Pukeables

Remember all the products Wile E. Coyote bought from Acme in his failed attempt to foil the Road Runner? The first thing that comes to my mind is the Acme Do It Yourself Tornado Kit. You just added water to a tornado seed, and a funnel cloud formed.

I’ve always admired anything with a “just add water” label on it. When ingredients are dehydrated and mixed with magic chemicals, you can create a perfect treat using only tap water. Cakes, Jello 123, instant pudding, mud. All of which taste the same.

But what if you ran into Acme Instant Water Kit―Just Add Water?

I recently ran into something similar at the Institute of Retail Last Resort.  Otherwise known as Big Lots, it’s a place where dented cans, crushed boxes, time sensitive goods about to expire, foods with foreign labels and made by manufacturers exempt from FDA regulations, and merchandise that just didn’t catch on―go to die. Or if they’re lucky, they get bought up by desperate consumers like us who are trying to stretch a buck.

Other Bill actually found it first and immediately thought: Here’s some material for Bill to write about.  

Like so many things offered by Big Lots, this item, which was called Chicken Caesar Dinner Kit, and actually said on the box, “just add chicken and salad,” was slashed to the low, low price of one dollar. So curious was I and so insistent was Other Bill, that we both coughed up fifty cents and purchased it, just so I could take a picture of it. Did it come with Caesar’s toll free number, so you could call him when you want him to come out and prepare it and possibly teach your dog some manners? Not for a buck. I guess they were hoping people wouldn’t read the box. If it says, “add chicken & salad,” You can pretty much bet that it will be, for the most part, salad dressing.

Since the purchase, I have decided to market a bag of air and call it, “Steak Tartare Kit.” All you do is add chopped raw meat, and it’s ready.

I think the world needs to slow down. Sure we’re busy and depend on the World of Ready Made to save us some valuable seconds in the day. But where do you draw the line between “convenience” and “Really, you lazy-assed-good-for-nothing? That’s the best you can do?”

I would be so good in marketing because I am so lazy that I think up several things a day that could make my life less tedious.  More ideas are generated when Other Bill goes away for a weekend, and I am left to fend for myself. I would truly rather not eat than have to open the refrigerator and go through all the leftovers to decide which one I have to tediously pull out and put in the microwave and actually wait 30 seconds until it is warm. What a bore. How taxing.

I am too lazy to look on shelves lower than the second one. And if an offering isn’t front and center, I’m certainly not going to dig for it. That’s why I want a refrigerator that, instead of having square glass shelves, inside there is a rotisserie… like those big cake and pie wheels all clean and pretty and lit up in restaurants. If I had one of those as a fridge, I’d be much more apt to pick something out to eat when someone nicer than me is unavailable to bring it to me.  Maybe it could stream food-related music when you open the door. See? Marketing genius! I want the job of the idiot who decided to build a flat screen TV into the door of a refrigerator. Those never took off. Fire that jerk, and hire someone lazy, like me. I’ll sell a million units before you finish reading this.

They actually make prepared meals that come in self-heating boxes.  For people too poor or bothered to use a stove. I tried one once (they were handed out as a post-hurricane emergency meal ready to eat, or MRE once.) The only thing keeping from me from stocking a collection of them on hand is that I worry about what is preserving them. Well that, and the fact that I burned myself when I tried to heat it. The same with those shelf meals like beef stroganoff in bags that don’t need refrigeration. WHY don’t they need refrigeration?

Every time we go to the grocery store and we walk through the chilled processed meat area and I wonder just how many decades it’s been since I had a bologna-on-buttered-Wonder-Bread, I express my disdain at the enormous amount of space provided for Lunchables. I despise them, even though I’ve never had one, so I have no concrete reason to find them offensive.

Instead of calling them Lunchables, why not just be honest and label them “Unhealthy Snacks for Children with Alcoholic Parents” and call it a day? Oscar Meyer should sell them with vodka miniatures that zip off the box. (Again: marketing genius!) Full of sodium, nitrates, preservatives and sugar, these abominations take the worst foods (cheap hot dogs or other processed meat), fat-filled cookies, a processed cheesy-like substance, some white flower disaster and sometimes a sugary drink) and put them in an attractive yellow box.  Millions are bought every day by fat, irresponsible parents with rotund children. Really, just how tough is it to put an apple, some crunchy sweet vegetables and a whole wheat peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a paper bag?

