Bill's Blah Blah Blah

Milestones and Gallstones

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Tue, 26 Oct 2010 15:49:00 +0000

A song for you on my birthday!! Enjoy.

Bill

Making Lemonade

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Mon, 20 Sep 2010 21:32:00 +0000

Latest Audio Blog

Peace.

Stress

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 20:01:00 +0000

Latest Audio Blog.

Peace.

Funny, or Not

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 01:04:00 +0000

So I was texting a friend of mine the other day. He happens to be a guy. It was a football text. Typical guy stuff.

My wife gave me the weirdest look, about texting a a guy.

I said, "Relax. Just because I'm texting a guy, it doesn't make me a homotextual."

She was not amused.

I crack myself up. That's what matter. I guess.

House Money

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 20:26:00 +0000

Gentle readers, trying something new here. Audio Blog.....

Here it goes. Let me know if it doesn't work.

Peace.

I Hate When I Give Myself Time To Think

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 20:43:00 +0000

Following a passion answering a "call" versus arrogant self-indulgence and the unwillingness to face facts. I can't find the adjectives to properly color how fine a line that is.

One foot on the dock of everything you know. The other on a boat pulling away fast, full of people that couldn't care less whether you're on it or not.

Stay. Go. Swim.

Travel Tip #246

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 19:03:00 +0000

Travel tip #246: Never let Chris book your room in Nashville.

Woke up to a lobby blocked off by police tape crawling with CSI types. 3 bad guys tried to hold up the front desk. Not sure why, but there was either and off duty or undercover cop in the hotel who shot all three.

Yes, shots were fired. Brentwood is now New Jack City apparently.

ESPN

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 02:09:00 +0000

Tony Kornheiser said something catty about Hannah Storm and now he has to pay by sitting out a two week suspension from his ESPN show, Pardon The Interruption.

For a country that placed free speech first on the bill of rights, we sure seem to be a prickly bunch when someone does pipes up with something.

On his radio show, Tony said the top Hannah was wearing looked like a sausage casing. All Hannah had to do was make a statement like "Tony, you ole silly, you switched up your Viagra and Paxil pills again." Game over. Everyone laughs.

No. ESPN took a comment made on a local radio program, with a limited audience only, and made it into a national event by airing the suspension during one of it's Sports Centers.

Tony was right. Folks, to me, from time to time, it looks like someone has been cutting arm holes out of her brother's dress socks and Hannah has found a way to shimmy into them.

Can we all please just stop being so sensitive. Give me a break.

Open Letter to Nigeria

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 02:43:00 +0000

To the Regal and Generous Kingdom of Nigeria,

I must sheepishly admit that the abundance of your countries riches were unknown to me, that is until I began receiving daily solicitations inviting me to partake in your nation's largess.

Every day thousands of normal citizens, like me, have their in-boxes flooded with once in a lifetime opportunities from your country. By simply following a few short steps, usually involving name, social security number, and bank account information, vast sums of cash can be ours for the taking.

In no geography or economics class taken was there data presented indicating that Nigeria sits atop an inexhaustible supply of money. I fault our educational system. The amazing thing in all of this is if you were able to somehow sum up all the offers received in a given day, the cash prizes we lucky few stand to gain would total 5,467% of your annual GDP, approximately.

To the extent that your financial resources are unlimited, your charity is boundless as well. Clearly, if we're to believe that you indeed possess such wealth, you must have found a place in your government for all of the out-of-work or paroled accountants and financial officers from Enron, Worldcom, Tyco, AIG, Goldman Sachs, and Countrywide Mortgage. For that, we thank you. No unscrupulous corporate raider should be without books to cook and treasuries to bankrupt.

Your country's wealth lies not just in money and charity. Apparently, Nigeria is literally teeming with royalty or near royalty. Every correspondence is tendered sincerely from a King, Queen, or Tribal Chief. Your country should immediately beseech the UN security council for the opportunity to address the world's nations on how to peacefully co-exist with so many heads of state present in one small, small geographic area.

