I can pee whenever I want!

I can’t believe I’ve already achieved my most important New Year’s resolution – to be able to pee whenever I want!

Hmm… do I really need toilet tissue?

That may seem kind of silly since all guys can generally take a leak whenever and wherever they want – like on a tree, on a dog, or in the shower, and no, ladies, don’t even pretend you don’t go to the bathroom in the shower. You know you do.

My difficulty stemmed from the fact that my toilet was on the fritz, literally leaking itself all over my bathroom floor every time I turned the water on. Initially, the flapper thingy would get stuck in the up position and I would have to use my back scratcher to reach in and knock it down. Of course, I had to remember to clean the back scratcher before scratching myself again, which can be annoyingly time consuming.

When you’ve got an itch, you want to scratch it right away. The same is true when nature calls, you want to take care of the urge right away.

My toilet problem escalated when I accidentally dropped the lid from the water reservoir onto the back corner of the toilet and took out a sizable chunk of porcelain.

Almost immediately, a stream of water the thickness of a piece of yarn starts streaming from between the water reservoir and the junction with the lower part of the toilet. Now, every time I used the toilet, I had to turn the water on and off.

No matter what, every time I had to use the toilet in the present sense for mixed deposits, I had to put a bucket under the back of the toilet. I have a problem going to the bathroom while under pressure and that bucket was like an hourglass with a limited amount of time allotted before it overflowed on the floor. Crap!

Even pushing on the walls did not always help.

It got so bad I started mapping out potty spots around town. I’d start the morning with a quick tinkle and a cup of coffee at Mickey Dee’s. Before heading home at night, I would use the bathroom at the Food Court in the mall or at Barnes & Noble trying to squeeze out every “drop”(?)

At home, I would debate with myself, “Do I really have to go to the bathroom right now or can I wait until the morning?” I can just imagine what my gynecologist would say, “Get out of those stirrups you idiot! Appointments are for women only.”

The reason I didn’t just go and get it fixed was I had spent nearly three thousand dollars repairing my truck, so finances were tight. Fortunately, for Christmas I got some money from friends and family, which I promptly invested in my personal relief system – otherwise known as a new toilet.

Oh my God! It’s bright white and all shiny with an extended bowl making hitting the target so much easier. (My mom used to throw Cheerios in the bowl for target practice.) This one flushes in an instant compared to the meandering whirlpool that sluggishly emptied the last toilet. And, the new toilet refills in mere moments, which is handy if you have a line at the door.

I am in love with my new toilet. In fact, I have found myself drinking way more water than I need just for the chance to visit.

I feel guilty using facilities outside my home, knowing my new love is at home just waiting for me to drop trou and have a seat. Reading has become a pleasure again as I deliver the morning constitutional while enjoying a chapter or two on my Kindle while sipping a cup of coffee.

Did you know a Kindle can float?

Anywho, I have already achieved my New Year’s resolution. I can only hope everything comes out good for you too.

(P.S. Please pardon all the potty humor.)    😉

photo credit: TheGiantVermin via photopin cc

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You are such a liar!

If I ever met one of the presidential candidates, I would say to him, “You are such a liar!” I would say that inside my head because I don’t want any overzealous Secret Service agents asking me to tell them what the fertilizer of the month smells like as they stuff my face into the grass.

The dictionary definitely needs to be updated so the definition for politician says, “See LIAR.”

If put on the ballot, I might vote for candidates with the last names of Hemming and Hawing because there would at least be some truth in advertising.

Seriously, how do you pick a candidate these days? They each lie about each other to the degree that you end up picking the candidate with the best lies. If Obama has told enough effective lies about Romney, then he will probably get elected – and vice versa.

Just out of curiosity, has anyone done a study to determine how many campaign promises have actually been kept? With all the special interest groups vying for attention by way of bribes, oops, I mean donations it’s a wonder any laws ever get passed for the benefit of the people or any campaign promises are ever fulfilled.

What would happen if laws got passed just because they were the right thing to do and not because the congressperson was getting a kickback or some special program to benefit his/her constituents added in to the package that many times has nothing to do with the law being passed.

What would happen if an elected President was penalized for every campaign promise not kept?

Truth in government. What a concept.

I guess until that happens I will just have to pick the best liar in the bunch.

Held prisoner by a truck

I blew up my truck.

