Pick o' the Day: Possible Titles for My Autobiography

So I'm kicking around some possible titles for my autobiography, and these are what I have come up with so far:

     One Ear Was Enough
     The Agony and the Agony
     Sense and Insensibility
     Not-So-Great Expectations
     The Scarlet Pimple
     Where the Red Rash Grows
     Gullible's Travels
     The Old Man and the Seasoned French Fries
     The Sun Also Sets
     Much Ado About Not Very Much At All
     The Call of the Llama
     The Going Asleepening
     Blaine in LaLaLand
     For Whom the Bell Dings
     As I Lay Crying
     A Portrait of the Teacher as a Broken Old Man
     The Voyage of the Dawn Dreader
     One Hundred Years of Interruptions
     I Know Why the Caged Teacher Screams
     Around the Schoolyear in 180 Days
     Love in the Time of Allergies
     To Have Not and Have Not

Pick o' the Day: The One-Hundred-Dollar Tomato

A Very Short Gothic Horror Story

(with illustration)

     Over $100 sunk into the vegetable garden, and all I got was one stinkin' tomato!

The End




 

Pick o' the Day: A Bit of Wisdom, A Little Sarcasm, and a Few Jokes

A "breakthrough" is usually a good thing, unless you're talking toilet paper.

Why is it that every time I pick up a big, heavy rock and throw it as hard as I can at the Port-a-Potty my son just locked himself into, it's just the funniest thing?

Flossing teeth should happen before applying Preparation H, not after.

Has anyone ever met an honest-to-goodness person from Montana? I mean, I've met people from all over, like China, and Paraguay, and Germany. Heck, I think I even saw a leprechaun once. But I've never met a Montanan. I think they might be a myth or something.

Why did the turtle try to cross FM973?  He wanted to die, I guess.

My granddaughter thinks I look like a movie star. She was watching "The Addams Family" on DVD, and when she saw Uncle Fester, she said, "Granpa!"

I think migrant eskimos should be called "Snowmads".

Has anyone ever found a real piece of bacon in Campbell's Bean with Bacon soup? I sure haven't, and I've been looking since I was 10 years old.

If I ever buy a donkey, I'm going to name him "Hotey".

What did the guy who went to Jamaica for the first time ask the Jamaican chef when he heard the chef was cooking Jamaican food and the guy had never eaten Jamaican food before and he didn’t even know what Jamaican food was?  "What's Jamaican?"

The person who should get paid the most in any business or organization is the one who has to clean the restrooms.

It has occurred to me that the politicians who run our country and who are trying to figure out how to fix our many problems are, in all likelihood, no smarter than me.  And if that's true, we're screwed.

I'd like to start a business selling water tanks to farmers and whoever, and sell 'em dirt cheap.  You know, practically give 'em away.  I'd call it Tanks for Nuttin'!

I see that McDonald's has a new menu item called a McWrap. Has anyone else noticed that when you say it out loud, it sounds like you're saying McCrap? (Yes, I would like two McCraps, please, and a Diet Coke.)

You better believe that when I eat my last meal, bacon's gonna be a big part of it!

Sometimes when God speaks to me, he speaks in Spanish.

I'm sure glad that change is such a big part of our lives. I get so tired of knowing how to do things.

If you're going to thank God for the sunny days, you should also thank him for the rain.

It has always been one of my traditions to take the family to see and enjoy the Trail of Lights during the Christmas holiday season. This year, however, I thought I would try something different and take them to see it after it gets dark outside. I hear it's even better then.

I went to the doctor, and he told me I'm suffering from something called the "Summertime Blues", and appparently there "ain't no cure".

I find the word "fart" somewhat offensive.  Why don't we start calling them "butt burps"?

Sometimes, when you get into trouble, it is because you did something right!

It takes a lot of love to raise a Grandpa.

Pick o' the Day: Oh, Montana! (Chapter 6- The One That Took More'n a Year to Write)