The embarrassment of riches does not end there. Clearly your royal and most wealthy countrymen are all gifted with quite a turn of phrase. Just yesterday I received an inquiry from one of the multitudes of Royalty with "Kindly and Generous Most High Person of Interest" as the salutation. Several weeks ago, an inquiry received from an eager tribal chief read "Your humble regards to urgency is appreciated utmost" and "to the heart of worlds and love is all unkept in Godly fashion." Just let me state, for the record, that if Keats or Wordsworth were alive today, they would openly weep at beauty and passion and artistry displayed in your electronic communication.

Untold riches, charitable, regal, and creatively literate, you Nigeria are a nation of note and due admiration. Please allow me to speak for the entire country of the United States, weary of computer viruses and tired of hitting the delete key, when I humbly beg you to redirect your kindness to a country more worthy of your resources, reign of nobility, and place among the champions of prose, poetry, and literary works of art.

Shall we say....Albania. Maybe Kazakhstan. Possibly Peru.

Thank you for your kindly and unseen fortitude in homes and hearts a flame with tomorrows decisions in the man made hollows and perpitude.

Bill

Then and Now

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 01:45:00 +0000

Math night at the little guy's school. Working on a problem, I reminded him to borrow the one. Record scratch, screeching halt, heads turn, everyone stops and stares.

It's called re-grouping now. Well excuse me.

No borrowing, Pluto's out as a planet, Russia is now eight thousand six hundred forty two satellite countries all starting with vowels and ending in "tan", and Budweiser's Belgian. Belgian for the love of all things Flemish.

Can there be no constants from my youth...

Still Fighting

Still Scandals

Still Creepy

...Whew. Thank goodness some things never change.

Know When

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 01:16:00 +0000

Cigars are ridiculous. I'm sorry,but there is no cool associated with these stupid things. Lets face it, you look like you have a six inch turd sticking out of your mouth. Once you light it, your first impressions are confirmed. It is indeed a six inch turd. Cigar smokers are inhaling turd smoke. The rest of us, second-hand turd smoke.

Yesterday on the trek to Mizzou Arena from the parking garage, we fell in behind a trio of neer-do-wells who had obviously spent the preceding hours reliving their college years. One of them was burning a stogie. I say stogie, but judging from the 4-color litho, foil stamped band on the turd, and from the diameter of said turd, it probably set him back a fortune. So the unfortunates behind this ultra cool guy were treated to very expensive turd fumes all the way to the game.

In case my sense of smell hadn't already convinced me this guy was a complete jerk-off, with dozens of trash bins in plain view, he decided to throw his still burning turd stick onto the decorated bricks of the beautiful plaza area as we approached the entrance to the arena. And then, he just walked away. Just like he was all that.

This is the guy who makes change in the collection plate. This is the guy who has never made eye contact with any woman because he's too busy staring at their chests. This is the guy that tells you he would have been a green-beret, but decided to go to college instead. You know the type.

The type of guy who gets a day pass from his wife and decides to prove his street-cred by drinking too much and smoking dried crumbly turd lumps wrapped tightly in small, flattened turd sheets.

Know when to say when kids. It's appropriate when you're 21. It should be mandatory when you're 42. In terms of turds, not sure which was bigger; the adolescent trapped in a man's body or the Los Angeles class submarine the idiot was smoking.

Thank you. That is all.

Thoughts From the Crapper

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 02:31:00 +0000

3:00 am Wednesday.

More doing, less thinking.

I find myself thinking about doing more lately. Note the irony.

More doing, less thinking. Yes. That would be a good thing

If I do some thinking on this, does that count?

There is one thing I can do immediately. Pretty sure I'll start by doing less eating of what ever the hell I had for dinner last night and never thinking about it again.

Progress.

Jon Stewart

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 23:19:00 +0000

If you know me, you know how I feel about network media.

I couldn't pass sharing these two videos.

Language warning. They bleep it out, but still, you know what's being said.

Might have to copy and paste the links. Worth it, I promise. Still laughing.

http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/mon-october-12-2009/cnn-leaves-it-there

http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/wed-march-4-2009/cnbc-financial-advice

Thankful

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 22:39:00 +0000

As the year draws to a close, I thought a moment of reflection was in order.

The 2009 top ten things I'm most thankful for:

#10) Glad I didn't invite Kanye West to my son's football awards banquet.