Who knew that when the temperature gauge is pegged in the red zone you might have a problem?

Apparently, I should have. Just a few moments after hitting the red zone my truck lost power and started putting out clouds of steam. You know you’ve messed up when limping into a gas station everyone at the pumps starts pointing at you and shaking their heads while commenting to anyone nearby, “What an idiot. He’s fried that truck for sure.”

But the whole point of this post is the effect not having a vehicle has on the modern person’s daily life. Being a book author, I frequently have the luxury of sleeping till noon (or later) getting up, thinking up a few lies for fun and profit, and then publishing them. I spend the rest of the day seeking out the companionship of my fellow man (actually, I prefer women). But how is this possible without my own vehicle?

Oh sure, I could take the bus, a taxi, beg a ride from a friend, but I am so spoiled by my American life that I want a vehicle to be available 24/7, 365 days of the year. I have places to go, people to see, important things to do like get a hot dog and coke at Costco for $1.59. Visit Taco Bell for some Supreme Nachos, go to the movies and watch two or three flicks in a row (that counts as research for a writer), or go the Food Court at the mall and walk around enough times that I score a meal of free Bourbon Chicken samples.

When I die, I may not impress St. Peter with my accomplishments, but at least I will have had a good time and an extremely large supply of Taco Bell hot sauce packets.

Reviewing the joy that is my existence I realized I had to come up with the cash, $535 to be exact to get my radiator fixed.

I did that by using a cookie stencil of the Virgin Mary on a piece of bread, which I then sprayed with butter. After toasting, I had a religious icon which I then sold to devout local churchgoers, for an indecent, some might even say sinful amount of money.

I am no longer held prisoner by my truck. In fact, I am on my way to the mall. Do you want me to save you some Bourbon Chicken?

Do bookstores discriminate against diabetics?

“You can’t eat that in here!”

Startled, I looked up to find a huffy, puffy, red-faced barista, hands on her hips with lips twisted in a lemon-sucking scowl, glaring at me.

My witty comeback. “Huh?”

“It’s against the laws of man and nature to bring outside food into this café,” growled Miss Huffy Puffy. I may be exaggerating a little, but that is the essence of what she said.

“Please, speak a little louder. I don’t think they heard you down at Sears.”

Lemons everywhere quivered as she pursed her lips even tighter.

A sudden hush descended over the café as all eyes furtively looked in my direction. I got a quick mental vision of a saloon clearing out before the two gunslingers headed for the shootout in the street.

“You can’t eat that in here,” she said pointing at my takeout plate of lean chicken and green beans.

“Well,” I said, “I like to indulge in sweets, but my doctor has cut out all sugar from my diet. I’m not even allowed to look at pictures of sugar cane plants. So, I would have bought something here to eat but all you serve is sugar. I’m diabetic and can’t eat 99.5% of what you offer.”

In my imagination, and with a guttural Mexican accent, Miss Huffy Puffy replied, “We don’t give a damn about no diabetics or even people who eat healthy. We only care about the bottom line, so don’t bring no nutritious food in to Barnes & Noble!”

What she really said was, “My manager, Tiffany, sent me up here to tell you no outside food is allowed in the café.”

Of course, she continued to deliver this message in a tone and with a volume that guaranteed everyone in the surrounding county could hear it.

I was so embarrassed I almost started to cry…, that is if I was sissy-boy. Instead, I replied, “Fine. I’ll take my business elsewhere. Borders won’t mind.”

In her best approximation of a Third Reich voice, Miss Huffy Puffy ordered, “You vill not! You vill buy junk food here und you vill like it!” (Another small exaggeration.)

Sufficiently cowed and embarrassed in front of the other patrons, I went back to reading why the Bachelorette still loved Bentley, even though he broke her heart.

Moments later, when everyone had stopped staring at the incorrigible diabetic, I asked to speak with Tiffany the Manager who apologized for Fraulein Huffy Puffy’s inappropriate handling of the situation.

Curious, I asked Manager Tiffany directly, “Do bookstores discriminate against diabetics?”

Her knee-jerk reaction, “Certainly not!”

“Really,” I said. “Then what do you have in the café that a diabetic could eat? Everything I see with the exception of black coffee, Diet Pepsi, and sugarless Red Bull contains massive amounts of sugar or starch, which, in effect, turns right into sugar.”

