The A.B.B.

Everything I need to know, I learned shopping

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Wed, 05 Dec 2007 03:34:00 +0000

In the fog that is my memory, there may have been one other time I’d done this. However, this year I decided once again to take part in what some consider to be the ultimate holiday activity, the Tryptophan 5K Snore. No, really, the After Thanksgiving Shopping Frenzy. I’m surprised Hallmark doesn’t have a card for this occasion.

While picking up some good deals, I learned a few things.

Patience is not a virtue. It’s a necessity. Having reached the target destination, I began searching for the gifts on my list. This took longer than expected because where the movies use to be, a grocery store had sprung up. Who comes to this kind of store to buy frozen peas? After literally wading through a sea of shoppers, I stumbled upon the DVDs. Then the real fun began. I snaked my way back through automotive, lingerie and housewares, and finally found the end of a checkout line. Resigned to this fate, I figured I’d burn a couple more vacation days before I got out of there.

Murphy’s Law. When you think things can't get any worse, they will. Try keeping your place in line after downing two large coffees before getting started shopping. A few folks around me actually thought I was leading an impromptu line dancing class. They even tried to imitate the grimace on my face as my situation intensified.

Newton's third law of motion, slightly skewed. You’ll remember this from walking the crowded high school halls as an underclassman. “For every action there's an unequal and totally disastrous reaction.” Once in line, avoid pushing, even inadvertently. This can get you kicked out of it quickly, as I discovered. In my defense, though, I was an innocent bystander, who got pushed. I’ll say this about her. She swung a mean purse for a plucky older woman. The bag of frozen peas from the grocery section helped with the swelling around my eye.

Good things come to those who wait . . . too long. The really great stuff gets hogged up by those who have nothing better to do than start camping out at these stores the day after Halloween. Does Al-Qaeda finance these people? Don’t they have jobs, responsibilities or a conscience?

The best defense is a good offense. When it comes to this, I'm one of the most offensive. Believe me, boiled eggs, broccoli, and navy beans with onions makes for something more than simply a late-night Thanksgiving snack. When that old patience starts to wear thin, this is your trump card. Covertly played, you can advance in line as others vacate their positions to . . . step out for some air.

If everybody else jumped off a bridge . . . Yeah, Mom! I hear you! In other words, don't be like the rest of the crowd. Bring an extremely small child with you on this bitterly cold, early morning, crowded, shopping trip. I guarantee this will help you stand out from the rest. Especially when the small one gets tired of shopping after only three hours. Rest assured your fellow shoppers would dearly love to show their appreciation for this bit of wisdom on your part.

Don't be like the rest of the crowd - Part II. Go ahead and breastfeed the little tyke, right there in line. Don't worry. The swaying dance you do really isn’t necessary to attract more attention to yourself.

The kindness of strangers may surprise you. I had three DVDs to buy. Hardly a good handful. While standing there, this woman said to me, “Surely you’re going to get something else to make this more worthwhile, aren’t you?” I told her it already was because they were for my granddaughter. We chatted lightly until a friend of hers came and rescued her. Five minutes later she came walking back up to me and said, “I just couldn’t let you stand here, with the little you’ve got, when there are shorter lines elsewhere.” With that, I followed her to this mystical place on Earth where there actually were short lines. Shopping like this was good.

Maybe she was generally a thoughtful person. Maybe it had something to do with her being from a small town and this was her first experience with big city shopping. Or maybe it was the true spirit of the season. The giving of oneself.

Whatever the reason, it made me feel like I’d gotten my first Christmas present of the year.

© 2007 Michael Wicinski

Father's Day Essay

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Thu, 21 Jun 2007 11:05:00 +0000

Sure, it was last Sunday, but I wrote an essay for an open invitation from our local paper, The Commercial Appeal. I didn't make the "print" version, but I did make it to the "dot com" version. To read my take on what I learned from my father, just go here. I'm the fifteenth one down.

You think you want to move to the country, eh?

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Sun, 13 May 2007 23:33:00 +0000

Out in our neck of the woods we deal with big bugs. When Sunny, the wiener dog, steps into the grass to take care of business, they goose him from underneath. That’s bound to be why he sometimes jumps straight up.

