins made of recycled paper on the flight. I am dead serious about this. Look, Spirit, you are dealing with the cheapest of the cheap Americans here. If loved ones are willing to die without the ability to hold hands on the spin-out, do you really think their resentment will be curtailed long enough to give you a buck for asswipe napkins? Give it up. How desperate can you get?<br />
<br />
One thing you can’t help but notice on Air Despair are the measures they have taken to make you uncomfortable. The $10 seats, which are also the free seats if you fail to reserve them, no longer have creature comforts like padding or springs in the seats. The chairs, which are sixteen inches wide, are made of molded plastic, like the ones in your music room in elementary school. They are covered with Velcro-attached vinyl covers that can be easily removed in case you vomit on them, because Air Contraire does not offer complimentary barf bags.<br />
<br />
Once you get off the ground and you radio your loved one to make sure they haven’t thrown up, you can sit and relax. Notice I didn’t say that you can sit BACK and relax, because the music room seats do not recline. Even the $50 seats are static. Now would be a good time to look in the seat pocket in front of you to see how much you have to pay for a cocktail and a nutsack. Sadly, you can’t, because there is no seat pocket. There is only a bungee cord that holds in the FAA-mandated emergency card. Also there is a little brochure obviously put together by a graphic design intern at Nightmare Air, and when you unfold it you discover that two bottom shelf cocktails and half a corn chip will set you back $24.95. Perhaps you’d like to pull down your tray table so you can prop up your iPad and watch a movie. Sorry, gotta keep that on your lap, because your snack “tray” is the size of an emery board and will not support electronics.<br />
<br />
I shouldn’t be so hard on these budget carriers. Seriously, a hundred bucks to fly a total of 1200 round trip miles can’t be beat. If you are okay with not-even-a-chance frills, you’ll be complacent here.<br />
<br />
In 1964 I took my first flight on Continental Airlines. There were sticks of gum and a pack of four Parliament cigarettes placed on every seat before you boarded the plane. There were removable doilies on the headrests to guarantee you had no hair-generated bugs passed from the previous passengers. The stewardess gave me little pin-on wings and let me go up and look inside the cockpit. There was a choice of two hot meals served on china with stainless utensils. The cushy seats reclined way back, and they offered you pillows and blankets so you could actually sleep. You could check three suitcases for free. The well-put-together stewardesses wore crisp uniforms and nifty pillbox hats. Before the plane took off, they came down the aisle with an assortment of magazines and newspapers for you to read. And this was coach, not first class<br />
<br />
On Air Bedsore, there is none of that, and none of the modern nice-to-haves like internet access, TV channels, or headphones for music are offered. The one perk is that the arms of the chairs do fold up so the stranger next to you can release his bulbous spare tire into eight of the sixteen inches you are allotted.<br />
<br />
And the flight attendant is either a bitter woman who can’t get hired anywhere else because she is in her late 50’s, or some grimy grunge boy with over-gelled blue-black dyed hair and outstretched piercings. Gay men wouldn’t touch jobs on Aer Dingus with a ten-foot oxygen hose. On my last flight I listened to one of the attendants spew forth to her co-worker the tale of her husband who left their family last year in the middle of a mid-life crisis. Admittedly, this was better than being able to watch a Lifetime movie on the non-existent screen built into the absent headrest in front of me. Her co-worker was too involved in picking at his acne to respond to her plight.<br />
<br />
Just when you think you have endured all the abuse and humiliation that a passenger can take, they make an end-of-flight announcement that physically hurts. You are asked to bring your unreclinable seat back to its upright position. Really. They rub it in. And then the punk/goth/unbackground-screened, dirty-t-shirt-wearing flight attendant comes down the aisle begging you to sign up for the Disrep Air Mastercard, which comes with 40,000 free miles, redeemable for two more round-trip flights from hell.<br />
<br />
And because you had to ask, yes, I filled out the application. Other Bill and I have another short flight to take in six weeks, and I want Air Beware to pay for it.<br />
<br />
Hopefully I’ll remember to buy fresh batteries for the walkie-talkies. No one likes to die alone.<br />
<br />
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Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-73021350752836115952015-12-30T15:52:00.000-05:002015-12-30T16:34:11.494-05:00Happy Holidays from UPS<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi86u7bQaUlVyNZFhf674wxy98kSnh3G_rXjM4dxvF4J9hFHZELq6oryVzXgqm_mzr4JvreGOIRWgkLdw-NeEDQm02NgYRPMlCncjpIleTHAZAw1AHqjotZi6t4jp-69WglQaqrBbFDhkc2/s1600/UPS+Returns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi86u7bQaUlVyNZFhf674wxy98kSnh3G_rXjM4dxvF4J9hFHZELq6oryVzXgqm_mzr4JvreGOIRWgkLdw-NeEDQm02NgYRPMlCncjpIleTHAZAw1AHqjotZi6t4jp-69WglQaqrBbFDhkc2/s320/UPS+Returns.jpg" width="217" /></a>In October of 2014, United Parcel Service unveiled its UPS
Access Point program. An access point is, allegedly, a network of retail
establishments with convenient hours, staffed by UPS-employee-trained, um,
professionals who know how to give you a package or accept a package for
shipping. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Initially it was started in urban areas to help curb rising
thefts of packages left on doorsteps. Given what I went through last
week—that’s right, Christmas week—I think I’ll trust future packages with the
thieves. If only I had that option.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So the Tuesday before Christmas, a UPS driver stuck a
pre-printed label on my door, saying a package was left at 4101 (street name
deleted). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Be aware that I wasn’t expecting a package, but Other Bill
thought it might be a sweatshirt he ordered but wasn’t expecting that soon. This
was the first time UPS didn’t just leave the package hidden in the bushes next
to my front door, which has always worked out just fine. But apparently our
address has been Access Pointed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So Wednesday I went to this UPS Access Point at 4101 (street
name deleted). It was a sushi bar. I wasn’t about to go into a sushi bar and
ask if they had a package for me. It was just too ridiculous to believe. So I
got back in the car and started to go home and noticed that there was a second
business at 4101 (street name deleted) in the same plaza. I’m not kidding. Same
address, different business. It was a pharmacy. But there was a tiny US Postal
Service sign on the door of the pharmacy, so I was less embarrassed asking a
postal employee if they had my UPS package than I would a busboy or fish
cutter, so I went in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not wanting to interrupt a somewhat lengthy conversation by
the two allegedly-trained-by-UPS-employees, I patiently stood there waiting
while they discussed the Christmas shopping they still had to do. They rattled
off lists of recipients and what they were getting, sizes they wore, possible