“Ummm, mmm…” Manager Tiffany stammered. “What about soup?”

“No soup.” I shook my head firmly side to side.

“No soup?” Tiffany questioned.

“You have no soup left. I checked before I went shopping. That’s why I brought a snack back with me, but I did buy a Diet Pepsi here.”

“Well, we’re just trying to cut back on people bringing outside food in to the café,” said Tiffany.

“So, in effect, you’re discriminating against diabetics?”

Tiffany got a horrified look on her face that reminded me of a girl in fourth grade who almost tagged me with projectile vomit. I surreptitiously took one step back and one to the side to get out of the line of fire.

“Manager Tiffany, I understand that some people come here to indulge in a frozen delight, specialty coffee, or exotic dessert and maybe, once in a while, buy a book. But, don’t you think you should provide at least one or two healthy food items? I have a few suggestions, would you like to hear them?”

Tiffany swallowed carefully and nodded although I bet she got a little throw up in her mouth.

“To avoid the appearance of discrimination against diabetics and healthy eating individuals in general, you might consider:

• adding celery & carrot stick snacks;
• adding small salads;
• adding fresh fruits;
• adding low fat cottage cheese;
• adding low-sugar yogurts;
• adding sugarless snacks (even Oreo has sugarless cookies!);
• adding low fat meat snacks;
• keeping on hand healthy soups in single serving containers that you can easily heat in a microwave when you run out of the regular soup of the day;
• inviting local health food stores to sell and display nutritious foods at your café, which, you, of course, sell for a profit; and,
• try placing a sign in a prominent position at the store entrance, or at least the entrance to the café requesting that “no outside food or drink” be brought in to the café so we at least have a chance of hiding the contraband more effectively.

Finally, you might want to err on the side of caution and assume every patron in the café may be a long time and loyal customer and does not deserve the embarrassment and chastisements dished out by Miss Huffy Puffy. I also suggest you send Miss Huffy Puffy to a boot camp for barista’s on customer service and appropriate customer interaction.”

“I’ll take care of that right away,” promised Tiffany the Manager.

“Thank you so much for listening, Tiffany. I’m off to Dunkin’ Donuts for some healthy food.”

Oops, forgot the milk! (& overpopulation)

I generally do my shopping very late at night, around 1:00 AM, when there are fewer people and I am finally awake.

Where I live, Orlando, FL, that leaves me two options: the local Albertson’s or the Super Walmart.

Since I am mostly a cheap bastard, I usually shop at the Super Walmart.

On one particular night, I finished shopping and got into the only checkout line open, which, of course, meant the person in front of me would be buying supplies for a trek in Nepal.

The person in front of me was a mother with a baby in the cart mixed in with the groceries. At first, I thought the baby was a doll until it abruptly threw up all over itself and half of the groceries.

The baby daddy, a guy in a blue t-shirt, blue jeans, work boots and the ubiquitous mullet, was at the magazine rack trying to stare down the front of a woman’s shirt, the only problem being she was a picture on the front of a magazine.

Almost everything was out of the woman’s cart and rung up when she said, “Oops, I forgot the milk.” She said this several more times in the hope that mullet-head would get the message but he was still determined to sneak an illicit peak of the glossy cover model.

Finally, the mother walks over to mullet-head and says, “Go get us some milk.”

“Okay,” mullet-head replies, embarrassed to have been caught in voyeuristic activities. He smiled showing a distinct lack of dental care. The front teeth on both his upper and lower jaws were missing. I imagine that condition is quite handy when eating corn-on-the-cob.

During this interlude, a bevy (meaning more than one) of Walmart cashiers is standing around discussing the latest news of Brangelina as the line continues to build in back of me.

Open another line? What, are you crazy?

Apparently, mullet-head forgot to take his Sherpa with him and got lost on the way back, or found another magazine rack, because we continued to wait for baby daddy to make it back with the milk until well after my next birthday with Christmas approaching fast.

After lighting a signal fire for him, baby daddy finally made it back. Of course, it was only then that baby mama whips out all sorts of food stamps and government checks delaying the checkout process even more as the cashier made sure everything was within the strict guidelines.

At this point, I am wondering why there is not a licensing or certification procedure for having children. It’s not like we need more children. The planet is already overpopulated.