We’ve also got cows nearby. Just the other side of my next door neighbor is a pasture where the herd grazes. For me, it’s like returning to my childhood summers on the farm. It brings back sweet memories when I walk outside early in the evening and hear some heifer mooing.

Better than that, though, is when one of the real cows actually moos back at Marilyn.

I mention cows here because they play an important part in the current heft of our insects. To fatten their wallets, farmers nationwide are injecting their cows with hormones. The cows get addicted and the farmers start to pressure them, into producing more, before they get another fix. That’s why sometimes you hear really strained moos coming from the pasture.

These hormones cause dramatic effects in a cow. Right away you’ll notice she’s a heck of a lot easier to live with. She won’t smack you with her tail when you say, “Good Morning,” as you’re about to milk her. The bulls don’t have to tip-hoof around in an effort not to upset Her Heiferness. She’s her regular self, all month long.

Most amazing of all, though, is the cessation of the hot flashes.

Think about it. Driving past farmlands these days, you don’t see nearly as many cows as you used to, up past their udders in the ponds, trying to keep the milk cool.

It’s bad for the environment if they don’t keep that temperature down. Ask Al Gore. He’ll tell you.

When milk inside the cow gets too hot, it starts to vaporize, which causes severe bloating in poor old Bossy. This, in turn, leads to abdominal cramps and there’s no Moodol for her to take. So she starts complaining about not being able to fit into her “fat milkers”.

Then there’s the chocolate cravings. It’s a scientifically proven fact that swollen cows cannot get enough of Hershey’s® Chocolate Syrup.

Of course, nursing calves love this. “Whoo hoo! Momma’s flipped the switch and the spigots are pumping out chocolate milk!”

Nature, in all its wisdom, has devised a means for the cow to rid herself of these ailments. Through a not-totally-understood process, the milk vapor changes into methane which the cow expels. It’s this methane that has such a negative effect on the atmosphere.

That’s the real reason cows swish their tails. It has nothing to do with swatting flies. No, they’re dispersing cow flatulence, in as ladylike a manner as possible.

From all this you might think these hormones are good for everyone involved. Au contraire.

Enter the voracious, suxus u bloodus, better known as the common mosquito. These suckers do not discriminate. To their minuscule mosquito minds, if it’s exhaling carbon dioxide, there’s a meal to be had off it.

Cows included. Mosquitos look at them, start to drool and think, “Smorgasbord!”

Now, when they impale a cow and start slurping, what happens? If the cow has been injected, those hormones get transferred to these little varmints.

Have we wrought ignorance upon ourselves?

On the one hand, you’ve got an 800 lb. cow, and on the other, a devil you normally can’t feel when it lands on you. Just how much of these hormones does it take to start making a little Frankenstein of your basic mosquito?

I’ll let you in on something here. There’s nothing subtle about our country mosquitos anymore.

Instead of swarms, we’re now dealing with gangs. Mosquito graffiti is popping up all over. Stuff like, “Leash Laws for Flies,” and, “Ticks are Wimps.”

They wear tiny biker boots. When they land on your back, it’s with authority. It’s like getting a stiff-arm to your shoulder.

They size you up, pinching and tugging on your flesh, the way seldom-seen aunts do your cheeks.

They top off their flasks before final extraction.

They’ve gone into partnership with buzzards. Scary, if you ponder that awhile.

For cheap thrills they’re ganging up on people leaving bars, so they can catch a buzz. Isn’t that a bit ironically redundant, a mosquito needing a buzz?

I’m a little leary about all this. What if, after dining at McCow, one of these pests sneezes while his proboscis is buried in you? Just when can you stop worrying your feet may change into cloven hooves?.

Some how, I don’t think this is what they meant by, “Better living through chemistry”?

© 2007 Michael Wicinski

I am what I am

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Fri, 27 Apr 2007 11:03:00 +0000

The ACLU is about to hear from me. I've been the victim of an extremely sexist remark. To make matters worse, it came from a complete stranger, over the phone. Never have I felt so defiled, so filthy. My journey into degradation started like this:

"Hello, customer service. My name's Jane. May I help you?"

