Superstitious Fibbing Friday

It was Friday the 13th so last week, Pensitivity101’s selection was based on superstitions.

Make up your own reasons for these please:

  1. Why were people given middle names?

So that children could know just how pissed Mom was at them this time.
Margaret Elizabeth Robertson, you get in here this minute.

2. Why do we cover our mouths when we yawn?

To keep all the stupid from leaking out.

3. Why do we say ‘Bless You’ when somebody sneezes?

It’s a code phrase, meaning, Keep it down.  I’m trying to quietly enjoy a mint julep here.  One of my cats complains almost every time I sneeze.  It’s a ritual begun by vocally-impaired southern belles.  If a Georgia matriarch smiles, and says Bless you, or Bless your heart, you can translate it as F**k you very much.

4. Why do we wear a wedding ring on the third finger of the left hand?

Because, if we wore it on the middle finger, it would impair our ability to converse with taxi drivers and politicians.

5. What was the original use of wind chimes?

Obviously, to irritate those irritating neighbours.

6. What was the original purpose of bridesmaids?

It was a way to screw over poor Jacob, in the Bible, and get another 7 years of free labor from him, by substituting Rachel for Leah in the marriage-bed, following a drunken spirited wedding celebration.

7. What is the significance of the first butterfly of the year you see being white?

Probably that you live north of the Mason-Dixon Line, and you can thank your cotton-pickin’ lucky stars that you do.

  1. What does it mean if your right ear itches?

That you’re going to have to listen to another fool, and probably kiss your pension goodbye.

9. Why is Good Friday a good day to cut your hair?

For forty days, you’ve been cut off from good food and drink, and maybe even sex.  Cutting off a little hair is the thing you’ll feel and miss the least.

10. What should you give a friend who gives you a knife as a gift?

A wide berth!  😳

How I Became A Sociopath

I wasn’t born a loner – but I was born with a brain condition which almost guaranteed that outcome.

When I was almost three, my Mother gave birth to my brother, a sickly blue-baby which required a lot of care and attention.  I was not abandoned, but I had a lot of alone time, in a neighborhood with no other children my age.  The pattern was set.

A bit of amateur observation and analysis by others, later, in my adult life, indicates that I am probably on the autism scale, a high-functioning Asperger’s.  I could have been charitably described as ‘delightfully naïve.’  I do not read social cues.  I was intelligent, not a hick, or a rube.  I was open, friendly, inclusive – and I got shit on!

The nearest boy my age was two blocks away, just beyond a parkland with a lake in the middle. He regularly played with a boy a year older, who lived next door.  I occasionally hung out with them, but slowly realized that they only tolerated me to use or abuse me.

At our end of the little lake, the cedar trees grew closely, up the embankment, pierced by a few game/people trails.  The far end could not be reached without going out to the street, and around, because of a minor geological formation, and a field of stinging nettle that I regretted finding – until I discovered a way past.

At the far end, there were open areas of tall grass and weeds.  The cedars were in individual, teepee-sized copses.  I stuck my head into one of them, to discover that the outer foliage blocked the sunlight, and the interiors were hollow.  FORTS! Just what every 10/11-year-old boy needed.  I could hardly wait to show my companions.

When I excitedly led them to see my discovery, in the first copse we entered, there was a ‘machine gun’ – a wooden toy that some father had built, with a crank and a clacker on one side.  Suitable for a 6 or 7-year-old, the 12-year-old culprit snatched it up and shouted, “Mine!”

A week later, when I repeated my mistake, we found a homemade hunting knife.  Instead of leaving it for the rightful owner, he yelled, “Dibs,” and grabbed it, too.  Now I felt that I could no longer explore my new play area, lest a resident denizen accuse me of stealing these items.

At the edge of the downtown retail area, there was a dilapidated storage building.  I learned how to slip past the loose rear doors.  Among other things, it contained three non-functioning pinball machines.  Often coming or going, I would slip in and stand at them for five or ten minutes, popping the balls up, and propelling them up, to watch them carom around randomly, and disappear.

When I inadvertently revealed that I knew how to get in, they insisted that I show them.  Standing around, watching steel balls doing nothing, didn’t entertain them.  The older culprit pried the end railing off all three machines, slid the glass covers down, and had me remove all the balls.  Three machines – three of us – we each got five 1-inch ball-bearings.  I accompanied culprit #1 back to his house, on the way to mine.  As I walked across his lawn, I heard him call to me.