prices or deals they could get on the stuff. You know: critical information
employees must spew out in order to keep a customer waiting. One of them must
have heard my teeth grinding, so she took my door sticker and shuffled off to
the little package closet where the not-ready-for-home-delivery packages were. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The lady picked up each package, dusted it off, and went
over each package with a magnifying glass and a lice comb. “What’s the name?” She asked for the third time. I
told her Other Bill’s last name and mine. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heavy packages, light packages, small packages, large
packages, envelopes of varying sizes, plastic pouches: each was examined with unnerving
scrutiny. She brought out several different packages and handed them to me,
asking if they were mine. Well, none had our names on them or our address, so I
guessed they weren’t. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sometimes they put a sticker on them that covers the name,”
she said, although none of the ones she gave me had the name or address hidden.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, about fifteen minutes later, she concluded, “I
don’t think it’s here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well it should be here,” I said. “They left the sticker on
my door yesterday, so it should have been delivered here yesterday afternoon.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She shrugged. “I dunno,” she said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is there a number I can call?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I dunno.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Really? An allegedly trained-by-UPS-employees employee, and
she didn’t even give me the 800-PICK-UPS number that I already knew. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gnashing my teeth still, I left the ambiguous address, drove
home and called UPS.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me tell you something about 1-800-PICK-UPS. You can’t
speak to a human unless you have a tracking number, and if you have a tracking
number, they give you the pre-recorded status of your package, which I already
knew was wrong. I desperately wanted to speak to a human.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry,” the recording said, “you need to enter your
tracking number.” I pressed zero. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry,” she said again, “I didn’t quite get that.
Please say your tracking number.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t have it,” I tried.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry, I still didn’t get that. Please enter your
tracking number.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“AGENT!” I screamed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can get you to an agent, but first, please say your
tracking number.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“FUCK YOU!” I barked, and then, I kid you not, the clouds
parted, the sun shone through my front window, and a miracle occurred. I was
actually transferred to an agent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Due to unusually large holiday call volume, you may
experience extended wait times. Your call will be answered in nine minutes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Great, that should be time enough for the Valium to kick in,
I thought, swallowing a pill.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally a human came on. I gave her my tracking number, and
she told me the package was on the truck and would be delivered to my door by
five o’clock. I immediately regretted not saving the Valium for a more
difficult situation. She also told me to sign the back of the door sticker and
put it back on the door. Although I planned to be home all night and would
eagerly be there to assassinate the UPS driver, I did what she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is anyone surprised that UPS did not show up with my package
by five o’clock, or any time after that on Wednesday? Of course not. I don’t
know why I even bothered to leave the outside light on until 7:00.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So Thursday, Christmas Eve, I was released from work early,
and I got home and called PICKUPS, gave the recorded lady my tracking number,
and she said, “Your package can be picked up at 4101 (street name deleted)
today before seven PM.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was 2 PM, so I had time. Back in the car. Drove by the
sushi bar to the second 4101 and walked to the back of the pharmacy to the
Access Point, where the lights were off. The pharmacist said they had closed at
1 PM because it was Christmas Eve.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, okay, no Christmas surprises for us, I figured. I
contemplated calling UPS back, barking expletives to the recording again,
waiting 10 minutes for a human and saying the same thing to her, but by this
time there was no point. I’m sure the package, whatever it was, would be safe
in the closet with the magnifying glasses and nit combs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Friday was Christmas. Movie and Chinese food, so no one even
thought of the elusive UPS package.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So Saturday I called 4101 to see if they were open, and
Other Bill and I drove back over there. I let him go in and do the work, since
I had failed twice. I sat in the car with my
emotional-support-better-than-Valium dog. Ten minutes went by, and I knew Other
Bill would not be coming out with a package. A while later he came out and said
I should come in to help explain what I’d been told on the phone by UPS.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time there was a different woman at the UPS Access
Point Genius Bar. I told her that UPS told me that the package had been
delivered there on Wednesday at 4:30, about an hour after I had been there the
first time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well sometimes they tell you it has been delivered when it
really is still on the truck,” she said. And then she rambled on about a
personal shipping experience she, even as a trained-by-UPS-employees employee, had
had, but I didn’t comprehend it, because I was too busy hemorrhaging from my
ears and eyes at this point, so I felt my way out of the store back to the
calming nature of the dog, who stopped the bleeding with her tongue. Other
Bill, the compassionate one, I’m sure said nice things and thanked the Genius
Bar employee for her assistance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back at home, I once again summoned 1-800-PICK-UPS, but I
was too embarrassed to say “fuck you” to the recorded lady in front of Other
Bill, so I slurred mock tracking numbers over a period of several minutes until
I was transferred to an agent with a five minute wait time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By then I just wanted to know where the package was from so
we could determine if it was the missing sweat shirt. “Of course,” said the
agent, and in a minute she said, “Okay, this package was sent to Tina (last
name deleted), shipped from—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wait, hold on,” I interrupted. “You’re telling me after all
the shit I’ve been through that this package is for my next door neighbor and
the driver put the sticker on the wrong door?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t hear her answer, and I probably said something