"Hi Jane, this is Michael. Are you in custom- "

Not wanting to lay all my ignorance on the table right from the start, I stopped mid-sentence and corrected myself. "Of course you're in customer service. That's what you said."

The obvious may pull ahead of me sometimes, but it seldom races on out of sight.

Before I could apply the reins to my mouth, though, it just galloped on. "I must not have been paying very good attention." I chuckled out loud, being the good-natured person I am.

Jane was on that like wrinkles on the floor of a plastic surgeon. She shot back, "Are you being a husband?"

Snatch my arm up behind me and make me stop to ask directions, why don't you!

The shame I felt at that moment was disheartening.

I can sense the head-nodding of female readers. Most of you have experienced talking to the side of a man’s head, otherwise known as, deep space. After awhile you notice your words are simply spilling over your bottom lip and falling unrequited onto your lap. To double-check yourself, you might throw out a teaser sentence such as, “Your mother cannibalized the rest of her offspring because she knew one day you’d meet me and I would kill you myself.”

This, of course, brings the sincere reply, “Mmm hmm.”

Immediately, your scorned-woman’s thought bubble appears with graphic illustrations of WMD’s, Widespread Male Destruction. Then comes the phrase that instantaneously snatches a man from deep within the bowels of any electronic device with which he may be entranced.

"Are you listening to me?"

Women wonder why these words get through when obviously not much has before. Simple. Men were cuffed about their heads by their mothers when they were boys for not responding correctly nor expeditiously to this very phrase.

It’s all in the conditioning. Pavlov’s dogs drooled. A man flinches and goes into a defensive posture with a look of fear on his face.

Later, I stopped to consider all this and realized we, as husbands, may be on the verge of being technologically dominated if we don’t alter our behavior. If Oprah ever learns how to operate one of those MP3 players with the built-in voice recorder, we are done for.

Armed with one of these, a woman could blackmail you during ball games, NASCAR races or do-it-yourself shows featuring Hugh Grant or Charlie Sheen.

Fail to pay explicit attention to what she's saying and she'll have you doing all sorts of bizarre things. Polishing doorknobs. Reorganizing the recipe box. Swiffering. Buying your own underwear before your present ones have been declared, (we pause here for a moment of prayerful meditation) "Holey."

To quote Walt Kelly’s ‘possum, Pogo, "We have met the enemy, and he is us."

Guys, let’s not lose the war by losing too many of these inattentive battles. I don’t ever want to come over to any of your houses and find you sporting a frilly gingham apron with a feather duster in one hand, a copy of anything by Martha Stewart in the other, all the while singing Celine Dion tunes.

It would be way too awkward, you know, if we twinked.

© 2007 Michael Wicinski

HDTV - Can You Believe This?

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Fri, 30 Mar 2007 04:03:00 +0000

Recently I had occasion to watch some HDTV - high-definition television. It was like being in the über-there. The detail was so distinct it was utterly indescribable, until it started to get out of hand. Now it is indelibly etched upon my mind.

It was a nature program. We all know what happens therein. No, not the obligatory mating sequence. I’m talking of showing the bad along with the good because, in reality, that’s the way nature really is.

On this particular show, there was a close up - in high-definition - of this bird, sitting on a limb, doing what I thought were birdy things. All around him, nary a leaf was stirring, yet this bird seemed a little unstable on his feet. I saw his chest, full of glorious high-definition feathers, heaving more than seemed natural. On further inspection I noticed his eyes were having trouble focusing on just one thing. A bead of sweat started to roll down his forehead. He developed the half-hiccups, wherein all that comes out is, “Hic.” Two worms inching by, looked up at him and I thought I heard a little worm snicker pass between them before they ambled on.

Gentle Feeders, this bird was obviously under the weather. I thought he might even be on his last wing. Little did I know.

His chest heaving increased until he was hunched over. Before I could make the connection between the hiccing and the hunching, a grayish mass flew out of his beak. All in high definition color, and surround sound.