We could probably lower the national debt, use less resources, lower pollution, increase the IQ of the average citizen, and stop overcrowding simply by requiring certification to become a parent.

So, the way I see it, either require all wannabe parents to become certified or open up another checkout line at the Walmart.

I forgot

Did you ever have one of those days, weeks, months, or even years when some niggling little thought is stuck in your head and trying mightily to break out?

There was something I was supposed to do, but what was it?

Oh yeah, I was supposed to write a blog last week!

My excuse? I forgot.

Actually, I have found that little two-word phrase, “I forgot,” is useful in all sorts of ways.

You don’t have to think up excuses, you don’t have to lie, simply say, I forgot.

“I forgot I was supposed to come to work today.”

“I forgot I was supposed to change the baby’s diapers.”

“I forgot I was married.”

And truly, it is a legitimate excuse for men like me who are going through a stage of life known as “mental pause.”

In the Lazy Bastards Guide to Life there are two methods described to pare down your “to do” lists, either be perceived as uncaring, unconcerned, not a team player and say “no” to any requests on your time, or say “yes” and simply forget about it.

In the hierarchy of social ills, being forgetful is considered a lower grade felony.

So, sleep through your alarm, take an extra day of vacation, let your wife get home from the airport on her own. When an offended party questions your motivation, simply practice your best sheepish look and say, “I forgot!”

Your card has been declined!

“I’m sorry, your card has been declined,” said the manager at a restaurant I camp out in frequently late at night to enjoy a midnight breakfast and a good book on my Nook.

“What! That can’t be right. Try it again,” I said somewhat shocked.

I knew there was more than enough money in my account to buy a hundred meals.

“Nope. It says your card has been declined,” the manager said again.

After a bit of discussion, and payment for the meal via another debit card, the manager and I determined that I must have gone over some arbitrary daily limit and a hold had been put on my account for “my protection”.

As I drove out of the parking lot toward my next destination, a midnight shopping run at Wal-Mart, I called the number of the bank on the back of my debit card.

When Vanna steps out of the way, you have 15 seconds to sound out the name of the bank with only the letters present… C_ASE. (Hint: It rhymes with Chase.)

Imagine my surprise when a customer service drone informed me my debit card was unable for use because the bank was doing some updating – therefore putting untold numbers of customers in holding patterns in an economy where more spending is preferable to get confidence back up. Shocking!

It’s my understanding that my debit card is supposed to be available for use 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. And, if not, why not? In an age of advanced technology, I hope I am not using the only bank that still uses abacus (abaci?) to tally their accounts.

I threw myself at the mercy of the customer service department. “But ma’am, the baby needs milk and Grandpa is suffering from explosive diarrhea and we need more toilet tissue now!”

In effect, the response I interpreted from the bank employee was, “Tell your baby’s mama to put her boobs back into production and tell Grandpa to grab a copy of the phone book and head for the woods. With any luck your card will work tomorrow morning before he gets to the Q’s.”

I think banks are getting a little too cheeky in an era where there is little trust of the institution considering the mess they have created for this country.

My only solution for this problem was to talk verbal circles around the bank customer service person until I am sure I caused her at least as much upset as I was experiencing. After all, writers get paid to lie for fun and profit – and, I was having fun.

What would you have done?

Picture a pig; go to jail!

I just got this email from the Orlando Camera Club and it sounded like a bigger than normal problem that needs to be addressed right away.

In the Florida Senate a bill, SB 1246, has been introduced to the Agriculture Committee that will make it a first degree felony to photograph or videotape a farm where legitimate agriculture operations are being conducted unless the photographer has the written consent of the owner or their representative. An amendment to the bill has exempted law enforcement officers. Everyone else would be a criminal.

You may read the bill for yourself at this link, it is brief. http://www.flsenate.gov/Session/Bill/2011/1246.

It is imperative that this bill gets killed in committee. It is scheduled for a vote on March 21st (Monday). Please email (no time for snail mail) your representatives and urge them to use their influence to kill this now.

The contact information for your representatives can be found quickly at this link http://www.flsenate.gov/Senators/Find.

After you contact your representatives, please contact everyone that you know who has a camera and ask them to do the same. This egregious attack is not limited to the photo enthusiast. It affects everyone who resides in or steps foot in this state with a camera of any kind.