worse than what got me to an agent in the first place on Wednesday, and then I
hung up on her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today the sweatshirt arrived, and it was waiting on my
doorstep in a US Postal Service Priority Mail box when I got home from
work. Unfortunately it was the wrong
size, so we have to send it back. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wonder which carrier I should use.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-60273633234511473792015-08-28T17:29:00.003-04:002015-08-28T17:30:42.550-04:00Chatty Catheter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWwrGmnpvEseAQG3-iK5dS4l9tjCCEuYfUAbiwaYFJPKyMuzWWL2_Bra58b6FsDPXYhvUXkqBMkfbE7xyouAF9jm4cuoDLZmU3bXV79IczbVHYJP8A5kdnayxMvG3AWSYN67R1Ib9ubv_q/s1600/chatty+catheter+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWwrGmnpvEseAQG3-iK5dS4l9tjCCEuYfUAbiwaYFJPKyMuzWWL2_Bra58b6FsDPXYhvUXkqBMkfbE7xyouAF9jm4cuoDLZmU3bXV79IczbVHYJP8A5kdnayxMvG3AWSYN67R1Ib9ubv_q/s320/chatty+catheter+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take away my microwave. Hell, take away my smart phone. Just
leave me with Turner Classic movies and a video recording device.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because there is a tropical storm thumbing its nose in the
Atlantic this morning, I altered my schedule when I woke up. Normally I feed
the dog, let her out, and get on with my day. But today I tuned in to The
Weather Channel hoping to catch the latest <i>Tropical
Update</i>. Instead I got Al Roper (who apparently has been super-sizing his
Happy Meals again) babbling about climate change. After that, he cut to <i>Local on the 8’s</i>, which, is just Muzak
with a map of today’s high temperatures across the country. They can squeeze a
lady into a box the size of a credit card and have her give me turn-by-turn
instructions from here to Walla Walla, but they can’t figure out how to cut to
a local station to tell me if I should pack an umbrella today.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So after Nothing Local at 5:58, there were four minutes of
unending commercials. And the dog was getting impatient. She was giving me that
<i>you’ve got one more minute and then
you’ll be going for the mop</i> look.
Normally I don’t watch commercials. I usually watch commercial-free
Turner Classic Movies or skip through them because I pay a monthly fee to
digitally record the shows I want to see.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I learned that apparently there is a biiiiiiiiiiig market
in the country for catheters. I don’t know why. I don’t <i>want </i>to know why. Just
thinking about a catheter makes parts of me pucker and my stomach do a little
flip.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t want to see them, either, but there they were, in
plain sight. If you call a toll free number, you can get a free catheter
sampler pack, including the ever-so-popular pocket catheter. What does that do?
Drain the coins out of your pants?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently there are many different catheters to choose
from. “Hundreds of choices” according to
the website I visited (and left an everlasting historical imprint on my work
computer for my superiors to wince at). But in the commercial, words like “pre-lubricated,” “no-drips,
no mess,” “reduces UTI’s” and “reduces friction and pain” send my nausea level
to the puking point. For Chrissake, I just want to see if I need to lower my
storm shutters! Have a little dignity, Weather Channel!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know, Other Bill has to have medicine shot into his eye
every eight weeks. Yes, a hypodermic syringe stabbed right into the white of
his eye. If traffic is bad, it can take us over two hours to get to the doctor
who performs this procedure. Wouldn’t it be great if we could do it at home?
Let’s do a commercial for <i>that</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Attention Ocular Melanoma and Macular Degeneration patients!
Now you can get your Avastin injection supplies delivered directly to your home
at no cost to you! We’ll automatically bill your insurance company or Medicare!
Call this toll-free number now to receive your free syringe sample pack,
including the popular ten-penny needle! Less trauma! Less bleeding! Fewer
Infections! Less screaming!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s see how much puckering occurs across America when <i>that </i>airs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why are we forced to face the gross realities of life on
commercial TV? You never saw commercials for vaginal dryness in the 50’s. Can’t
we please go back to that? I guess it all started with commercials for
Preparation H and “feminine protection.” Half of us menstruated, and a third of
us suffered some symptoms of hemorrhoids, so let’s get bleeding orifices out of
the closet and onto the dinner table where we could engage them in a gleeful
discussion. Say it loud: We ooze and we’re proud!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And don’t think for a minute that you can alleviate the
gross-out factor by animating it. I can gag just as hard watching the slimy
green snotwads in a Mucinex commercial or those horrific creatures in the
Lamisil commercials that rip off a big toenail and start boring down underneath
it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remember this?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuhqyVxR-4Qs0l-TRWq4RZfB-z7LnwSpLOfhd2xHVF3-ZC-qn5C4-tmhhUMM-Spe1qnDHu-vmJ-V3FeZmWVCAG1sOd1ihn-gO0oiLyntV990LOrx2XBR1kn0EaYDcFnIVimOBsVFHvyYN5/s1600/chatty+catheter+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuhqyVxR-4Qs0l-TRWq4RZfB-z7LnwSpLOfhd2xHVF3-ZC-qn5C4-tmhhUMM-Spe1qnDHu-vmJ-V3FeZmWVCAG1sOd1ihn-gO0oiLyntV990LOrx2XBR1kn0EaYDcFnIVimOBsVFHvyYN5/s1600/chatty+catheter+1.jpg" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It appeared at the end credits of TV shows up until 1983. It
was a way for networks to voluntarily abide by a code of decency that lasted
from the fifties until the National Association of Broadcasters was sued and
made to end it all. Okay, call it censorship. But it would be nice if we had
something like this for commercials. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll be glad when the day comes when we all have internet
access and we can all get information voluntarily through a search engine. That
way those who want exclusive deals on douche bags and enemas can look for them
privately without disturbing the rest of us in the family room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My stomach and puckering parts will be much happier then.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/" rel="license"><img alt="Creative Commons License" src="http://i.creativecommons.org/l/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/88x31.png" style="border-width: 0;" /></a><br /><span property="dc:title" xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/">billwiley.blogspot.com</span> by <a href="https://www.blogger.com/billwiley.blogspot.com" property="cc:attributionName" rel="cc:attributionURL" xmlns:cc="http://creativecommons.org/ns#">Bill Wiley</a> is licensed under a
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/" rel="license">Creative
Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States