     A surge of anxiety finger-walked its way up Hank Wendt's spine as he watched the driver's side door of the mysterious black car slowly open.  A moment later, a huge, hulking man in a full-length fur coat and matching fur cap rose up behind the door.  His face was partially concealed behind a pair of aviator sunglasses, but the part that wasn't was yellowish, and wrinkled, and ugly-looking.  The man glared in Hank's direction for a moment, then reached back into the car and pulled out what looked like an iron bar.  He then slammed the door shut, and leaning against it, gingerly sidestepped towards the rear until he could open the backseat door, from which he pulled out an aluminum walker.  This he set down in front of himself and used to move to the back of the car.  He then lowered the "cooter scooter" to the pavement, got onto it, and motored himself and his walker around the car to the front passenger door.  He then got off, opened the car door, and assisted an obviously elderly, yet equally as massive, grim-faced, and grizzled man get out and onto the scooter.  Both then started slowly making their way towards the front door of the donut shop.
     "Hank, look at me."  His father's face was serious now, but calm.  "What you see there is more than 600 pounds of trouble comin' for to get me.  Now, I don't think they know who you are, so you should be fine.  But they damn sure know who I am, so we're gonna have to get the hell outta here.  I'm gonna slip out the back of this place and sneak around to the car.  I want you to stall 'em for a few minutes to give me a good head start."
     Alarmed, Hank asked, "How'm I going to do that?"
     "I want you to tell 'em I'm in the john.  That should give me enough time.  And when you see me get into the car, you come a runnin', you hear?"  Le'von drained his coffee cup with one long, last gulp, wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve, let out a long, putrid-smelling belch, then took off like a jackrabbit into the kitchen area.  A moment later, the sound of a cowbell and a blast of cold air announced the opening of the front door, and in came the two menacing-looking man-mountains.
     First to enter was the scooter pilot, since the other was holding the door for him, and once they were both inside, they made a slow, methodical, and mechanical-sounding beeline for Hank, who was desperately trying to pretend not to notice them.  At last they loomed up beside him and stopped.
     "Can I help you?" asked Hank, looking up rather timidly.
     "Yeah," replied the one who was standing beside him with the crowbar in his hand.  "You can tell us where your friend is."
      "My friend?"
     "The guy you were talking to just a minute ago."
     "Oh, yeah.  That guy.  I think he went to the bathroom," lied Hank.  "I'm sure he'll be back in a minute or two.  If you want, I can go get him for you."  He started to get up out of his seat, but the enormous hand of the fur-coated man bore down on his shoulder and shoved him back into his seat.
     "Don't bother.  We got this."  The one in the scooter gunned it and made straight for the door to the men's room, with the other guy clunk-clunking behind him with the walker.  They both took up positions at the door.  At that moment, Hank's peripheral vision detected movement outside.  Trying not to turn his head, he saw that his father was moving stealthily to the driver's side door of the Pinto.  Hank looked at the man with the crowbar, who was now looking back at him, so he smiled and nodded in what he hoped was an encouraging way.  The man turned his gaze back to the men's room door.
     "BEEP!"  Hank exploded out of his seat when he heard the honk of the Pinto, and he dashed for the front door.  Once outside, he ran towards the car, and as he did so, he saw his father rolling his window down.
     "I'm gonna need a push again, dammit!" the old man shouted.  "Let's go!"
     Hank knew exactly what needed to be done.  He put all his weight into pushing on the front end of the car first in order to get it out into the parking lot.  He then ran to the back and gave every ounce of what he had left into getting the car moving forward.  Looking back to the donut shop, he saw that the two furious goons were struggling their way out the donut shop door as fast as they could.  Hank redoubled his efforts until he was running at a full trot.  His father popped the clutch, and the little car jolted to a start, then slowed, but didn't stop.  Hank ran to the the passenger side door of the moving car and jumped in.  Le'von floored it before he had a chance to shut the door, and Hank nearly fell back out, but a sharp right turn out into the main thoroughfare brought Hank back in and slammed it shut for him.
     "Hee-Heeeeeeeee!" the old man cackled as they accelerated away.  Hank's heart was pounding in his chest like a maniacal carpenter driving handfuls of 16 penny nails at break-neck speed into fresh-cut pine 2 by 4 studs with a framer's hatchet, both from the exertion of pushing the Pinto by himself as well as from the excitement of narrowly escaping two murderous (albeit severely disabled) and (no doubt) blood-thirsty thugs.  His saliva tasted like blood, and it was a full five minutes before he was able to catch his breath enough to speak again.
     "What in the name of heck is going on?" he gasped as soon as he could sputter some words out.  "Was that really Tony and Larry back there?"
     "You're dam straight it was," replied his dad, the smile disappearing from his lips.  "I told you they don't let up.  They never have, and they never will!"
     "But how many years have they been chasing you?"
     "I dunno.  I sorta lost count."
     Hank shifted his gaze out the car window.  The city had disappeared, and they were now driving through the countryside, passing field after barren field where corn had once grown.  "So where are we going to now?"  He hadn't been this far out of town in a long time, and a feeling of mild alarm began to grow in him.
     "Well, Hank," drawled Le'von, "You and me are gonna take a little road trip.  We gotta find out where your mom has gone off to.  You see, I figure she's got legal custody of you and the other kids, and, well, I'm sick and tired of bein' alone and all, and I figure she ain't gonna willingly share custody with me unless I can find a way to make it right with her, and I figure I got a better chance if I got you with me.  So, long story short, I'm abductin' you.  Hell, you're face might just end up on a milk carton at school, and you'll be famous!"
     "But Dad, I... I don't think you really have to 'abduct' me.  And I don't even go to school any more.  I'm fifty-four years old!"
     Le'von looked looked at him in surprise, and they almost went off the road.  "What'd you say?"
     "I'm fifty-four years old, for gosh sakes!  I haven't seen you for more'n 50 years!"
     Le'von looked upset.  "It ain't been that long, has it?  Well, I be go to hell!"
     They drove along in silence for a bit.  Hank couldn't shake the feeling that he was forgetting something that was extremely important, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what it was.  And there was something about leaving his hometown that was making him feel sad, even though he was thrilled to be reunited with his father.  He finally spoke up again.  "So we're going to see mom?  Where is she?"
    "I don't rightly know myself," sighed Le'von.  "But I've got some clues.  I've been doin' some snoopin' around, and, though I don't exactly know where she's livin' right now, I do know where her sister Flower is.  She's up in Denver, and I got her address right here."  He patted his shirt pocket.  "I figure she'd know, seein' as how her and your mom was pretty close.  And if you're with me, I don't think she'll clam up about it, 'cause she'll probably feel bad for you, you bein' just a kid and all."   
     Hank could see that his father had it all figured out, and he looked genuinely earnest about  reuniting with his mother.  "I suppose you're right.  Aunt Flower will tell us, if she knows."  He sat back in his seat again and forced himself to try to relax.
     "Looks like we're bout sixty miles from 'Wacko', and then it'll be on to 'Fort Worthless' from there," his father observed as he lit up a Lucky Strike.  Out of consideration for his son, he cracked the window down about a half inch so the smoke could escape.  "We'll be in 'Armadillo' by mornin', uh, as the song goes."  The sun was below the horizon now, so he pulled the knob on the dash to turn on the headlights.  "I suggest you sit back and enjoy the ride, boy!  We're on our way to Coloradah!"
                   