His old house had old-style, heavy wooden storm-windows that fit over the regular ones in cold weather, to add insulation value.  For rooms like the kitchen, which might become overheated, you could open the inner window, and the storm-window had a flap at the bottom, covering four round holes that could provide ventilation.

He wanted to know if the balls would fit through the holes.  They did – perfectly.  “You push the balls in, and I’ll push them back out to you.”  So I did.  I soon realized that I was poking in five – and getting back four – poking in the four – and getting back three, etc. until I had none.  Standing there, like the gullible fool I was, I said, “Push mine back out to me.”  “Nope, they’re mine now.” and he closed the flap and the inner window, so I went home with nothing but regrets.

A couple of months later, he wanted to trade comic books.   He kept his pile in a cardboard box just bigger than his comics.  As I was digging down in the box, I realized that all the ball-bearings were along the bottom.  I surreptitiously snaked them out and dropped them in my pocket.  As I was walking away, he shouted through the window, “You stole all my balls.  Give them back.”  I said, “Nope, they’re mine now.”  Even with ten balls in my possession, I couldn’t go back to the amusement site and put them back; for fear that I would be discovered and accused of damaging the machines.

I went to school with him so, one day we were walking together in a residential area that was not ours.   Twenty yards ahead on the sidewalk was a piece of paper.  It looked like an envelope.  I assumed that we would just walk up to it and see what it was.  Suddenly, he dashed forward, scooped it up and started pawing into the envelope.

When I got there, I found that it was a utility bill for a month’s electricity and water – plus enough cash to pay for it.  The owner’s name was clear on the invoice.  I felt that we should just walk over to the widow’s apartment and return it, getting a smile, a thank you, a pat on the head, and possibly a cookie.  Instead of doing that, or instead of offering to split it with me, or at least give me a small portion, he just stuffed it in his pocket.

Perhaps I read too much evil into too small a sample size, but it didn’t get any better when I had to attend high school in the next town.  Mostly I was ignored, sometimes pointedly so, but there was a short bully who loved to sneak up behind me, grab my arm and twist it behind me in a chicken-wing.  It was only because my arms were so short, that he couldn’t get enough leverage to cause me pain or discomfort.  I would ignore him, and he would get bored, turn me loose and walk away.

One day, two of the well-off guys in my class were illicitly sharing a BIG box of peanut brittle.  When class ended, I politely asked if I might have a small piece.  At next class-break, they found me and gave me a piece – which they later crowed they had both peed on.  Even today, I am amazed that people will expend so much time and energy, for no obvious gain.

I refuse to be mean.  I will not be nasty or judgmental.  I will not be an asshole.  I will not be a prankster, a troublemaker, or a criminal.  I know that there are lots of nice folks.  I’ve met many of them, but people like these seem to make up the large majority of the population.  I eventually realized that I didn’t need or want companionship badly enough to seek it from the likes of these.

To those of you who have been kind to me – and others – online, or in person, Thank You!  You are bright and shining stars in a sea of darkness.  I’m glad I could be a loner, with you.   😀  😀

Son Of A Gun

Or in this case, a grandson.  In an attempt to dilute and disperse my fanatical, homicidal, antisocial obsession with possessing dangerous weapons, he has already given me a

Sacrificial Stone Dagger
We’ll call it a Scottish letter opener.

And a



Gorgeous rapier
We’ll call it shiny, sharp and pointy.

The United States has recently endured several domestic terrorism attacks, where assault-type weapons have been used to murder numbers of people.  In an attempt to look like they’re doing something – anything – more of the wrong thing, and solving someone else’s problem, the Canadian Federal Government has passed legislation that further tightens gun-control laws that are already some of the most restrictive in the world.  At least temporarily, the purchase, sale, or transfer of legally-owned handguns has been suspended.

Unlike Hercules, the grandson cannot cut the Gordian Knot of bureaucracy, and present me with a Government-authorized pistol.  Ingenious little devil he, he has found a way to tap-dance past the restrictions.  It is legally permitted to hire the services of a licensed gun-shop/shooting range owner, who will provide supervision and safety instruction, and temporarily lend and allow me to fire, five of my favorite handguns.