The camera never moved as this scene continued repeatedly. My eyelids wouldn’t blink, due to this uncommonly graphic display of nature. Nowhere was the familiar warning sounded, “Viewer discretion advised.” An uneasy queasiness came over me.

If this bird wasn’t having a bad enough time, in the background I noticed two vultures, elbowing each other and pulling bills out of their wallets, as they point at this poor fellow. Here, we see nature displaying what a cruel mamma it could be.

However, the worst was yet to come.

As if SEEING this bird toss his cookies wasn’t graphic enough, a caption appears at the bottom of the screen, explaining this high definition scene in glorious detail.

I found this to be a bit condescending. After all, I didn’t ride the short bus. At least not past the tenth grade.

It called the bird by name. The charcoal breasted wobbly imbiber. The caption said he had gotten hold of some fruit that was a little bit too ripe and now he was regurgitating.

That’s right. The “R” word was spelled out right there on the screen, in high definition. Where are the censors when you need them?

“Too ripe?” Why white-wash it at this point? You’ve already crossed the line. Tell it like it is. It was fermented and this birdbrain was blowing chunks because he was knee-walking drunk.

Birds have knees don’t they?

He’d been on a bender and now his face was plastered in HD for the entire world to see. I fully expected a familiar tune to start up and then the vocalist begin,

Bad bird, bad bird,
Whatcha gonna do?
Whatcha gonna do,
The fruit’s too ripe for you.

I don’t know if the world is ready for all HD, all the time, but it’s coming. In ‘09 or ‘10, everything is supposed to be broadcast in HD. All I’m asking is, leave the HD for the visual, okay? We don’t need the subtitles. Especially with nature films. No telling what they’ll want to show next.

Would a caption really be necessary concerning those worms, snickering close together by candlelight after sharing a little of that fruit between them? Viewer discretion most certainly advised.

© 2007 Michael Wicinski

Elvis & I, a Brush with Fame (based on actual events)

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Mon, 08 Jan 2007 02:40:00 +0000

"I don't work on January 8, 'cause that's the King's birthday."
. . . from the movie D.C. Cab

I was almost an in-law to the King of Rock and Roll. Before you pshaw, scoff and make other guttural noises, let me explain.

Everybody has to start somewhere and Elvis was no exception. Contrary to urban legend, the doctor did not declare, "Elvis has left the womb," whereupon the King immediately started shaking those hips and singing, Don't Be Cruel. It would have made great copy but it just wasn't so. No, he paid his dues in the small arenas around the Mid South.

My brush with fame happened in one of these venues.

In a small town in Arkansas, a virtually unknown Elvis was performing. Attending this show was the lady who one day would become known as, my mother-in-law. While mingling with the crowd during a break, Elvis came upon this pretty lady and with a wink asked her, "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

I'm sorry, but I would've thought the soon-to-be King of Rock and Roll would have had better material than that. With that suave lady killing line it's a wonder he didn't become the Court Jester of Rock and Roll.

Of course, if that had happened where would that have left Mick Jagger?

Most women might have swooned to have Elvis' attention flung their way. Not so with my mother-in-law. She wasn't impressed with his gyrating hips or his sultry singing lips. In fact she considered it despicable, as did many back in the early days or rock and roll. She summarily dismissed him by simply getting up and walking away. Elvis went his way and she hers, never the twain to meet again.

Now you're thinking, how in the world can I think I've had a brush with fame where Elvis was concerned? Stay with me.

My mother-in-law bore three daughters. In the journey of my life I just happened to bump into one of them. After the police finished with their report, I asked her, "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" She asked if I thought I was Elvis or something. Evidently her mother's encounter had made quiet an impression. After that, the police told her she'd have to see a judge to get a restraining order.

Convincing her I wasn't a politician or a Shriner, she dropped that last thought.

As luck would have it, she took a liking to me. Eventually we married. Of my mother-in-law's three daughters, she was the oldest.

If, instead of spurning Elvis' advances, my mother-in-law had succumbed to his charms and said, "Viva Las Vegas," then run off and married him, she would've been the mother of Elvis' only daughter. Seeing as how Marilyn was the first child my mother-in-law had, she would, therefore, have been Lisa Marie.