License</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-87282050381829717802015-08-28T17:14:00.001-04:002015-08-28T17:14:45.973-04:00Yowzers!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDkVf1CFrBDjz0dyG1v00naK5smZc32ieB8uyeth9W_TPus6_MdGrEpdMxWeoq5sLF-0P_bDfHH83d7eKCIUQfLIAQ6XE2edJrlvFVE5IkvXvohvrTPaztxlTQagB13sRkAP6xuAxb2VfN/s1600/rape+axe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDkVf1CFrBDjz0dyG1v00naK5smZc32ieB8uyeth9W_TPus6_MdGrEpdMxWeoq5sLF-0P_bDfHH83d7eKCIUQfLIAQ6XE2edJrlvFVE5IkvXvohvrTPaztxlTQagB13sRkAP6xuAxb2VfN/s320/rape+axe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remember that old Black Flag Roach Motel commercial with the
tag line: “Roaches check in but they don’t check out”? And do you recall the
Eagles’ <i>Hotel California</i> line: “You
can check out any time you like, but you can never leave”?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sticking with this theme, a woman in South Africa named
Sonnet Ellers invented a female condom that was supposed to discourage rapists
at the 2010 World Cup, which apparently is a hotbed of rape for riled-up,
partying straight men. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The condom is designed with sharp, inward-pointing spikes
that are harmless to the penis upon insertion, but will dig into and shred the
penis upon withdrawal. Think of Chinese finger traps but much more damagomg. After its claws dig into
you and you walk away screaming with it stuck to your manhood, the condom can
only be removed surgically, which would allegedly encourage a suspicious ER doctor
to report the patient to the authorities.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will never again return a rental car and drive over those
tire-shredding spikes that warn you with the “Do not back up! Severe tire
damage will result!” signs without wincing a bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ms. Ellers’ plan was to distribute thousands of these
devices to women during the World Cup event, provided she got production-funding
donations. Snopes.com reports that there is no evidence that this ever
happened. Maybe her GoFundMe account didn’t receive a lot of support. Certainly
not from male World Cup, so to speak, attendees that year.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The device is called the Rape aXe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is no evidence that I can find that the device is
available now for sale, but if you go hunting for one on the web, you can find
a lot of blood-thirsty Lorena Bobbitt wannabes who find the device as desirable
as the most popular, hard-to-find Christmas gift that every child wants. It’s
the Teddy Ruxpin/Beany Baby/Tickle Me Elmo/Cabbage Patch Kid of the
contraception community. Without receiving an answer, Estelle Davis of Oakland
comments, “Is the Rape-Axe available for purchase in the United States?”
Similarly, “Christina” in Pennsylvania questions, “I too would like to know if
Rape Axe is available for purchase in the United States.” This, no doubt, has given Pennsylvania women
named Christina a tough time getting dates.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Granted, I think that rapists certainly deserve something
like this Medieval Surprise. If it were up to me, their punishment would to be
as physically and emotionally scarred as their victims. But if I were a woman,
I’d certainly have some safety concerns about walking around wearing razor wire
in my vagina. I would be worried about something disintegrating and having the
whole thing backfire on me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe the device isn’t for sale, but some women are managing
to get their, uh, hands on them. Recently I was told that on a Spanish TV
channel’s court show, a man was suing a woman for damages he received after
having consensual sex with a woman who “forgot” she was wearing that cheese
grater inside of her. I have a couple of questions about that. First, how long was
that thing in there, and how do you forget that your vagina is armed and
dangerous?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And secondly, is it really worth $5000 to go on TV and let
the world know you got your pecker caught in a Veg-o-Matic?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think not.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/" rel="license"><img alt="Creative Commons License" src="http://i.creativecommons.org/l/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/88x31.png" style="border-width: 0;" /></a><br /><span property="dc:title" xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/">billwiley.blogspot.com</span> by <a href="https://www.blogger.com/billwiley.blogspot.com" property="cc:attributionName" rel="cc:attributionURL" xmlns:cc="http://creativecommons.org/ns#">Bill Wiley</a> is licensed under a
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/" rel="license">Creative
Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States
License</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-56699235722088155452015-08-28T17:06:00.000-04:002015-08-28T17:06:13.215-04:00"The" Teddy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2P9AnleAz8K1o0eWLLXpaWFF512L_ql9q32ZmJCB8uRlEltp4yE5Kqgv3yFU3YikWVxi7lk6gFc8beVp-GLnh5YwJ3iDwQzM9yNI7OUveZpyJrs-wZi6pZ9-Hb0Ro-SiYCzeA8cr4DdDu/s1600/gaylord.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2P9AnleAz8K1o0eWLLXpaWFF512L_ql9q32ZmJCB8uRlEltp4yE5Kqgv3yFU3YikWVxi7lk6gFc8beVp-GLnh5YwJ3iDwQzM9yNI7OUveZpyJrs-wZi6pZ9-Hb0Ro-SiYCzeA8cr4DdDu/s320/gaylord.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was in kindergarten, there was a kid named Teddy who
lived in a great big house. His family had a lot of money, and Teddy was quite
outspoken. He wasn’t good at sharing, and he snapped at anyone who encroached
his surroundings or tried to play with his many things.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That year around Christmastime, the Ideal Toy Company came
out with the “It” toy of year. He was a mechanical plastic basset hound that
came with its own leash. When you pulled on the leash, all these gears would
start grinding, and Gaylord’s battery-operated four legs would start moving, so
the dog could actually walk with you. Not very fast, mind you, but you could
crawl right beside him. Gaylord also had a magnet hidden in his snout. When you
walked him to his steel bone, it would attach to his snout, and it looked like
the plastic pup could fetch and carry his own bone in his mouth. Gaylord could
even walk backwards. He was totally cool.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everyone wanted Gaylord. Even I, a cat person, wanted
Gaylord. It was like having your very own robot. Gaylord, however, was out of
most families’ budgets for toys. And I suppose most parents thought: <i>let’s get him a </i>real <i>dog</i>, or <i>he already has a dog</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So right after Christmas break, our little school van pulled
up to Teddy’s mansion, and out pops Teddy with his shiny new Gaylord in tow. At
a snail’s pace, they proceeded to the van as we all lined up at the windows to
see the actual “It” toy crawling in all his glory. Teddy beamed with pride and
ignored the bus driver’s call to “pick up the dog and get on the bus. He was like
the new Miss America parading down the runway. Look at me! Look at us! Look at
what I have!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, the bus driver got sick of this grandstanding and
got out of the bus. Before she could reach Teddy though, he snatched up his pet
dog, slipped past the driver and into the van.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nobody touches this dog! He’s MY GAYLORD!” He warned us.