(Next time: Oh, Montana! continues as Le'von and Hank make a questionable decision to pick up a hitchhiker who may, or may not, be a vampire!)

Pick o' the Day: Random Thoughts While at Cracker Barrel

As we walk towards the front door, I notice the license plates on the cars parked outside reveal that the people within this fine establishment have driven here from all over the country.  This can mean only one thing: their butts must hurt as bad as mine.

Old geezers are attracted to Cracker Barrel like moths are attracted to a naked light bulb.

Man, oh man.  Looking around me, all I see are old, gray-haired people.  What the heck am I doing here?

Could it be that the display of rocking chairs outside is a clever lure meant to attract the geezers to come inside and part with some of their money?

Grits?  What the hell are grits?

I'm apparently never going to be smart enough to win at "Peg Solitaire".

It occurs to me that my favorite meal at Cracker Barrel (tender roast beef, mashed potatoes, and a double order of macaroni and cheese) does not actually require teeth to eat it.

A lot of the "antique artifacts" hanging on the walls and ceiling are actually tools I have used or toys I enjoyed playing with as a child.  What does that mean?

The stone fireplace reminds me of the one my mother would stand in front of for hours cooking up homemade biscuits and prairie chicken stew in our sod house on the old homestead.

My wife sure is beautiful!

There's nothing like a hard, wooden chair to sit your sore, aching butt on after driving a thousand miles.

In all my visits to this place over the years, I don't think anyone has ever offered me a cracker.

Sitting and relaxing in one of the bathroom stalls is probably the best place to enjoy the country music being played over the loud-speakers.

As I am trying to pay the cashier, she actually has the nerve to ask me if I want to buy some little scented candles and other crap she has in a basket next to the register.  Me!  I am so taken aback by her rudeness, I can hardly choke out my answer of, "Hell, no!"

The rule is, after eating you have to give your wife some time to look around the store and do some shopping and stuff.  It's best to accept this and not give her a hard time about it.  Don't follow her around the store looking bored and disgusted and checking your watch and whatever.  Just go outside and enjoy one of the rocking chairs (for free) until she finally comes out with her sacks full of bargains that saved you so much money.

Pick o' the Day: Random Thoughts While at Chuck E. Cheese

 

 

As I was driving up to the place early Saturday afternoon with Teresa and Helena, I noticed the parking lot was packed.  A feeling of dread suddenly came over me, and I was tempted to turn around and drive quickly away.  But that would have broken a little girl's heart.  Oh well, a promise is a promise, and we're going in!

The expression on Helena's face as she runs around this place with a handful of tokens is, I believe, very much the same as mine whenever I'm in a Las Vegas casino.

Why is it that the holes in a red pepper shaker are never large enough for the flakes to come out easily, no matter how hard you shake?  And this is the same in every pizza place I've ever been!

Skee-Ball is not for four-year-olds!