But then, even spreading two things on bread has been usurped by that god-awful peanut butter and jelly squirted in stripes in one bottle. Oh, thank God for Smuckers Goober! If I had to open two jars to make this sandwich, I would have had to call the suicide hotline!  And if two slices of bread, a knife and one jar of spread are too much for you, Smuckers offers these PB&J pressed-together pie-like empanada things you can buy frozen. They’re called Smuckers Uncrustables.  Uncrustable, indeed. Picky kids who hate bread crust have nothing to worry about with these health hazards, but I have seen people I work with eat these things. People over 40. Perfectly sane people over 40. Exactly how late to you have to be to not have time to slap together a peanut butter sandwich? How much more Facebook browsing time will Uncrustables net you? Will another 30 seconds get you fired? Damn, if I had just bought a Lunchable for the Beaver, I might still have my Wall Street job.

I always play Judgmental Johnny in the grocery checkout line. I make all sorts of biased, pre-determined demographic assumptions about the people just by perusing their carts. If they are buying any kind of single-use packages, like juice boxes or little cereals, or a stack of Lunchables, I brand them wasteful and environmentally toxic. If the mom has more than one toddler in tow and I see white bread, frozen pizza, gallons of generic fruit punch, anything that could be bought fresh for less, and a large supply of cheap beer, I think: white trash. I predict payment with food stamps.  If I see a nicely-dressed woman carrying unbleached flour, milk, vanilla, brown sugar and butter, I think: Martha Stewart mother of spoiled children. Probably left her behemoth Luxus SUV running with the air conditioner blasting in the parking lot. No one is safe with me looking down on them and their purchases, while I haughtily pose behind my basket full of ice cream, potato chips and Voortman orange artificially-colored vanilla waffle rectangle cookies. I’m sorry, there is just no way to make those by hand, even if you have a waffle iron. Sometimes if they are about to expire, I can find them at Big Lots.

There is neither shame nor judgment at Big Lots.  I never play Judgmental Johnny there.

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The Last Mattress

We recently bought a new mattress. The old one was 20 years old, and the springs were starting to pop out of the sides.  It was time. We had bought one of those foam covers when we started getting poked by springs.  Our dog, Satan, had played Regan MacNeil on it way too many times. She has these episodes where she unloads all three bodily excretables, liquid, solid, and semi-solid all over the house, but saves the lion’s share for the bed. The foam cover was thrown out, and to get the mattress into useable, unscented condition again, we had to brush Comet into it, over and over, until the mattress screamed, “You’re killing me!”

Let’s face it. Buying a mattress is one step below spending an evening with an insurance salesman. Discount mattress store ads, with their blazingly bright neon backgrounds and bold red fonts say one thing to potential customers: Come in and get ripped off.

Discount mattress salesmen are, for the most part, a sad lot. No kid wants to grow up and have a career in commissioned sales. It is a last resort job when everything else has failed. Your typical mattress salesman is a late-middle-aged white guy, bald or balding, and overweight. Our second salesman actually introduced himself to us as “Big Bob.” The adjective, if you’re not blind, is redundant. I also imagine the guy as divorced and having been taken to the cleaners by his ex-wife. Having handed her over the house, he now lives in a studio or one bedroom apartment and watches ESPN and drinks generic beer on his days off. He drives, if he’s lucky, a 1990’s-era Pontiac Catalina; otherwise it’s a 1974 Chevy Vega or Ford Maverick. They are all cum laude graduates of the Columbia School of Lying.

We went to one mattress shop where they boasted being the largest mattress dealer in the country, while another one boasted being a small, family owned company who offered more personal care and service. Really? Would they be willing to come over and scrub out a giant puddle of vomited-up dog-doo from the mattress? I think not.

We went to Macy’s, where the salesman lied to us not once, not twice, but three times. That degree of his really paid off. When we realized the bed of our dreams was going to cost over five grand, we had to go back to the drawing board.

The $5K bed was a split king with two individual remote-controlled reclining gel memory foam mattresses. The remote had a setting called zero gravity that felt so glorious that we wanted to stay there forever. If the salesman had wheeled in a large TV and brought us some nice snacks, we probably would have. It was that amazing. The bed also had a massage feature, which was just a doctored-up Magic Fingers that I knew we’d never use. I was once given a Magic Fingers machine. I used it once and found it most annoying, so I unhooked it and sold it for a buck at a garage sale.