And the rest of the day, he guarded Gaylord as if he was the president, not
letting anyone get near his prized plastic hound. No one was allowed to pull
Gaylord’s leash or to walk with him or even get near him. “GET YOUR OWN!” Teddy
would yell at anyone approaching his perimeter. Gaylord made this one-day
appearance solely to make us jealous and was the star at show and tell that
day, although by the time show and tell came around, we had already been shown
and told more than we wanted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everyone was pretty sore about that Gaylord day. We tried
not to show our envy, but Teddy already knew the truth. Teddy never seemed to
mind that people hated him, or at the very least, had ill will toward him. He
seemed to be happy in his assumption about himself that because he had more he
was better and always right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Teddy was always the attention seeker and a showoff. He
picked fights with people and then blamed them for “starting it.” He cried when
he didn’t get his way and bullied little girls, using words we’d never heard
before. He got in trouble sometimes for interrupting the teacher to voice his
opinion, and since all of us at kindergarten were given swimming lessons, Teddy
was the first to show off that at age five he had already learned to do a back
flip off the side of the pool. The owner of the school warned him, after the
first back flip, never to do it again, and he was even paddled for disobeying
that order and made to leave the pool and get dressed before swim time was
over. He didn’t care. No one else could do a back flip. He never realized that
it wasn’t that we couldn’t; it’s just that we wouldn’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One day during free swim I wandered into the deep end and
looked down at the drain. There was someone down there, but they weren’t moving.
He had black hair like Teddy. I called out to the school owner that someone was
stuck down on the drain. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What happened after that was a blur. A man dived down to the
bottom of the pool, and someone else yelled, “Everyone get out of the pool NOW”
I watched adults jerk kids out of the pool by their arms. I saw the diver rise
out of the water with unconscious Teddy, and I remember an ambulance coming and
taking him off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later we learned that someone had seen Teddy do a back flip
again, and apparently he banged his noggin on the side of the pool and was
knocked unconscious and sank down to the bottom of the pool. No one talked
about karma back then, but I don’t think I was the only one who thought he had
it coming.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Teddy lived to tell about both the incident and all the
presents he had gotten while he was in the hospital. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think sometime afterward we got lectured again to remind
us that back diving and “sailor diving” (where you dive into the pool head
first with no arms over your head) were strictly prohibited, and that anyone
caught doing that would lose their pool privileges for the remainder of the
year.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was no reward for the kid who discovered the little brat
lying on the bottom of the pool. No thank-you letter from Teddy’s parents,
certainly no Gaylord reward. We kind of just went about our business,
continuing to hate Teddy for being rich, arrogant and a show-off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never knew what happened to Teddy. He probably grew up and
went to private school and became successful and as rich as his parents. I
scoured Google and Facebook without success to find him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But when I was watching the Republican debate last week and
saw Donald Trump shrugging, making faces, blaming others, calling people names
and insisting the world revolved around him, I thought: Teddy. This is what
Teddy turned into.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-53737038664708336422015-07-22T10:25:00.000-04:002015-07-22T10:25:07.073-04:00How to Die and Make the News<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMBimjdssCV9r8o6EDr-9BKjO5Yri2uzRa3IrlNb4ymkpfAt-kJWtvjJcwGLeLBLBs-Ik0mN-nfE40HxeO_4coLHZgVM3vHkTkDSqgkB9BR77Kz8NHe5TRGUnr6JU5ntVdwg79laDR8SO9/s1600/sturgeon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMBimjdssCV9r8o6EDr-9BKjO5Yri2uzRa3IrlNb4ymkpfAt-kJWtvjJcwGLeLBLBs-Ik0mN-nfE40HxeO_4coLHZgVM3vHkTkDSqgkB9BR77Kz8NHe5TRGUnr6JU5ntVdwg79laDR8SO9/s320/sturgeon.jpg" width="230" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently a five-year-old girl was killed when a large
sturgeon jumped out of the Suwanee River and landed on top of her in the boat
she was riding in. Tragic, indeed, to die so young and in such a bizarre way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But frankly, I think sudden, unexpected, and quick death is
the best way to go. Everyone wants to die in their sleep, but too often that is
preceded by prolonged pain and suffering. Although sudden death is probably the
worst case scenario for the friends and families of the victim, I’d sure choose
it over, say, months or years of chemo, throwing up, wasting away, enduring
pain, shitting myself and prolonged anguish every day. Here are some choice
methods for quick deaths that have taken place, so keep these in mind should
you be diagnosed with cancer of a major organ. I’m not suggesting you take a
dive into a wood chipper, mind you. There are other ways.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Spring Forward, Fall
Back. </b>Three Palestinian suicide bombers died an hour before their planned
demise and took no other victims, because the bombs had been set to go off by
someone else on daylight savings time, and the bombers already switched their
watches to standard time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Isadora Duncan
Wannabe/Safety Line Death. </b>In Seattle, Jackson Roos was riding a zip line
in his back yard when the safety line caught on his helmet and choked him to
death.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>When You Gotta Go,
You Gotta Go.</b> A man who couldn’t hold it any longer and went between subway
cars in New York City to take a dump and died after falling onto the tracks and
was crushed by speeding subway cars.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Isadora Duncan
Wannabe II and III.</b> A burka-wearing Muslim woman in Sydney was strangled
when her scarf wrapped around the axle of the go-kart she was speeding around
in and strangled her. In Turkey, another was beheaded doing the same thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Unsafe Sex.</b> A man
in the Ukraine had both legs severed, and his girlfriend was killed after being
run over by a train while having sex on the tracks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Where’s the Beef? </b>In
Brazil, a man sleeping next to his wife died of internal injuries after a 3,000
pound cow fell through his corrugated roof. The wife and cow were unharmed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Leave it to Beaver. </b>Attempting
to take a selfie with a beaver, a Belarus man was killed when the beaver bit
him, severing an artery in his leg.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I Did it for the
Snake.</b> In order to win a pet ball python, a 32-year-old Florida (where
else?) man died after winning a cockroach-eating contest in 2012.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Wile E. Coyote
Wannabe.</b> A woman in England survived a 100-foot fall after a flock of sheep