After doing some quick math calculations in my head, based on the cost of playing the games as compared to the stinginess of the ticket dispensers, I figure that it would take about 10,000 dollars to "win" one of those top-shelf toys in the ticket redeeming booth.

My wife sure is beautiful!

The parents here are surprisingly friendly and honest.  One woman tracked us down and returned a token that Helena had accidently dropped.

This place would be a lot more fun if they served beer.  And a hell of a lot more dangerous.

Answer:  Number two, number two.  Question:  What do you call your second bowel movement of the morning?

I'm sure glad we only bought 25 tokens instead of a hundred.

The twenty tickets Helena won were traded-in for four little stickers and one Smarties candy.  (comment deleted)

It would be easy to make fun of this place, but I'm not going to.  Anyone who complains about the crappy overpriced pizza, the unhealthy drink choices, the dirty carpets, the scraggly rat-as-a-mascot, the multiple broken-down machines, the filthy bathrooms, and the unmotivated, shell-shocked staff  just doesn't understand the many challenges that come with catering to the little-kid crowd.  This place is not meant to make adults happy.  In fact, what I'm seeing is a whole lot of young-uns having fun.  And that's okay with me.

Pick o' the Day: 10 (No, scratch that) 11 things you should probably never say to your wife

Here are 10 (no, 11) things that should probably never be said to any woman, especially if she's your wife: (I had to add the most important one that she reminded me about this morning)

1.  Wake up! The baby's crying again!

2.  What's for dinner?

3.  Did we really need to buy that?

4.  You know, the world doesn't revolve just around you.

5.  Honey, I'm out of clean underwear again!

6.  When are you getting home?  I'm hungry.

7.  Hurry up!  We're going to be late!

8.  Hey honey, is my toothbrush the one with the green or the blue handle.  I can never remember.

9.  Don't forget to put some gas in your car.  It was awfully low the last time I drove it.

10.  Could you help me with this enema?

...and one more I was reminded about this morning...

11.  NO!




 

Pick o' the Day: Remembering Gloria

A quiet classroom at last.

A three hour, mid-year practice test

being grudgingly endured

by a rag-tag collection

of struggling students

suffering from various degrees

of anger and apathy.

It’s an effort for everyone in the room

to stay awake.

But then,

just outside my window,

the gentle and eerily warm December breeze

whispering its way through

the ancient, oak-shaded courtyard

triggers the ever-so-soft tinkling

of a delicate chime,

and, in an instant,

an image of Gloria’s smiling face

comes to my mind.

And I remember

that hers was the first smile

to greet me

when I walked, tentatively,

and hopefully,

through the doors of this school

for the first time

more than seven years ago.

And that smile reassured me

that I had come to the right place,

after all.

A place where I might be needed

and where I needed to be.

It doesn’t matter how many years

of experience a teacher may have.

When one starts a new position

in a new school,

he is a new teacher all over again.

So I quickly came to know

that Gloria was the one to ask

when I needed help or advice.

She was meticulously professional

in everything she did.

Always working to bring goodness,

and positive feelings,

and hope

to a place that shelters hundreds

upon hundreds

of children who come to us

with backgrounds of despair and discouragement.

She even brought in a feng shui expert,

every year,

to advise us on how to improve

the flow of chi in our classrooms

in the hope that it would bring us luck

and good fortune

in everything we attempted to achieve each day.

Over the years her role changed

whether she wanted it to or not,

but she tackled each new challenge

with the same tenacity,

and the same love,

and the same smile,

until she felt the time had come

for her to leave.

Now the ever-so-soft tinkling

of the chimes in the courtyard

brings me back to the reality

of my rag-tag collection of students

struggling though the test.

But I remember Gloria

and what she was to this campus.

I think

it was she who was

our feng shui,

our wind and water,

for so long,

whether she knew it or not.

And the void that was left

when she moved on

will not be easily filled.

Her imprint on this place

is too big

and too deep.

And it will remain

like the ancient bricks and mortar

of the old building,

part of the foundation

on which the future will rest.

 

 

 

 

 

Pick o' the Day: the hawk and the pigeon

                                                            so I was walking back to the school parking lot after depositing a check for my wife at the chase bank on the corner when a red hawk swooped out of the sky and violently smashed into a pigeon that was pecking around on the ground minding its own business just a few feet in front of me leaving a small cloud of downy feathers floating in the air and it lifted off heavily flapping up and up with its bloody silent and paralyzed victim clutched in its talons into the top of the nearest tree where it tore the living shit out of it and it saw me watching in mild horror and then decided it didn’t want anyone to see what it was doing and took what was left of the mangled remains and flew off and into another tree farther away and it made me think that there are some people out there who are hawks and a whole lot more who are pigeons and maybe I’m a pigeon too but by God I’m a pigeon with a gun