That would've made for great copy where I'm concerned. My luck, however, doesn't run that way. I'm lucky that Marilyn is still married to me. As it was, she was about two when my mother-in-law had the close encounter of the Elvis kind. If she'd run off with Elvis then, Marilyn's younger sister would've been Lisa Marie.

That would have made me the brother-in-law to the son-in-law of Elvis.

Right now you're probably thinking I'm all shook up. Unh huh. Whoa oh. Yeah, yeah.

All this notwithstanding, I'd just like to say, "Thankya . . . thankya veramuch."

© 2007 Michael Wicinski

Christmas Memories 2006

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Thu, 28 Dec 2006 11:50:00 +0000

My first attempt at smoking a turkey turning out excellent.

All the other fixin's being equally tasty.

The happy faces of friends and family who thoroughly enjoyed the meal.

Having adequate supplies of Alka-seltzer, Maalox and Charmin.

The symphonic snore-a-palooza afterwards.

Discovering one of the side dishes still in the microwave a day after this feast. Don't let the AMA, the CDC or your local health department tell you canned corn, that has sat out for 24 hours after being heated, is bad for you. We have yet to feel the urge to purge.

Of course, you probably shouldn’t try this on your own unless you’re a retired crash test dummy or you stayed at a Holiday Inn Express last night.

Being thrilled at getting toy cars, even if I am 50 years old.

Knowing my wife won’t mind me showing off these adult toys.

Watching the dog unwrap his present with absolutely no confusion between the wrapping and the actual toy.

Marveling at the amount of stuffing that the dog pulls out of this toy.

Filling up this same miniature pooch with a little too much smoked turkey, only later to have him get into his pre-heaving dance. It’s a modification of The Worm, slightly understated, but with a robust ending.

Said pooch and I being right by the backdoor when this begins.

Feeling sorry for the little fellow when he stops just past the backdoor mat to blow chunks on the deck.

Feeling disgusted when the varmint starts to not only sniff, but lick, this despicable mess. Two or three times.

His thought bubble saying, "Uh, Daddy, I could save you some trouble here. Who knows? It might stay down the second time."

Getting the "don't you dare" glare when starting a color commentary about the incident for my wife.

Creating a monster out of one of our guests at the dessert bar: Frank and fudge.

Wishing I could get one of those “special” lamps from, "A Christmas Story" for my father.

Knowing my mother would have the exact same reaction as the wife in the movie.

Not caring. Once a gift is given, it's the recepient's problem.

Getting Merry Christmas calls from my children who couldn’t be with us.

Being threatened with bodily harm by mom while posing for pictures.

Rutabaga butter. It's the new, "cheese," when taking pictures. Try saying it fast three times.

Thinking how, later on, those threats might come to fruition if my face somehow distorts all by itself and ruins one of those holiday pictures.

Explaining to mom that because I’m dumber than my younger sister, it's up to me to act this way.

Being threatened again with liturgical-weight candlestick holders if I didn't cease and desist immediately. It seems there's a vast difference in the meaning of "pose" between my generation and my parent’s.

These candlestick holders were a gift to my mother from my dear, loving wife. This is absolute proof of a conspiracy to keep me from having too much fun. I left home to get out from under my mother's thumb only to marry the woman who has now teamed up with her. Be good for goodness sake? As if I had a choice.

Anticipating that moment when Santa puts down his list and I can go back to being bad.

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

A Christmas Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Thu, 30 Nov 2006 02:47:00 +0000

I always liked the way Steve Miller pronounced the word "poem" in his song, "Jungle Love." He made it sound like, "foam." Then again, I like to announce at any fast food restaurant that I have a "coupon," pronouncing it with the accent on the first syllable, ala Ron White.

If anybody has an idea for a title for this piece, please let me know. I'd like to steal it when I publish this elsewhere.

Let us begin.

I saw it on the shelf in back. I saw it resting there.
A tin, just right, for me to hide a gift that I would share.
I went to lift it - an easy task - or so I thought t'would be.
To my surprise it had some heft, which seemed quite strange to me.