#9) Never turned to John and Kate, Tiger Woods, and David Letterman for marital advice

#8) The words Sexting, Public Option, and Birther never entered my lexicon

#7) Jennifer Garner

#6) Refused to don a face mask or drink the swine flu cool-aide

#5) Co-writes

#4)Decided to forgo parenting advice from Octomom and the balloon-boy parents

#3) Did not get around to writing a check to Bernie Madoff

#2) Opted out of that weekend trip with Governor Sanford

#1) My family

Oops

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 15:24:00 +0000

Driving into the parking lot, I saw an old friend from work pumping gas. She had retired a few years ago, and I don't see her much anymore.

Never one to miss an opportunity to say hello, I rolled down the window and shouted, "Hey old lady, shouldn't you be at home quilting or something", an inside joke my friend would have found hilarious.

Turns out, this wasn't my old friend.

Nope. Complete stranger. She was looking me over like she was trying to decide if she needed throw down and kick my butt or run away.

Run away. That's the option I chose. I threw her a wave and offered up a "sorry, wrong person" as I drove right back out of the parking lot, never stopping. I needed gas badly, but I needed to escape her dread gaze of doom even worse.

My bad...

Ideas

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 13:23:00 +0000

"I got an idea." Four of the best words ever spoken.

Even when compared to "Jennifer Garner is here", "time for your meds", and "your giant burrito sir", it ranks among the top.

Ah, the idea.

Voiced only at the confluence of confidence and disregard, it emerges very infrequently, often times tentatively, furtively. Rare. Prized. Fragile, formed on substances that can quickly dissolve once exposed to light and oxygen vaporizing right before your eyes.

In a room, they are regarded like heirlooms, presented with reverence and care, white gloved. We desire them to be liked, even loved. Like parents, eager to show them off, yet deathly afraid of how they will be received. Giddy when selected. Hurt when rejected, certain the others just don't get it. You quickly pack it back away careful not to bruise it. After all, we're given only so many, never knowing when, or if, the next one will come. Given.

The good ones can't be cultivated. Like synthesized diamonds, they shine, but the people you care about knowing will do just that, know. More born then made, they are a currency to be traded, valuable only to a select few, worthless outside the smallest of circles.

Today I am an idea merchant, wares displayed in the store window for all to see. Dutifully, I will tend them. Browse all you want, hold them up to the light, flick the rind to check for ripeness. Buy or place them back on the shelf. It doesn't matter.

I have inventory. I feel rich. For now.

Fa La Blah

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 02:06:00 +0000

At the risk of sounding a little Scrooge like, I must confess to a deep seated dislike of Christmas carols.

I like spreading cheer as much as the next guy, but there's just something about a bunch of people on my porch singing off key in the freezing cold that gets me. I'm cold, they're cold, it's late, yet they feel compelled to sing. Not just the tunes everyone knows, but every line of every Carol, making sure to hit every verse, even the obscure ones that no one knows.

There are the mortified faces of the teenagers who never thought their parents would make good on the threat to head out and sing, who constantly swing their heads back and forth making sure their friends are nowhere near. There's the gray haired soprano that simply refuses, even for just one merciful second, to sing in unison. And there's always one dude in a top hat and scarf festooned with candy canes and tassels. Where do you even get a top hat? Seriously?

Please, all ye merry carolers, take your wasseling down the street or I'm going to get all kinds of King Winceslass on you.

When on my front lawn there arose such a clatter.
I threw open the door and said what blankety-blank is the matter?
There stood a rag tag mob grouped on my stoop
Singing at the their top of their lungs all sounding like poop
I said for the love of all things Saint Nick
Your crooning and mooing is making me quite sick
I give you a clap for your spirit and cheer
But ya'll got to get up on out of here
Here's an idea that would be really neat
Move on two houses further down the street
Once you guys are finally out of sight
I'll sigh Merry Christmas to all,
and to all a good night!!

As Seen On TV

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 23:08:00 +0000

Sit down for this, you're not going to believe it, but a TV commercial lied. Lied is harsh, I guess. Let's just say the commercial grossly overstated a product's ability to function in any way, shape, or form close to the manner in which it was demonstrated on an obviously rigged, made to look like a live action, commercial.