charged her and the motorcycle she was riding. The woman survived the fall but
was struck and killed by the bike. She then held up a sign that read, “Ouch!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Death by Pharrell
Williams.</b> 32-year-old, overjoyed non-seatbelt-wearing, car-selfie posting
Courtney Sanford, not paying attention to her driving, wrote on Facebook from
her car, “The happy song makes me so HAPPY!” seconds before plowing head-on
into a recycling truck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Going Up, Doctor? </b>A
physician, after boarding an elevator at a Texas hospital, was decapitated when
his head got caught between elevator doors, and the car of the elevator
ascended. Third floor: fabrics, notions, kitchenware, and torsos.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Is it True Blondes
Have More Fun? </b>While driving in England, a hairdresser was incinerated
after hair bleach chemicals leaked out, forming a flammable gas. The woman then
lit a cigarette.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Wile E. Coyote
Wannabe II.</b> James Heselden, the owner of the Segway Company, died after
driving a Segway off a cliff in Yorkshire, England.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Bazooka Joe. </b>A
Ukrainian student had his face blown off after dipping a piece of gum into an
explosive compound.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Death by Office
Supply.</b> You know those pneumatic lifts that raise and lower your desk chair
at work? Once one exploded and sent metal chunks deep into the rectum of its
Chinese victim, who bled to death. Sit down, make yourself comfortable.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>What Kind of Proof?</b>
While testing a bullet-proof vest, a Denver man died after being stabbed
through the vest into the heart by his uncle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Look Out for that
Windmill, Too.</b> A child was
electrocuted while trying to retrieve golf pall at a miniature golf park from a
small pond. An electric pump had malfunctioned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>There Once Was a Dog
With a Bone. </b>A Limerick, Ireland
woman died from an allergic reaction to the semen of a dog she just had sex
with. It’s always nice when someone dies doing something they love.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Shit Happens. </b>While
attempting to repair a septic tank he’d entered<b>, </b>a Russian man drowned after inhaling its toxic fumes. Not to be
outdone, his wife also fainted after inhaling the toxic gas, fell in and
drowned. I hope the mortician charged extra.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>On the Upside, He
Stayed Fresh for Days Afterward.</b> A 50 year old man from Surrey England,
perished from autoerotic asphyxiation after wrapping himself in three rolls of
plastic wrap.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Lucky Strike. </b>A
North Carolina man set himself on fire after accidentally drinking gasoline
from a jar and then lighting a cigarette.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Where’s My Tip?</b> A
67-year-old Texas man died of cardiac arrest while receiving a lap dance at a
strip club. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Third Time’s a Charm.
</b>In 1995 after failing to kill himself with a shotgun blast first to the
chest and then to the neck, an Austrailian man finally succeeded by aiming
closer to his heart. What a trooper.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Wedgie from Hell.</b>
A 33-year-old man pulled the back of his stepfather’s underpants over his head.
The elastic was so tight against his throat that he died of asphyxiation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Death by Method
Acting.</b> Lee Halpin, a 27-year old documentary filmmaker on homelessness
died of hypothermia while immersing himself in the lifestyle of his subjects in
Newcastle, England.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Chicken Soup for the
Soul. </b>In 2012, a nursing home patient in Rio was killed when a nursing
technician accidently hooked up her feeding tube to her IV. Her veins were then
filled with soup. Must have been tough getting that matzo ball into those
arteries. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Worse than Sturgeon.</b>
In Bolivia a drunken teenager committed suicide by jumping out of his canoe
into a known piranha-infested river.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Worse than Piranha.</b>
And of course there was the case of 28-year-old Texan Tommie Woodward, who,
ignoring the pleas of knowing people and a “No Swimming—Alligators!” sign,
declared, “Fuck that alligator,” took a dive off a dock and was dragged down
and ripped apart by the eleven-foot gator who was quietly hiding under the dock,
waiting for him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So after considering things a bit, maybe a little long-term
suffering wouldn’t be such a bad thing. A little Demerol or morphine could make
things a lot more tolerable. I’d like to go out the way dogs die when you put
them down. One shot to make you unconscious, followed by an injection to stop
the heart. Simple. Painless. And no underwear band to pry off from around your
neck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Source: unusualdeaths.com and others<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/" rel="license"><img alt="Creative Commons License" src="http://i.creativecommons.org/l/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/88x31.png" style="border-width: 0;" /></a><br /><span property="dc:title" xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/">billwiley.blogspot.com</span> by <a href="https://www.blogger.com/billwiley.blogspot.com" property="cc:attributionName" rel="cc:attributionURL" xmlns:cc="http://creativecommons.org/ns#">Bill Wiley</a> is licensed under a
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/" rel="license">Creative
Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States
License</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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End of SimpleHitCounter Code --></span>Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-49725514046977549612015-07-22T09:30:00.000-04:002015-07-22T09:31:14.291-04:00L-G-B-T-Q-Q-I-A-A-P-M-O-U-S-E<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIk4ROtVYADyYL0MNTLiqzWSDXBzB646TeHvqMPQS0-qsinyrVzYDZqb-Iz4r1e4i18Z4w28yCWq3r-zl8sstgaSh8maXIcX5o6iLWOJo3pBV4II1svQFfQk1kNeCzYt_XNqknu7Pn8qj3/s1600/So+what.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIk4ROtVYADyYL0MNTLiqzWSDXBzB646TeHvqMPQS0-qsinyrVzYDZqb-Iz4r1e4i18Z4w28yCWq3r-zl8sstgaSh8maXIcX5o6iLWOJo3pBV4II1svQFfQk1kNeCzYt_XNqknu7Pn8qj3/s320/So+what.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ya know, I’m all for inclusiveness, but recently I got an e-mail
that made me want to boycott gay pride day forever.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which is not to say that I don’t already do that. I haven’t
been to a pride day celebration in over a decade. Pride day used to be fun and
silly and a good reason to dress up funny and paint your face. Then the
corporate world got wind of it and discovered we were willing to spend money—a
lot of money—when we were feeling proud. Now pride day is not a lot different
than a shopping spree at a Westfield mall, without the benefit of air
conditioning. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pride day used to be entertainment, outdoor dancing and
learning about organizations that assisted the gay and lesbian community. Now
you go to pride day, and you have cell phone companies dragging you to their
booths with Vaudeville hooks while they scream in your ear like circus barkers.