A sixth, my more favorite, the Berretta Model 92, is not included in the offering.  I plan to (reluctantly) ask if it is possible to substitute it for one on their menu.  Being Canadian, I have only fired two hand-guns in my life – a Police .38 Special, and a .32 caliber Spanish officer’s semi-automatic, a darling little thing with shiny stainless steel, and mother-of-pearl handles, suitable as a lady’s purse gun, or in the don’t ask – don’t tell brigade.

I received this I Am Impossible To Shop For package as a Fathers’ Day present.  The grandson and I, and the range owner, will negotiate a mutually acceptable Saturday, probably near my birthday in late September.  This is the most useless, but at the same time, the most treasured bucket list present that I have ever received.

I’m sure that some, make us feel safe at any cost, even if we’re not, Chicken Littles will want to know why I want to fire these dangerous guns.  As Willy Sutton said, when they asked him why he robbed banks – that’s where the money is.  Or George Mallory (not Edmund Hillary), when asked why he climbed Mount Everest – because it’s there!  I feel no need to justify this adventure but, that’s where the enjoyment is, and, because I can.

I will employ my hundreds of hours of gun safety training to ensure that I don’t shoot myself or anyone else.  With my worsening essential tremor, I won’t reveal target scores.  It will be enough just to keep flying lead between the range walls.  I will report later on this guys’ escapade.  You’ll know me by my goofy smile.

One I-Liners

How do you milk sheep?….
….Bring out a new iPhone and charge $1000 for it.

Darwin told his son….
….You’re adapted.

My computer just gave me an “Error 404” notice….
….That’s not right.  I’ve made a lot more errors than that.

My hands are consuming more alcohol….
….than my mouth.

If someone has sex on an airplane….
….Does it count as a flying fuck?

I once entered the World’s Kleptomaniac Championship….
….I took Gold, Silver, and Bronze

Infants don’t have nearly as much fun in infancy….
….As adults do in adultery.

Why did the chicken cross the Moebius strip?….
….To get to the same side.

I had to remove the battery from my carbon-monoxide detector….
….The constant beeping gave me a headache and made me feel sick.

I’m considering a life of crime….
….I’m going to run for Governor

How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb?….
….A fish.

I’m glad I don’t have to hunt for my own food….
….I have no idea where sandwiches live.

Why do I always carry a knife??….
….The last time I tried to open a bag of chips with a 9mm, things did not go well.

I’m not crazy….
….I prefer the term, mentally hilarious.

Cowboys don’t roll joints….
….They tumble weed.

I joined a support group for procrastinators….
….We haven’t met yet.

Dwarves and midgets….
….Have very little in common.

I joined a group for Tourette’s sufferers….
….It took four hours to get sworn in.

I was born a male, and identify as a male, but….
….according to Stouffer’s Lasagna, I’m a family of four.

Without freedom of speech….
….We wouldn’t know who the idiots are.

Some people are such treasures….
….You just want to bury them

Maybe broccoli doesn’t like you, either.

Welcome to the Assumption Club….
….I think we all know why we’re here.

I hate peer pressure….
….And so should you.

I wish more people….
….Were fluent in silence

If a pig loses its voice….
….Does that make it disgruntled??

I thought the dryer was shrinking my clothes….
….Turns out it was the refrigerator.

I am currently experiencing life….
….At several WTFs per hour.

The Year In Photos

Inspiration strikes – when Inspiration strikes.  This ‘Year,’ will begin and end on March 1.  Hang onto your seats!  Here we go.  The theme will be Chaos And Confusion.  I’ll be Chaos, if you’ll handle the confusion.

March 1/21 – the monthly Costco visit

COVID masks, COVID masks
COVID all the way
(To the tune of Jingle Bells)

March 8 –

We washed the son’s work jacket…. And his 10 year old flip-phone.
Might be the origin of the term “Clean and Jerk

March 15 –

The wife’s last visit to a Physiotherapist, for a pulled back muscle.
My last cold wait outside – here.

March 22

The neighbors’ version of Groundhog Day.  Canadian weather changes quickly in the spring.

March 29

It’s Ours!  It’s Ours!  It’s Ours!
Paid off a 25-year mortgage in just over 17 years.  Can’t decide how to celebrate – McDonalds for a sundae strains the entertainment budget.