I'm fairly certain that I would know what all these shelves might hold
But now I've come across this box holding secrets yet untold.
I set it on the countertop and steeled my nerves somewhat.
I didn't want a childish prank to knock me on my butt.

Anticipation gripped my soul. I took hold of the top.
With quivering hands I lifted it and thought my heart would stop.
I saw it lying there inside and did a double take
For I'd uncovered what must have been the very first fruit cake.

No green or red jewel-colored fruits shone from its top or side.
In their place were onyx stones stuck in its flagstone hide.
A hideous amalgamation that spoke of an insane mind.
Some baker gone stark raving mad could only conceive this find.

The EPA must never know, nor even the local police,
For this is a toxic weapon, my friend. Could I offer you a piece?

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Rules of Engagement for Thanksgiving

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Wed, 22 Nov 2006 19:08:00 +0000

Thanksgiving is all about two words. Fair share. If you don’t follow these rules, you might miss out on yours. After all, this meal is all about consuming as much of the spread as possible without having to emit certain bodily noises, such as the phrase, “More, please.”

The rules are simple. Common sense, really. Sometimes, though, things have to be spelled out for us before we actually grasp them.

Don’t wear a belt. This only encumbers your ability to eat all you want. Seconds or thirds, along with a dessert or two, will be nigh onto impossible wearing a belt. Leave it out of your ensemble.

Did the Pilgrims wear belts? Check out the historical pictures. Where were their buckles? That’s right, on their shoes. Nobody wants fat feet for the journey home.

Peek during the blessing. It’s the only way to protect your part of the bountiful feast that has been laid before you. You know others are going to be doing it, right? If you wait for, “Amen,” and expect to quickly open your eyes and grab that nice slab of turkey, you’re liable to wind up with a fork in the back of your hand and that’s a no-no. Violence at this meal is strictly forbidden.

Did the Pilgrims have a free-for-all at the first Thanksgiving? Of course not. It was an amicable event. They behaved themselves admirably even after losing the post meal football game. That was, until the “fire water” was passed around. Up until then, the Indians knew only of dancing on the ground. This was their introduction to something later to be called, “casino table dancing.”

It would be many years later before the Indians became comfortable with this concept.

Bring the hostess a gift. Empty containers. There’s going to be more than enough food to feed Cox’s Army. Therefore, leftovers will be sent home with everybody. That is, unless the supply of Cool Whip bowls runs out. If that happens, those who remembered the hostess will be enjoying the meal a second time. Your social faux pas could lead to you enjoying next year’s Thanksgiving at the Waffle House.

Serve the children last. Don’t pshaw me. If they were treated this way regularly, we wouldn’t have this problem with obesity.

What did the Pilgrims do? Why, the men were served first, as is only rightfully so, and then the women. Last, and most certainly least, the kids got what was leftover. Pilgrim kids learned to enjoy sharing a wing amongst themselves. If they were still hungry afterwards, they could actively search for nuts and berries out in the forest. This led to one of America’s greatest discoveries, California.

Besides, if you fill a kid’s plate with all the good stuff they’re going to find some reason not to eat it all just to skip right to the desserts. Then you have plates with two-thirds of the food left but played with by the “I don’t want/like this” whiners. Because of this, nobody is going to even touch this tainted food except fathers. Fathers are somewhat thankful their progeny doesn’t always finish their meal. They know moms aren’t going to touch it because of the “germ” factor. So, not only are the regular leftovers going home with their families, but they gets their very own personal Cool Whip bowl.

Can you say, legal double dipping?

These rules are presented in an effort to help you find the real meaning of Thanksgiving and share it with others. After all, who could shop the whole day after without packing in enough food to fuel you through this tradition started by the Pilgrims.

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Whose Got Your Back?

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Fri, 27 Oct 2006 02:27:00 +0000

My doctor’s eyebrows nearly went into orbit. I’d asked him to look at a mole on my back. After the reentry he said, “It’s nothing to be overly concerned with, but I think we should get it looked at soon. It might be one of those nasty ones.”
He didn’t know the half of it.

Since its appearance, I’d had nothing but grief. This mole possessed a nonstop bad attitude and evidently, I was the only one who could hear his ranting. I feared eventually someone else would hear him, think it was me, and then feed me a knuckle sandwich.