Banks offer you vapid incentives to open accounts or apply for credit cards,
and you have to run from insurance salesmen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, about that e-mail. Today I got an invitation to go
to gang up with a bunch of folks at the Los Angeles pride day. I don’t know how
I got on their mailing list, because I’ve only been to Los Angeles once. I saw
the Hollywood sign and got stuck in abysmal traffic, which to me met all the
requirements of the Los Angeles Experience, and I don’t feel the need to go
back. And anyone can tell you that if I’m in a city that is within spittin’
distance to a Disney park, as Los Angeles is to Anaheim, I’m out on the next bus.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, about that e-mail. It told me to come join my <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=LGBTQQIAAP&defid=5671102"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">LGBTQQIAAP</span></a>
sisters and brothers for pride day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The <i>what</i>? How do
you even pronounce that? I came skidding to a halt at that ridiculous acronym.
I had no idea what it was, so I had to Google it. The Urban Dictionary solved the mystery.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We used to be simple folk. We used to be the gay community.
Then the lesbians wanted their separate piece of the pie, so to speak, and we
became the gay and lesbian community, and that’s how the outside world referred
to us. It was brief, and everyone knew what it meant. Then, for whatever
reason—inclusiveness, I guess— we became the LGBT community. And a long time
after that, someone put a Q on it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By this time I didn’t even bother to find out what the Q was
for. Turns out it wasn’t Queer, but Questioning, which sounds more like a group
of <i>Jeopardy! </i>contestants. Without
asking anyone, I guessed that these people were questioning their sexual
orientation. But then, what’s the difference between Questioning and Bisexual?
Once you “identify” (a word I’m really starting to hate) as bisexual, I guess
you are no longer questioning. You’re just greedy. Basically you’re saying if
you can find any human who’ll have sex with you, male or female, then you’ll go
ahead and try them out. So why aren’t they called trysexuals?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, I was wrong about that, because Questioning people
are not questioning their sexual orientation. They are questioning their
gender. Alrighty then. Got it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now we have two Q’s now: one for Queer, one for
Questioning. I was called queer too many times as a kid to find that necessary,
so I am removing it from the acronym. So now we’re down to just 8 letters.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other letters: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I is for Intersex, boys and girls. We no longer use the term
hermaphrodites. Intersex people have the genitals of both sexes. I have enough
trouble locating the one I have, so I’m pretty happy not having other components
in the inventory that I wouldn’t know how to care for. Next!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A is for Asexual, and A is for Allies, who are straight
people. Get out of here, straight people. Thanks for your support, but you have
you own category! Asexual people can be straight as well. You guys beat it, too.
Go back to your all-night video games and programming jobs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And lastly, there’s P for Pansexual, who are people who
enjoy copulating with Revere Ware. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a friend who used to host a Gay Shame party on every
pride day, and I am beginning to warm up to that idea. Can we just stop it with
the acronyms already? I think it’s gotten way out of hand, and no one is going
to remember all the letters unless they write them down on their hand to use later. </div>
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At least give us something that spells something. I’d like something catchy and
easy to remember, although not necessarily short. I vote for Sexually Other
Without Having Acronyms that are Tedious, or SO WHAT. I hereby declare us the
SO WHAT community.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I look forward to and will probably eagerly attend next
year’s SO WHAT parade.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And if I decide not to attend, well, so what?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/" rel="license"><img alt="Creative Commons License" src="http://i.creativecommons.org/l/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/88x31.png" style="border-width: 0;" /></a><br /><span property="dc:title" xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/">billwiley.blogspot.com</span> by <a href="https://www.blogger.com/billwiley.blogspot.com" property="cc:attributionName" rel="cc:attributionURL" xmlns:cc="http://creativecommons.org/ns#">Bill Wiley</a> is licensed under a
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/" rel="license">Creative
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End of SimpleHitCounter Code --></span>Bill Wileyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03564654920855663501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-715615557474854160.post-61645271699505744272015-03-23T19:07:00.002-04:002015-03-23T19:12:13.431-04:00Whispering About Cancer<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7jIk333Ef5mUdCrRo_aBwrzT6yiNJjEjmkAqtFe7WSlwNg8LY5QopNu08KVmAonhKc8mEi-1bpT302hL_0h0VNivFC4uJM6_cRDiR0PdyyCfZY2SGsVN8jqwLlhm4_cAYGuwMbCRcyBk0/s1600/eye+plaque.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7jIk333Ef5mUdCrRo_aBwrzT6yiNJjEjmkAqtFe7WSlwNg8LY5QopNu08KVmAonhKc8mEi-1bpT302hL_0h0VNivFC4uJM6_cRDiR0PdyyCfZY2SGsVN8jqwLlhm4_cAYGuwMbCRcyBk0/s1600/eye+plaque.jpg" height="256" width="320" /></a>Back in the days before pink ribbons, relays for life, and
awareness movements, “cancer” was something people whispered about.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I remember people using their hand to form the letter “C”
when whispers could be heard by small bystanders. I think more often than not <span style="font-size: 7.0pt; line-height: 107%;">cancer </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>was whispered instead of spoken because people
didn’t want to “upset the children.” There were also euphemisms. “He’s has been
sick for a long time,” was often code for “He’s going to die from cancer.” </div>
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<br /></div>
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By all means, raising awareness about cancer has helped