April 5

Here we go round the Mulberry bush
Hardly a bush, this young tree was 6’ – as tall as the Grandson – when we planted it five years ago.  The winter’s snows have all disappeared.  Soon I will have to mow my back yard again.

Week of April 12

The daughter and I got some COVID freedom and fresh air when I drove her to a dental appointment.  During the wait, I rewarded myself with a visit to the second-best French fries outlet – on the other side of town.  Finally open for the season at Easter, in a freestanding ex-Dairy Queen building.

W/O April 19

With a great-grandson on the way, the wife went into nesting mode.  She knitted a 36” X 48” crib blanket.  The checkerboard pattern is ‘Wee Bean,’ for our oncoming wee bean.

W/O April 26

Step on a crack – Break your Mother’s back
I’ll set you straight.
A visit to our Chiropractor.  Just another on the long list of our medical specialists.

W/O May 3

Our magnolia bush.  Its blossoms only last a couple of days, but it’s gorgeous while it lasts.  Usually it is completely covered in blooms, but a late-April freeze and snowstorm delayed/killed about half the flowers.

W/O May 10

A shopping trip past the new Google building, erected on the bones of my old auto-parts plant.

W/O May 17

Took the wife and daughter to Podiatrist, in a renovated Century-house.
At least the COVID wait outside was getting warmer.

W/O May 24

A visit to the daughter, held up by the new LRT Street Railway.  It sure holds up a lot of non-PC, car traffic, while it transports a half-dozen eco-friendly hipsters.

W/O May 31

When I finally get past that damned street railroad, this is the daughter’s single-level, handicap townhouse apartment.

W/O June 7

She doesn’t rub me the wrong way.
The ‘Happy Ending’ at our massage therapist is loosened computer-shoulders.
Dolly Parton once said that it cost a lot of money, to look that cheap.
It is fortunate that it’s my retirement benefits package which pays so much, to keep us in good physical shape.

W/O June 14

A free, origami Lotus blossom, picked up at our Multicultural festival, before COVID struck.  It represents peace and tranquility – I need all I can get.

W/O June 21

A trip to our out-of-town Vet, past 1920s Commemorative ‘Pioneer Tower,’ to recall the 1820s arrival of Pennsylvania Dutch/ German immigrants

W/O June 28

The best French fry wagon in town.  Sure looks permanent, for a trailer.  Hello delicious.  Goodbye diet – and I found a new little knife.  See Look Sharp

W/O July 1

To celebrate Canada Day on July 1, the son adopted an immigrant.  It crawled over the remains of Trump’s wall, shouting, “To Hell with Dia de los Muertos, I’m here for the Maple syrup.”

W/O July 8

The replacement building at the nearby Farmers’ Market for the wooden structure that burned, five years ago.

W/O July 15

The nearby branch of the city library.  With up to 5000 total books per day located, moved and curbside delivered, these folks were local heroes, getting me and many others through the lockdown.

W/O July 22

My 1952 print dictionary, which I am giving up for digital.  2000 pages for $20.00 – purchased at a country schoolyard flea-market in 1972, in Mar Ontario – population 4.

July 25

The wife and I finally got our second COVID vaccination.  That’s one infection you don’t need to worry about contracting from me.

W/O Aug. 5

 

Ex-Public Utilities Commission building which handled the 20th Century electrification of Kitchener, and eventually   became the Grandson’s Starbucks.

W/O Aug. 12
*

A lovely, hand-made glass flower that the daughter gave us.  I stuck it in a planter on the back deck.  Storm winds turned it slightly.  The neighbors worried that we’d installed a security camera – facing them.

W/O Aug. 19

I helped the grandson pick up a new chair for his mother, and almost stepped on this cat.
(It was a carved stone cat which we both thought was real  The photo may be added later…. if I can just find it.)  😛

W/O Aug. 26

Perhaps the most boring week of my life – not that I’m complaining.  At my age, boring is good.  The most exciting thing that happened was my newspaper got delivered.

W/O Sept 14


I discovered that my Lilac bush was growing crab-apples, which I could make crab-apple jelly with.

W/O Sept 21

I did it! I lasted long enough to celebrate my 77th birthday.  We voted in a Federal election the day before.  I did not get the present of a new Prime Minister – one who wasn’t a spoiled trust-fund baby.