When it itched, I'd scratch and he’d get royally chafed. “Hey-Hey-HEY! Do I try to rip your scalp off with dirty fingernails? If I was a little bigger, Willard, I'd kick your butt!"

Willard. His much annoying nickname for me.

At night, I'd roll over on my back and he’d go ballistic. "Whoa! Get off of me, you oaf! You trying to smother me? Go back to your village, idiot!”

After tolerating this abuse for years, I finally went to the dermatologist.

Once we were alone in the examination room, he piped up. "You really going to go through with this, huh?"
"Yes, you and I are going separate ways."
"Willard, you dump me now and I'll come back to torment you with Cindy Crawford"
"You don't even know Cindy Crawford."
“She’s got a mole. You got me. That practically makes you cousins, no?”
“You’re insane."
“You’re just afraid, Willard. Afraid I’m going to impress Cindy and you’ll be left standing there, drubbing your lips.”
“Just shut up."
"Oooo! Great come back, Willard! . I’ll tell Cindy you said, ‘Blubbiddy-blubbiddy-blubbiddy.’” His maniacal laughter really got under my skin.

Finally, the doctor entered with his nurse. As if that was his cue, Mr. Nasty said, "Hey, get this doughy lump out from under me!"
"They can't hear you."
"Who can't hear whom?" asked the nurse, smiling at me.
"No, no. I was talking to my mole."
The corners of her smile turned frownward. Trying to comprehend what I just said, she dead-panned, "Talking . . . . to your . . . . mole? Mmm hmm."
He quickly seized the opportunity. "Went for a doctor's visit and an Imbeciles Anonymous convention broke out. Quick! Lock the doors! Don’t let this one escape! He might fetch a couple of bucks on eBay. Oh wait! What was I thinking? Ebay is for stuff people actually want!” Again with the laughter.
"Just shut up, okay?"
"Excuse Me?" The nurse shot back.
"No, no! Not you! The mole."
Tilting her head she inquired, "Soooo . . . the mole talks to you, too?"
"Yes. I mean, no! I mean . . . look, it's a long story."
"Better get to the point, Willard. They’re calling for the big butterfly net!"
"Cute."
Her eyes squinted threateningly. "Ex-Cuse ME!"
"No, not you! . . . Wait! I'm not saying you're not cute or ugly!"
This set him to howling. "Which is it, Willard? Is she not cute or is she ugly? Better watch yourself! Looks like you’re getting fresh with a woman who’s got a razor in her hand. I got twenty says you’re gonna make the cut!"

If a mole could’ve doubled over, he would have been.

"The mole again?" She asked dubiously.
"Yes."
"And it's . . . 'cute'?"
"I was being sarcastic."
The nurse tried another approach. "Did your referring doctor talk to the mole?"
"No. Why?"
"Well, this is a dermatology office not a psychiat-"
"I'm not crazy."
Simultaneously, the nurse and the mole said, "And yet you say you’re talking to a mole.”

If he could cry from laughing, the band on my underwear would’ve gotten soaked.

Hanging my head I said, "Look, can we just get this over with?"
"Yeah, I need to cut my losses. And sister, this is one big time loser."

As the nurse held the mole up in front of her, about to drop him in a biopsy bag, he joked, "Hey, Willard! Keep in touch!"
Looking at him I said, "Yeah, I'd like to touch you."

I remember only three things after that. The nurse looking both disgusted and angry. Mr. Nasty, belly laughing. Then, a sudden darkness, following close behind the sharp pain to the side of my head.

The moral here is, life’s too short to let a nasty mole be an irritating blemish.

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Seriously friends, have any moles checked out regularly by your doctor. My “Mr. Nasty” turned out to be nothing. However, one I didn’t even know about caused the dermatologist some concerns and I had to go back in and give another slice. Thankfully, nothing bad was found.

You have the Right to Remain Uncracked

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Thu, 19 Oct 2006 02:38:00 +0000

Early on, I was often on the verge of going over the limit, flirting with stepping over the boundaries of the law. I was a 60's envelope pusher. One such early foray ended when mom told me, “for the last time,” I couldn't build an outhouse in our backyard, no matter how badly I wanted one. That really stunk.