Other Bill didn’t want the split king mattress. When I realized what a pain it would be to have to change four sheets instead of two, I easily surrendered on that feature. He really wanted the recliner option, but there are times when he wants to recline and watch TV in bed, and I want to just sleep flat. Plus that option was half of the $5000 price tag. So we nixed that option as well.

It was about that time when I realized that because the mattress came with a 25-year warranty, this would most likely be the last mattress I’ll ever buy.  If I’m lucky, the next one will be paid for by the Medicare-run nursing home I will end up in. Although being gay is loads of fun, it doesn’t automatically come with children who will care for you in your declining years.

This the-end-is-near experience was certainly daunting and a little nerve-wracking. There have clearly been indications that the road to ruin is a one-way street: hair loss, wrinkled face, flab expansion, and the never-ending decisions to nap instead of vacuum. But there hasn’t been an actual milestone as cut and dry as the last mattress.

There will be a last car. I can easily say that Satan will be the last dog, but I said that about her predecessor and didn’t follow through. A next roof will hopefully be the last one. A last Viagra prescription will occur one day when I realize I’d rather use the co-pay for a couple gallons ice cream instead of six artificial but guaranteed erections.

So do you think when these milestones pop up, I should celebrate them by splurging instead of “making do” which has been my mission statement all my life. Will my last car be the white Porsche 911 I so wanted as a teenager? Hell no, things have changed since then. I’ll want the most gas-saving hybrid or maybe even hydrogen-fueled vehicle.

And since I realized, prior to closing on the deal, that this is my last mattress, do you think we  went ahead and splurged on the 5G bed?

Not on your life. We were out the door of the mattress shop $1600 poorer. Still a gel memory foam king sized mattress, but not split in two. No zero gravity, no Magic Fingers. No built-in lullabyes. Just flat.

That’s because when I wrote the “make do” mission statement, I knew it would be my last.

Photo credit: freesolismo.com

billwiley.blogspot.com by Bill Wiley is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

No Speakie Young

It’s lonely at the top of the age bracket. I work for an organization with 144 employees. 140 of them, including the chief of police, are younger than I am.
  

It’s as if the only language I speak is Swahili. I’ve worked here 11 years, so I am trying to keep my mouth shut to avoid embarrassment. In a world where every other sentence in a conversation starts with “Dude,” ends up with “bro,” and the primary adjective used is “awesome,” I sometimes feel washed out to sea on a fragment of contaminated Japanese tsunami waste.

Not long ago, Other Bill and I went to a Judy Collins concert. As a side note, I hadn’t been to a concert in a long time, and I was expecting the audience to be the same age as the audiences who went to her concerts in the 60’s. You know: young like me. Turns out, they were the same people, but not the same age. It was like seeing a cousin you haven’t been around in 35 years. You think she’s still parading around in diapers, when in fact, she has a Ph.D. and is CEO of a Fortune 500 corporation. The Judy Collins crowd was old. We’re talking oxygen tank schlepping and walker-pushing old. Not to mention the prescription-laden old like the people in our house.

So the next day I went into work and realized that if I told anyone I had gone to see Judy Collins, the name recognition factor would be at the same level as if I’d said I’d gone to see a Mary Pickford movie. “She some friend of yours, bro?” They might ask. So I didn’t tell anyone. 

Years ago, thinking my employer wouldn’t buy me anything more than a crappy $79 desk chair, I went out and bought my own bungee cord chair and brought it in to work. It has become a point of mock contention and ridicule. “Dude, you better not sit in Bill Wiley’s chair, bro,” they say in teasing. “It’s his very own special chair, bro.”

So the other day I walked into my office.  A young rookie was sitting in my very own special chair, and my captain said to him, ”Uh-oh, dude, you better get out of Bill Wiley’s chair. You'll soon learn how he is about his chair, bro.”

“Yeah,” I said, “It’s like Archie Bunker’s chair.”

Chirp, chirp, chirp went the crickets.

It should come as no surprise that they were born after All in the Family went off the air.