W/O Oct 11

Canadian Thanksgiving.  COVID restrictions on group size had been relaxed, and all of us had had two vaccine shots.  We were all able to gather for a family meal, with the GREAT-grandson (above) as the honored guest.

W/O Nov. 8

COVID19 is going down for the count.  The Americans let vaccinated Canadians into the country – but the Canadian bureaucrats insisted on a $200 test to get back into Canada. Soon, Galleria and Boulevard Mall, soon.

W/O Nov. 15

Spring has sprung – Fall has fell – and there’s 6 inches of Partly Cloudy on my Canadian deck.  I published this photo a few years ago, but it’s become ritual with this home-owner.  This year’s version is indistinguishable.

W/O Nov. 22

Those who do not learn from the mistakes of history, are doomed to repeat them.
George Santayana

Dec. 2

The relaxation of COVID19 restaurant restrictions allowed us to go to Red Lobster to celebrate our 54th wedding anniversary.

W/O Dec. 5

And the lion shall lie down with the lamb
With our three cats and two dogs, our Vet wonders if they get along with each other.

W/O Dec. 12

Two weeks ago, I took two quarters from a pay phone slot.  Last week I found a dime in a change-counter machine overflow.  This week I found 61 pennies, because the machines are now set to eject them.  15 of them were American – which went in our We’ll get to Detroit for a weekend shopping after COVID, fund.

W/O Dec. 25

At a COVID-permitted family Christmas gathering, I found some strange man holding my GREAT-grandson Rowan back, to keep him from lunging at the camera.

W/O Jan. 3

Well, here’s another fine year we’ve got ourselves into. (Laurel and Hardy – here’s another fine mess) Survive, or submit, it’s up to us to make the best of it.

W/O Jan. 10

We don’t have enough knives in this house, so we adopted yet another, which came back to the son’s plant in an ‘empty’ shipping container.

W/O Jan. 17

To get our third COVID (booster) shot, we had to go downtown, to the recently-ex Regional Municipal Building.  Are more COVID and booster shots still in the future??  Will this never end?

Jan. 31

I think I can.  I think I can.
I thought I could.  I thought I could.
Slow and steady wins the race.
After ten+ years, I published 1500 posts.

W/O Feb. 19

COVID restrictions relaxed – again, just in time to book a reservation to celebrate the wife’s 73rd birthday.  Dining was at half capacity.  Our timing was perfect.  Everyone else found out about it, and the NEXT DAY you couldn’t get a table at gunpoint.  😯

March 1/22

*

So we end the year right where we began it – at Costco – only a little closer to free food samples again.

Thanx for strolling through a year in my life – lotsa good readin’, if ya like pitchers.  I will be purveying prose on Friday.  C U then.  😀

Look Sharp

I recently went off the reservation my diet, and received a lovely parting gift for doing so.

I took my title from an old Gillette TV commercial – Look Sharp – Feel Sharp – Be Sharp.  I used to see them as a kid, when we watched boxing, wrestling or hockey.  I don’t know how old the ad in the YouTube video is, but they’re offering 20 tempered steel razor blades for 98¢, in a metal safety dispenser, with a built-in disposal compartment.  And if you buy right now, they’ll throw in a 35¢ tube of shave cream for free.

When I used to take the wife and daughter to the podiatrist, I got to sit in the waiting room, read a newspaper, solve a crossword puzzle.  Mr. COVID 19 won’t let me do that now.  I drop them off, and have a half-an-hour to wait.  I reward myself by driving a mile to a French fry wagon.  Two visits ago, I had their Nacho fries.  Last visit, I had poutine (above).  This last time I ordered their plain, crispy fries.

On a shelf below the order window, I noticed, what appeared to be a military dog-tag.  I picked it up and turned it over, to discover that it was a tiny folding pocket knife.  I published a post about the Leftovers knives that I possess, and later, made Hash with the ones that remained.  This is how I got some of them – I LOOK – SHARP!

When I showed it to the son, he dismissed it, saying that he could buy a package of three for $5.00.  The maker’s name, Bőker, is etched on the blade.  When I went to their website, I discovered that they call it (surprisingly) a dog-tag knife.  It is high-quality, and the retail price is $56.00 US, delivery extra.  I felt sorry for whoever had inadvertently left it behind, and almost left it there myself, before realizing that, if I didn’t pick it up, eventually, someone other than the owner would.