Yes, I'm referring to the Slap Chop. I got one for my birthday a few weeks ago. Only recently have I had a chance to get it out of the cabinet and take it for a test chop.

The overly-spiked, amped up blond guy on TV pulled a Sham-Wow on everyone with this worthless hunk of junk.

I slapped fast, slapped slow, slapped hard, slapped soft, slapped half-way, slapped it til it bottomed out. The frustrating device was slapped every way imaginable.

It doesn't chop, per se, mostly mashes and then conveniently leaves the pulpy results stuck to the blades for added enjoyment. Consequently, I have christened the device the "Stick and Pry".

The Stick and Pry was/is a big disappointment. It was a gift, which means I didn't have to pay separate shipping and handling at least.

Kids, let this be a lesson to you. Not everything shilled on television works as well as the Flowby. Buyer beware. Love the Flowby. Love it.

Where Art Though

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 02:17:00 +0000

Blog, oh Blog, where have I been
My trusty social media friend

Lately, in case you couldn't tell
I haven't been blogging so well

It's not you, your programs, or format
It's not your fonts, your themes, or any of that

No, I believe the fault lies with me
A bout of blogging laziness I believe

Really, where else can I rant
Or make fun of life's miscreants (That's right. It rhymes. Give it a minute)

There's absolutely no better place to prattle
about my son, my colon, or my treadmill battles

I've given many a friend a dogging
about their noticeable lack of blogging

Sad, but I now know
It's my time to eat some Blogspot crow

So to you my blog, I apologize
And vow to make you a bigger part of my life (It's a soft rhyme. Deal with it.)

To you, my dear friends of which I've made sport
Know I too have been found guilty in the non-blogging court

I will change my ways, this indictment is all it took
To remind me there's more to life then just Facebook

So here we go kids, let's find the funny
And laugh at the nonsense until our noses are runny

Thank you, gentle readers, that is all.

Done

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 00:40:00 +0000

There it was. On my credenza. Twenty three pages worth. I stared at it for a long time tonight.

Funny. The story came to me in a flash, laid out easy. I could see it clearly.

Writing it, however, not so easy. I have notes from as far back as November 2008.

No, it's not the Magna Carta, nor is it bound to make women weep and men change religions.
Yet, I treated it as such.

Nervously, I handed the thing to my wife tonight, making her put down the book she was already reading, actually enjoying.

Twenty three pages, almost a year in the making, pouring over each edit like my life depended on it, and I got a polite "Eeh, it was...OK." when she finished.

I know there's a reason I write. I just wish I knew what the heck it was.

That Bites

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 00:02:00 +0000

We're on hour twelve of "Tooth Watch" at our house.

A stubborn incisor refuses to give up the ghost, dangling precariously from the last remaining shard of a pediatric root. It came loose this morning and remains still.

The tooth is so loose that he can push it completely out of his mouth and close his lips around it. He looks like Aunt Mildred's snaggle toothed chihuahua. Poor kid.

The tooth fairy has been put on Defcon 1 alert.

Mixed bag. Every time he smiles I'm hit with two feelings: overwhelming joy from seeing him grow and dread from the certain bloodletting the orthodontists will demand from me someday.

Good times gentle readers. Good times.

Patches

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 20:33:00 +0000

Talking with an old friend at the reunion this weekend. We were joking about all the band and choir classes we took in high school, marveling at how we actually managed to accumulate enough quality credits to graduate.

A comment was made that my friend didn't put all of his choir patches on his letter jacket, not one to tempt fate among the more devout of the athletic lot in high school. We got a good chuckle out of that.

Got me thinking. My old jacket is gathering dust in the back of the closet. So, out it came.

Apparently back in high school I subscribed to theory that more is not enough when it comes to music patches. It would appear that worries about a linebacker blitz on my musical nerd-dom were a secondary concern to finding enough uncovered material on the jacket.

I can just see me now, back in the day...