I try to keep up. I went to two Google-suggested sites after I'd entered "famous TV chairs." Archie's chair wasn't on either list. The best I could get was Norm’s stool in Cheers and Martin Crane’s chair in Frasier. Neither of those would have resulted in a ding, ding, ding of the bell with my coworkers. Listen, Archie Bunker’s chair is in the Smithsonian National Museum of American History. As far as I’m concerned, it should be a question on the SAT’s.

My father was in World War II. A lot of the cops are are veterans or come from a military family.  I never mention anything about my dad’s service. But once I got into a discussion of the South Pacific, and I mentioned what a miserable hell-hole New Guinea was for my dad. 

“When was he there?” the officer asked.

“During World War Two,” I said. (I didn’t say it the way Archie Bunker said it: Dubya, dubya two.)

Chirp, chirp.

“Really!” he said. “My grandfather was in Vietnam.”

Immediately after hearing that, I went to the bathroom to re-Polygrip my dentures and then called my doctor to schedule a bloodletting by leeches.

People say I am quiet, an introvert, reserved, or I keep to myself. There’s a reason for that. Deep down I know that there is a dark shadowed skeleton in a full-length hoodie, carrying a sharp sickle that will one day come down on me. And I don’t need any reminders of that.

But at least I know what a hoodie is.

billwiley.blogspot.com by Bill Wiley is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

A Pageant for Everyone

May I say a word or two about beauty pageants?

In the Fifties, my dad often wrote in his newspaper column about beauty queen pageants and how silly they were, and I couldn’t agree more. 

And it’s only gotten worse since then. Now there are 3-year-olds in tulle dresses, eye shadow and mascara out there fulfilling the dreams of their psychotic, usually very Southern mothers who failed a decade or two before to catch the eyes of judgmental judges who dismissed them from small stages because of large pores or small breasts.

Now there are muscled gay men on steroids who dress up in suffocatingly-tight black leather to compete for a tiara and leather sash, crowning them as Mister International Leather.

Most pageants pride themselves on being proud of something. Mr. International Leather, for example, focuses on Leather Pride. I once had leather pride after I bought a kit from Tandy Leather. But I lost that pride about six months later when the wallet I assembled fell apart.

Pageants usually begin at a local level. Miss Tampa tries to be Miss Hillsborough County, then Miss Florida West Coast, in hopes of becoming Miss Florida, so she can qualify for Miss America. Or something like that.

Gay pageants, to no one’s surprise, start off in gay bars. Mr. Ramrod Leather works his way up to Mr. South Florida Leather to Mr. Florida Leather to Mr. Mid-Atlantic Leather in order to compete for the title of Mr. International Leather. Or something like that. 

In the year 2012, Israel hosted the Miss Holocaust Survivor pageant. I have not been able to find out if there were contestants from rival concentration camps, such as a Miss Dachau, Miss Auschwitz, or Miss Bergen-Belsen.  All I know from reports is that there were initially 300 contestants, and it got narrowed down to 15 finalists. Google it if you don’t believe me.

The winner was Hava Hershkovitz, a seventy-nine-year-old granny, who could actually be related to Other Bill on his mother’s side.

And it gets worse.

Since finding out about this contest, I have done a little research on niche market beauty pageants around the world.

The first one that caught my attention was the Miss Landmine Competition. Amputated women from post-war third world countries who were clearly in the wrong place at the wrong time compete for the title in which the grand prize is a shiny new prosthetic leg. (Even if they just lost an arm? I wonder.) If you act now, you can still get a t-shirt with the logo shown above. 

Here is a condensed version of the Miss Landmine Manifesto:

EVERYBODY HAS THE RIGHT TO BE BEAUTIFUL!

·         Female pride and empowerment.

·         Disabled pride and empowerment.

·         Global and local landmine awareness and information.

·         Celebrate true beauty.

·         And have a good time for all involved while doing so!

“Disabled pride and empowerment” is the single-best double entendre I have ever encountered. Has their pride and empowerment been disabled, or are they proud to be empowered and disabled?

It was held in 2008 in Angola and 2009 in Cambodia. The Cambodian government canceled the project, claiming it was an insult to disabled people, but it was held in a secret location anyway, which doesn’t sound very prideful.

I am of the opinion that all pageants are an insult to everyone.