So, I have this lovely ladies’ purse knife, suitable as a seatbelt cutter, letter or package-opener.  What am I bid??  Offers must include the cost of shipping…. Or – I could use it as a prize in an online contest.  Guess how many marbles Archon has lost this month.   😕  😯

If you look sharp, there’ll be more of this edgy prose soon.  Slice through all those distractions, and come for a visit.  😀

Young Love Gone Wrong

Jailbird

For 20 years, they were deliriously happy…. Then they met.
Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be.     😳

Once upon a time, I lost a girlfriend. It wasn’t a century ago, but it was well back in the last century.

When I graduated high school, I moved 100 miles away to take my first job. It wasn’t long before it was apparent – at least to me – that the long-distance romance wasn’t going to work. Jeff Foxworthy speaks of, “If she hasn’t yet saddled up and ridden a new horse, she’s at least pulled one from the barn, and put a bridle on him.” My friends never mentioned that to me. I broke it off – by letter – just before Christmas. She wasn’t lonely for long.

I had just turned 19. Her new beau was almost 21. He had a job as a mechanic. He made more money than I did. He had a car. She traded up – or did she??! The new fella was the kind described as ‘known to police.’ She had a 16-year-old younger brother. By Valentine’s Day, he had sold the kid a switchblade knife – probably a $3/$4 piece of junk, that he charged $5 for.

The home was ruled by a nasty, judgmental mother, only one reason I decided to call it quits. All 6 of the children were a bit sharp – or brittle – especially this youngest, with something to prove. He couldn’t attract a girlfriend, but wanted to go to the high school’s big Easter Dance.

Since he didn’t have a partner, he asked the new boyfriend if he could provide a little liquid courage. Back then, you had to be 21 to purchase alcohol, but he knew a fellow, and provided a Mickey (13 Oz.) of lemon gin. The kid spiked his own punch at the party, and was soon roaring drunk – yelling and swearing, and pawing girls.

The science teacher, the male chaperone, approached him, and told him that he must leave. This was his first drinking experience. He didn’t know how to act. He loudly insisted that he would not leave. The teacher reached to take his arm or shoulder, to escort him out…. and he pulled the switchblade!

If he had just left, everything would have quietly disappeared. Now they had to call the cops! He wasn’t arrested, but they confiscated the knife, and called his parents to pick him up. The policeman asked him where he’d got the knife, and the liquor. Too immature to keep his mouth shut, he quickly named the new boyfriend.

The next day, they pulled him over. With probable cause, they searched the car, found an unopened case of beer in the trunk, and charged him with underage possession.

Our town was a ‘County Town,’ not the county capital. That was 30 miles away. We got a circuit judge, and every Wednesday was court day. Nicknamed the Hangin’ Judge, he had seen the evils of Demon Rum, and had a hatred for alcohol. This was Carrie Nation’s husband.

I don’t know whether he came to hate booze before, or because, he became a judge. The latter was quite possible, with all the drunken tourists, and drunken Indians from the nearby reservation.

The boyfriend pled guilty, and the misdemeanor penalty was a fine, and a criminal record. The judge wanted to get higher up this bootlegging ladder, and demanded to know where he had got the beer. “I found it in a ditch.” “Well, I hope you found a month down there with it, ‘cause you’re going to do 30 days in the county slammer.”

He’d kept quiet about his supplier, but, even sober, he just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Hell, I can do 30 days, standin’ on my head.” “That’s contempt of court. Here’s another 30 days, to get you back on your feet.” Suddenly that Archon boy was looking real good – but I was long gone.

WOW #44

Kyle's Scrimshaw

This is MY definition of ‘Griffonage.’

Doctors have learned to use computers, and no longer hand-write prescriptions. Pharmacists give thanks for modern technology. That brings us to the Word Of this Week

GRIFFONAGE

Careless handwriting: a crude or illegible scrawl

The art of cursive writing is going the way of the Dodo VCR. Generally, the more someone writes, the more rushed the writing is, and the worse – the more illegible – it becomes. If you are fortunate enough to get a celebrity to autograph a book or a program, they vaguely wave a marker over it.

What results, could not be proven in a court of law – or anywhere else – to be an actual signature. You might as well have had one of the roadies scribble something. You could sell it at a neat profit, and no-one would be any the wiser.