promote early detection for common cancers like breast and prostate cancers, so
I am not advocating going back to the days of <span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">cancer</span></span>, but I think that sometimes being kept in the
dark about some aspects of cancer can be a good thing.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Up until a few weeks ago, we didn’t know that eye cancer
existed. Or if we had heard about it, it never stuck. I’ve seen “Save the
Ta-Tas” bumper stickers that oddly promote breast cancer awareness, but I don’t
think anyone has one that reads, “Save the Peepers.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Six in a million Americans get ocular melanoma. When Other
Bill drew the short straw and was diagnosed with it, I questioned why these
odds couldn’t be applied to his buying the right Powerball ticket instead of
growing a malignant tumor on the back of his eye.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was ten days from diagnosis to surgery, so we really
didn’t have a lot of time to understand the ins and outs of the surgery or post-surgical
care or long-term effects on his vision. We just wanted that tumor killed. In
one day we saw five different doctors who rushed us through the battery of
tests and briefed us about insurance and what was needed in order to get ready
for the surgery.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I kind of slammed on the imaginary brakes when the ocular
oncologist said he was going to sew a radioactive gold plaque to the back of
Other Bill’s eyeball. This, of course would require, I assumed, a needle.
“Needle” and “eyeball” belong in the same sentence as much as
“machete-wielding” and “child care teacher” do. While my feet were on the
brakes taking this in, I was trying not to think about how they were going to
get to the back of his eyeball. Put it on a little lazy susan, perhaps?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ordinarily I don’t do internet searches regarding health
issues, because without any trouble you can convince yourself you have leprosy
when in fact all you have is a gnat bite. But since we already had a
worst-case-scenario diagnosis, curiosity got the best of me, and I turned to
that digital Magic 8-ball known as Google, because I wanted to see what this
radioactive seed-holding plaque thing looked like.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a fraction of a second, up popped a picture, and frankly,
the plaque looked like a bottle cap. Great, I thought. So for four days Other
Bill would be hanging out in a hospital bed with a rusty Yoo-hoo crown sewn
onto his eye with a piece of fishing line and a carpet needle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ctrl-Alt-Delete.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, that was all I wanted to see. I would spend the pre-op
week with my eyes tightly shut and my fingers stuck in my ears while chanting
“LA-LA-LA.” So if someone whispered “<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">cancer</span></span>” or “<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">eye
needle</span></span>”, I wouldn’t hear it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the fifth day in the hospital, the ocular oncologist
breezed into the room for 17 seconds, saying the surgery was successful, and
that he would see us in two weeks to go over the results of the genetic
testing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We didn’t know what the genetic testing was for. Naturally I
just figured it would tell us who fathered the tumor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once again, I stayed away from the 8-ball. Ignorance is
bliss. And it’s a good thing, because it saved me worrying for two entire
weeks. Ocular melanoma, I later learned, could be classified as a 1A, a 1B, or
a 2. The 1A tumor has the least likelihood of metastasis, and a 2 is a
significant chance of metastasis. Other Bill, being the middle child, was naturally a
1B. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was already having horrific nightmares, so I was glad to
know after two weeks that my ignorance saved a lot of stress and anxiety, which
are everyday by-products of <span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">cancer</span></span>.
There is worst-case-scenario worrying, which I wrote the book on and will
autograph if you buy a copy. There is insufferable waiting. There is hospital
stress. That is finding the delicate balance between being a screaming, evil bastard
who gets up in the face of the incompetent, semi-literate hospital staff<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and talking kindly through gnashed teeth to ensure
that there is no delay in getting your husband’s pain pills. Then there is the
stress of waiting for post-op PET scan results which will tell you if the cancer
has spread to other parts of the body.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are six weeks post-op now. The PET scan was clear, and
even though Other Bill is easily exhausted and is only working part-time, we
are at the point now where we can almost dare to think about breathing easily.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then at work the magic 8-ball is staring me in the face
for 8 hours every day. “Ask me,” Google coaxes. “Ask me. I’ll find it for you.
C’mon just type it in. Or speak to me if you’d prefer.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Reluctantly I type in, “ocular melanoma radiation plaque
surgery video.” I pause before hitting the Enter key. But then I think, “What
the hell.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And there it is. Needle and thread. Scissors cutting eye
muscles. The big gold bottle cap. And this scared looking eye with black
stitches hanging out of it, looking like the thing in “The Robot Spy,” the
episode of Johnny Quest that gave me nightmares as a kid:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXNFS6Tbpd9W2szdJ55q2xpUHuHtFQqiH8yelIytYDzpNYaadFIDnZCYsOy0H247WbP3O2J-jN1k4RgZNd3vuj5NCJDlJOfthyphenhyphenVt2NUhnGjaPtA6ROyYLwhLAKBByx9SZiku942bI1qrpT/s1600/johnny+quest+eyeball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXNFS6Tbpd9W2szdJ55q2xpUHuHtFQqiH8yelIytYDzpNYaadFIDnZCYsOy0H247WbP3O2J-jN1k4RgZNd3vuj5NCJDlJOfthyphenhyphenVt2NUhnGjaPtA6ROyYLwhLAKBByx9SZiku942bI1qrpT/s1600/johnny+quest+eyeball.jpg" /></a> <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Control-Alt-Delete.</span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s just one thing I’d like to know. Is there a way to
get Google to shut up? Or if not, can we get it to just <span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">whisper</span></span>?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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