"Oh no, you don't want none of this pal. See this? Yeah, that's right, All-State choir alternate.
Don't be eye-balling me man. Don't make me go a capella on you. See this one? All District band, little something I picked up in 'nam fella. So, step off. I will drop a b-flat shock and awe on you that will rock your world. Better recognize!"

There was actually a patch on a patch. Ridiculous.

Parents Preogative

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 00:24:00 +0000

My wife was looking through some old pics we had on the computer. There was cute one of our little guy smooching his little girl friend when he was four.

He happened to breeze by when the pic was pulled up and got all sorts of embarrassed.

Isn't it our mission as parents to possess and employ multiple means by which to embarrass our children? I think so.

His parting shot as he quickly ran away from the image on the screen, "Can't you all see the shame in that?"

So awesome.

Ronald Rejected

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 12:58:00 +0000

On the way home from a meeting, I pulled off the highway for a little lunch. There was a homeless man at the bottom of the ramp. He was sitting on a nasty old bed roll and holding a sign that was too small to read.

This may sound bad, but I'm not normally much of a giver. Something struck me, for unknown reasons, so I picked up another value meal for my friend while in the drive through. Feeling good about myself, I pulled over before getting back on the highway and motioned him over. Told him that I couldn't offer a ride, but how about some lunch, holding the bag up for him to see.

My homeless friend, in torn jeans and an old shirt, smelling like, well I don't know what, curled up his nose, shook his head in mock disgust, and said to me "the grocery stores feed me, I don't have to eat that stuff." I sat there dumbstruck as he did an about face and went back to squatting on the corner without so much as even a "thanks anyway".

Those of you out there that are bigger than I am, a little more mature perhaps, will be quick to point out that it's not important that the transaction was or wasn't a success. What's important is that I was of the mind and spirit to be helpful. Full disclosure: after the vagrant declined my offer for lunch, gentle readers, I was of a mind and spirit alright. I was of the mind and spirit to exit my truck and make sure the cheeseburgers made it to his digestive system the hard way.

The sign the obviously choosy panhandler was carrying was too small to be seen clearly. Had I been able to see it, the message of "I am an epicurian currently eschewing traditional housing methods practicing a minimalist approach that will render my carbon footprint almost non-existent. Please do not offend my sensibilities by offering me foodstuffs served in a bag of any sort" I would have avoided the embarrassing encounter on the side of a busy highway. For you marketing students out there, the take-a-way here is clear: make your your advertising concise and your message unmistakable.

Lastly, how fat am I that I actually like eating at a place where the food is so miserable that not even the homeless will eat it?

Eye See What You're Doing

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Filer) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 02:25:00 +0000

Ever call your optometrist to order contacts, only to be told you can't because you haven't been for a check up recently?

They will prattle on about the need to determine if your prescription has changed, but you know the real reasons. In short, they want you to come in to spend a bundle of cash before they will allow you to spend a little.

Can you tell me where else this logic is used and people are forced to go along with it?

Does the family doctor tell you that he can't treat your athlete's foot because you haven't had an MRI done of your entire body lately? Hey, before I check out your chronic halitosis, I'm going to be forced to subject you to a prostate exam, colonoscopy, and a series of blood tests to check for Bora-Bora and the clap. No.

Does the clerk at the grocery store tell you that you can't buy the T-Bone steak because, according to her records, you haven't bought a complete side of beef yet? You never know, your tastes may have changed over the last two years, you may be a rib-eye guy now, better check. No.

Does the gas station attendant tell you you can't have ten on pump two. Not until you purchase the contents of the 4,200 gallon tanker parked around back and a six-pack of Slim-Jims? No.

If you're going to hold up my contacts for ransom, at least have the decency to call it what it is.

Say to me, "Look it, you're gonna have to come in, we're going to shine a 7,000 candle power light in your eyes, after we dilate them to the size of a full moon, of course. After you stop howling in pain, we're going to ask you to read some letters projected on the wall while we purse our lips and look pensive. We're then going to ask you to look through a fancy gizmo while asking one or two, first or second, left or right, and so on. In the end, you're going to be right, your eyes will not have changed, but you're not insured for vision, so we've got you for the full $250, plus the $95 for the contacts. Alrighty then, we'll see you at 11:30."

Optometric piracy, plain and simple.