This old –but new-to-me – word, brought me to another new-to-me synonym…. Cacography, who is related to cacophony, which means
harsh discordance of sound; dissonance:
a discordant and meaningless mixture of sounds

So, where one infects the ears, the other afflicts the eyes. Give your eyes a rest on Monday, with a post with a few jokes.   😉   😆

Flash Fiction #177

pasta

CHEESE-WHIZ

Young Billy and his best buddy Bob, loved all cheese.  One Saturday, they ate at East Side Mario’s.  They ordered different pastas, so Bobby’s came out first.  The waitress assured Bill that his would arrive soon, but first, would Bob like some parmesan grated on his??

She ground, and ground – and GROUND.  “Say when.”  Bob eventually raised a hand.

Bill said, “I love cheese even more than him.  You’ll need a new block.”

“Don’t challenge me.  I just went to the Gym.”

By the time she grated the new block, you could almost see the fettuccini on his plate.

***

PHOTO PROMPT © Russell Gayer

Go to Rochelle’s Addicted to Purple site and use her Wednesday photo as a prompt to write a complete 100 word story.

Friday Fictioneers

’18 A To Z Challenge – O

 

Challenge '18letter-o

 

 

 

 

 

OBSESSION

When is a door not a door??  When it’s ajar.  When is an obsession not an obsession??  Are we obsessed if we always do the same things the same way, or is it that, through observation and practice, we have found the best way??  I’m not stubborn.  My way is just right.

Obsession is a matter of degree.  If you check that the doors are locked before retiring for the night, you’re careful and cautious.  If you check that the doors are locked before retiring for the night – 15 or 20 times – you may be a bit obsessive.

Even if we don’t have to seek professional help, most of us have a thing or few that we’re a bit obsessive about.  My father was obsessive about putting butter on bread: actually, about NOT putting butter on bread.  Somehow it disturbed him to have a bit of unused butter on his knife when his bread was covered.  He hated to have to scrape the excess off against the edge of the butter dish.  It could take him 3 or 4 tiny little diminishing dabs, to complete his task.

Since the wife’s life centers around food and cooking, so do her obsessions.  We own 3 butter knives, another household item not common in our social/financial neighborhood.  She uses one to add dabs of margarine to a casserole of scalloped potatoes, as she assembles it, or to spread pâté on rolls or crackers….  because, apparently, a kitchen knife won’t do it.

As a teen, an older sister impressed upon her that, All dishes have to be washed in a sinkful of hot, soapy water.”  Not a bad idea on its own, but – we own 4 or 5 sets of measuring spoons.  If a recipe calls for a tablespoon of sugar, a teaspoon of salt, and a half-teaspoon of cinnamon, she measures out the tablespoon of sugar.  Sugar doesn’t stick to slick, stainless steel spoons.  If it did, I would wipe off an offending grain or two with a dishcloth.  The other size spoons aren’t used but, she throws the entire set into the sink, to be washed.

Then she gets out another set, measures the salt….and throws that set in the sink.  Then, she gets out yet another set, measures the cinnamon….and throws it in the sink too.  It’s a good thing that there are two dishwashers in our home.  General Electric built one….I am the other.

I remember the first time she caught observed me cleaning out a saucepan of reheated chilli and eating with a spatula.  We don’t do that at our house.

She ‘translated’ cooking instructions for a rice maker, from Imperial, to Metric, and came up with the weight of rice at 389 grams.  I obsess about that ’messy’ looking number, and use a nice, round, 390 grams without ever telling her.  It’s almost as bad as the swishy little women’s section editor in our paper, who published instructions to chill something down to the freezing mark, 0 degrees Celsius….or 33 degrees Fahrenheit.  I obsessively called him and asked how in Hell he’d got 33 degrees.  He just figured it out with his calculator.

My obsessions center around the English language, and word usage.  If you’ve read any of my word posts, like last year’s rant, you know how I like to poke fun at lazy, stupid, unthinking misusages, especially by professionals.  Things like the headline, “Pope considers taking “leave.”  Taking “leave,” is a Lieutenant-Colonel with 30-days of R&R – a temporary absence.  What they meant to punctuate was, “Pope considers “taking leave,” as in, a resignation, a retirement, a permanent giving up of the post of Pope, the way that Benny The Dick wisely did.

The headline writer took leave of his education and training.  I don’t want you to take leave of this site.  See you back here soon??  Please!  🙂