I realize that horrific historical events are nothing to laugh at, but why commemorate them with beauty pageants? After all, there is no Miss Khmer Rouge, no Miss My Lai Massacre, no Miss 9-11 or Miss Unibomber. Of course there is a Miss Oklahoma City, but there’s no Miss Oklahoma City Bombing. Hopefully I am not planting seeds in the heads of cheesy pageant organizers.

On the other hand, there are plenty of laughable beauty pageants. There is a Miss Pregnant pageant, which you think would be unwed mothers-to-be, but all you have to do is be pregnant and foolish enough to wear a bikini. So if you are looking to view a woman in her third trimester with her fifth kid, a place to drool over outie belly buttons the size of a grapefruit and super-stretched caesarian scars, this is the competition for you to attend.

If you’re looking for an outlet to show off your latest facelift, tummy tuck or boob job, you should consider becoming a contestant in Miss Artificial Beauty in China. If you’ve had plastic surgery and would like to win more sessions under the knife, then you can hope to be crowned Miss Cosmetic Surgery in Great Britain. The winner gets a £3,000 infusion to supplement the next invasive procedure of her choosing.

If you are a super-attractive Siberian inmate, crime can actually pay for you when you’re a contestant in the Miss Gulag pageant. If you’ve been convicted of anything from drug possession to murder, capturing the title of Miss Gulag can reward you with no, not a modeling contract or a goodwill tour, but instead something prisoners value much more: early release. If Alexander Solzhenitsyn had been aware of this, he might have done a little online shopping at Lane Bryant. Oh, wait; that was before Siberian inmates were allowed iPads.

There are counter-pageants open to contestants not attractive in the Vogue magazine sense. So if you’re an overweight contestant-wannabe, you can attempt to get into the Miss Jumbo Queen competition in Thailand (I wonder if the grand prize is a lifetime supply of Pad Thai?)  Failing that contest, you could head down to Israel for the Miss Fat and Beautiful contest to win a lifetime supply of, I guess, schmaltz.

I don’t have a competitive cell in my bloodstream, but I have thought about this for a while. If I had to compete in a pageant, what would it be? 

 

If there is a Mr. Elderly, Flabby Gay Man Sitting in a Recliner Sofa in Front of the TV Eating an Enormous Bowl of Ice Cream, would someone please let me know? 

I think I might just stand a chance. I’m ready for my goodwill tour, Mr. DeMille. 

billwiley.blogspot.com by Bill Wiley is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

 

The Best from the West

Being the kind of person who likes to eclipse everyone’s ability to obtain the latest technology (e.g., getting my first web-disabled, untextable cell phone in 2011), I travel to San Francisco each year. Technology travels from west to east in this country, so if you want to have the latest and greatest technology before everyone else, you must force yourself to spend some time in the city of fog.

And it’s not just technology on which I get a jump start. For example, if you remember the Pet Rock, you know they premiered in California before sweeping the country.

This past trip, which ended less than 24 hours ago, yielded two things I can now nyah-nyah about. First, we saw Rory Kennedy’s latest documentary, Ethel, which is a remarkable tribute to her mother. This film will not be available to Floridians or other low-life populations to view until October, and you will have to subscribe to HBO to see it. So to all you Kennedy lovers who missed out on the San Francisco International Film Festival: Nyah-Nyah!

The second thing I found was the latest in fitness technology from Zaaz Studios with locations exclusively in San Fran and Sausalito (Spanish for “a little sauce”), California. The unique thing about this new cutting-edge machine is that you don’t even have to move on it.  All you do is stand on this revolutionary new workout gadget. It does all the heavy lifting for you.

Lucky for me I, was at Westfield Mall on Market Street and was able to take part in a free demonstration. As I walked past the Abercrombie and Fitch store (for whom I hope to one day model (socks, maybe; diapers and ski masks also come to mind)), I was attacked by a small sales-kid who was not yet this many years old. She handed me a flyer that shouted out in an 80 point bold font: “10 MINUTES = 1 HOUR AT THE GYM.” In smaller type it read: “FREE DEMO–FDA APPROVED NASA TECHNOLOGY”.  Then in even smaller type, it listed the following benefits:

WEIGHT LOSS	IMPROVES SLEEP	IMPROVES CIRCULATION
TONES & FIRMS	FLUSHES TOXINS	EASES BACK/NECK PAIN
ANTI-AGING	DECREASES CELLULITE	RELIEVES STRESS
DIABETES/ OSTEOPOROSIS	INCREASES METABOLISM	SKIN/HAIR/NAILS
STABILIZES MOOD	BUILDS BONE DENSITY	SEROTONIN/ENDORPHINS

Notice that the list is severely lacking in verbs. So, Zaaz, what about anti-aging, diabetes, osteoporosis, skin, hair, nails and serotonin/endorphins?  Does it work against anti-aging, make your skin/hair/nails wrinkle or fall out? You can tell they consulted attorneys before finalizing this list.