Below is a copy of a letter sent by one of our longstanding members…(Orlando Camera Club) which will give you some idea of what to write.

*****************

Dear Senator ___________,

It has come to my attention that a bill (SB 1246) has been introduced in the Agriculture Committee by Senator Norman, and is scheduled for a vote on Monday March 21st, that would make it a “first degree felony to photograph or videotape a farm where legitimate agriculture operation are being conducted unless the. photographer has the written consent of the owner or their representative”. This is an unacceptable encroachment on the rights of the citizens of Florida and must be killed in committee.

This bill is an unwarranted proposed law that places an unacceptable burden on casual photographers photographing anything that could be construed to be farm-related, and imposes an unreasonable penalty for proposed violations. As someone who has traveled abroad to countries with oppressive governments, I have encountered such arbitrary restrictions there, but I never thought it could be seriously proposed in the United States of America.

I am sure that the approximately 500 members of the Orlando Camera Club, who are almost all amateur photographers, making images for their own personal enjoyment, would be outraged to find that they have committed a class one felony by taking a picture of a farm or farm animal without prior written permission.

As my senator, I implore you to make every effort to see that this bill never gets out of the Agriculture Committee and if so does not pass in the Senate.

It is my intention to distribute copies of this email widely to all who might be interested, including the media, since the subject of this proposed legislation would be of interest to them in their news coverage and reporting.

I look forward to your immediate and effective attention to this matter.

Respectfully,

Editorial note: In my humble opinion, this sounds like something cooked up by big business to keep potentially unsavory practices from coming to light. Coach Rik

Dealing with rude people!

Has someone ever embarassed you in public before?

On purpose?

This is what happened to me. To help out a friend I agreed to do a web site for his charitable organization.

As Bugs Bunny would say, “What are you, an ultra-maroon?” and the answer for me would be yes. I had way more on my plate personally and professionally than I could handle and my focus should have been on keeping my head above water in my own life, but I agreed to help anyway.

Too make a long story short, I let all sorts of things delay my taking action on the web site for my friend. Mostly recovering from a serious surgery, financial deprivation due to being unable to work, and getting the flu for two weeks. All marvelous excuses, if I say so myself.

However, when I walked into a luncheon put on by the charitable organization I was immediately accosted by a relative of the Wicked Witch of the West. My first reaction was to scan the sky for falling houses, the second was to look for a bucket of water to toss over her.

Miss Witch berated me publicly for my inability to provide an adequate web presence in front of all the members of the charitable group.

What would you do at this point?

I looked at her and said, “Who the hell do you think you are Beeyatch? And what the hell is that smell? Damn girl, get up and wash your ass, you stink! And who dressed you today? Couldn’t you have worn something that would help hide your hump?”

I said all this inside my head.

Out loud, I said, “Sorry, I am a little backed up with some projects. I hope to get to it soon, but if you like I can turn the whole project over to you.”

I guarantee you that response was not nearly as satisfying as the one I said inside my head.

The real solution for me was to remove myself from the group, turn the web site over to someone else, and apologize to my friend for taking on a job I had neither the time nor the true inclination to perform.

I feel like a real pressure has been lifted from me.

How would you handle a situation like this?

Problems are normal – Duh!

Problems are normal. I’d like to say that was the message I found inside my fortune cookie, alas it is the epiphany (or excess gas) that exploded through my conscioussness only moments after drinking a soda too fast and getting a carbonation burn in the back of my throat and up my nose. (And you thought the above reference was to flatulence – shame on you.)

One thing I can claim to be an expert on is having problems. If you’ve got a couple of years, I’d like to tell you all about them.

Come back, come back, I was just kidding; not about having problems, about boring you to death with mine.

What I want to do with this blog is present a problem or problems but also provide potential solutions.

My hallucination is that some of the problems I experience you may have also encountered, so I would also like to hear your unique solution to dealing with that particular problem.

I must warn you that at times (more often than not) I can be irreverent, goofy, a wannabe comedian, and sometimes just plain nefarious in my commentary so I would, at a minimum, give this blog a rating of PG+++.

If you have a problem that is funny, poignant, or outrageous – with a few solutions – I’d love to hear about it and perhaps feature it on a future blog post. Be advised this is not a forum to slander, humiliate, or otherwise create more problems.

In the meantime, have a good day – unless you have something else planned.