Assuming this machine is a cure-all, who in their right mind would pass on the chance to have their very own home model? If I bought this machine I could go off all my medications: Insulin, Prozac, gelatin capsules, Ambien, prunes, calcium, Coumadin, Percocet, Fletcher’s Castoria, Viagra and shampoo.  This appliance would pay for itself in a matter of months just in obsolete manicures, Stridex medicated pads, and Preparation H.

This space age apparatus, with its large LED display, was priced from $2169 for the plain to $2569 for the peanut, which meant that it had a label with one digit different.  Oddly enough, it was basically just a gigantic vibrator. All you had to do was step on it, adjust the intensity, and jiggle yourself to a healthier, holistic lifestyle.

Remember belt massagers from the 50’s and 60’s? It was basically the same idea. In order to get the then-coveted hourglass figure, gullible women would strap a gigantic 5-inch wide belt around their waists and hook it to a loud jiggling contraption. Ever wonder where all those shaker-upper contraptions went? Dive deep into the closest landfill, and there among the Edsels, Veg-o-Matics, Windows ME software, New Coke cans, and 8 track players you’ll find them. The reason? They didn’t work. If only they had received FDA and NASA approval, maybe they would have lasted longer.

The Zaaz requires no belt and vibrates from the foot level instead of the waist. I spent maybe 2 minutes on this machine, turning it up to its highest setting and allegedly receiving the health benefits of ten minutes at the gym. It was kind of fun to get knocked around, knowing that my love handles were being shaken down to my ankles, thus eliminating all chances for my ever being an A&F sock model.  What was really exciting was that when I talked while the gizmo was on, it sounded like I was screaming into a box fan, and I spent a third of my childhood doing that. I loved it that much.

After stepping off of it, I realized that the only medication I could throw out was my prostate pill, because that shaker forced my pee-meter up to the “Extremely Urgent” setting.

The five and a half year-old sales-child then asked me where I lived. I told her Florida. She said that if I bought the peanut model that day she would offer me the three-year warranty for free and knock off $100 to help defray the shipping cost. The average Joe might assume that this would completely cover the freight fee and that they would jet out a repairman from  “Little Sauce” directly to Fort Lauderdale to fix my Zaaz. To me this meant that if they weren’t out of business in a couple of months, the Zaazettes might e-mail me a printable coupon for a snapped O-ring six to eight weeks after I made the second request in writing. And the C-note would maybe cover one sixth of the freight charge (“$100 = $600 AT THE POST OFFICE” should have also been inscribed on the flyer.)

After we declined to be paying customers, Other Bill and I strolled over to the really cool spiral escalator (which has not made an appearance in the East that I know of. Nyah-nyah!)  Looking over the flyer again, I saw the Zaaz’s URL for their website, which I won’t repeat here, because you might end up on a Zsa Zsa Gabor site. But it didn’t say, “Like us on Facebook.” FDA and NASA pale by comparison in the shadow of social media. This clearly meant to me that Zaaz had no footprint in the fitness industry. I concluded that an “As Seen on TV” generic knockoff would soon be available for three easy payments of $33.33. That would also include at no extra charge a Pocket Fisherman.

As we spun our way up to the next level I said, “If I just spent ten minutes doing an intense cardio workout, shouldn’t I be out of breath or sweating?”

“Can we find the bathroom?” asked Other Bill, who spent more time on The Body Jiggler by Ronco than I did, “I really have to pee.”

We are home now, back in the real world of commuting, bedtimes, and cooking and cleaning.  I need to lose the weight I gained while I pigged out on vacation.

I won’t be using a Zaaz, but this weekend we’ll be shopping for a stationary Segway. They’re more expensive but just as effective.

billwiley.blogspot.com by Bill Wiley is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.