However, it didn’t end this rebellious behavior.

One evening, a buddy and I decided to walk around the BIG BLOCK. Being at the extremely mature age of eight or nine we relished this chance to flex our independence.

Unfortunately, there are two sides to an incident such as this. We were being independent, all right, but much too early in our parent’s eyes.

I don't remember what happened to my friend once he got home, but the words from the sermon I received that night are still tattooed in bold print on my fanny. Mom was a pioneer in the psychology of negative reinforcement.

Leaving work one recent afternoon, and being a rut-monger, I saw no need to change my route home. One street I travel is frequented regularly by the police. They love to hide in the bushes and then jump out, pointing glaze-encrusted fingers at speeders they’ve just busted.

On this particular day, a pickup passed me like I was a stump. The officer “taking pictures,” was on him like he thought he was hauling a kilo of fresh donuts. He quickly maneuvered the guy back into the lane where I was. With this interdiction blocking my way, I stopped short, waiting for my chance to go around them.

Au contraire.

The squad-car door opened, the officer leaned out and, after licking it really good, he pointed his finger at me and said, "You might as well pull over too. You were speeding." Flabbergasted, I obeyed.

Approaching me first, I asked him how fast he had clocked me.

“Forty-eight."

My jaw dropped and in total disregard of my brain telling it not to say anything stupid, my mouth spouted off, "I don't think so!"

Visions of prison shower-parties quickly passed through my mind. My eyes, among other things, squinched shut. My mouth forged on: "I’ll give you forty-four, but there’s no way I was doing forty-eight!"

"Well,” he asked, a bit flummoxed, “was that truck passing you?"

Gentle Feeders, I now stood at a moral crossroads. I could either lie, or come clean about the whole affair.

"Yeah, he was passing me." An immediate sense of relief swept over me after offering this nugget of truth.

You’d think the officer would have admired my honesty and bid me adieu, maybe with a friendly, Barney-like wave. Instead he had to find something to ticket me for. Seems his brain had a sugar-induced job description review after I’d discounted his charge of speeding.

Because of this ticket-at-all-cost mentality, I found myself in court.

Was justice served? No. I got off with a warning and probation. Can you believe that? Probation? As the saying goes, “You can’t fight City Hall,” and I knew better than to question a judge’s edict.

Now I’m back on the road attempting to be on my best behavior. If I don’t incur a similar offense within the next six months, the charge will be dropped. Luckily, this didn’t cost me a cent.

I offer up this slice of my life so you can learn from my mistakes. Just say, “No,” to crack. Well, crack-ed windshields, that is. That’s what I was ticketed for.

Hester Prynne couldn’t have been more mortified.

Driving with a cracked windshield is a bad reflection on the local police. It says, “We don’t have enough time to bust you for that single offense, but if we can get you on multiple charges, our time away from the donut shops is well worth it.”

Here’s to Truth, Justice and the American Jelly-filled.

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

We didn't get enough

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Fri, 06 Oct 2006 13:06:00 +0000

Through seven states in seven days . . . $54+ a night

3005 miles . . . up to $2.699/gallon

The snow-capped mountain vistas, chattering yellow-leaved aspens, thunder and a brief ice shower in Western Colorado . . . Priceless

More later.

Super Woman Drives a Tahoe

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Fri, 22 Sep 2006 02:17:00 +0000

Heat quivered off the blacktop like a flagellating metaphor tearing itself away from the pursed lips of cankered prose.

As the sun beat down, my niece idled in the left-turn lane waiting for the green arrow.

Riding shotgun, her mother kept a vigilant watch for anything that might endanger them. Armed with motherly instinct, her eyes darted and her nostrils flared, absorbing all available stimuli. She summoned her precognitive abilities to recognize any potentially threatening situation.

Unfortunately, this included catching a snoot full of the unencumbered B.O. from the shirtless guy two lanes over. She wavered a bit, nearly puking, but fought it off and regained her watchfulness.

An eighteen-wheeler on the cross street began a left-hand turn crossing directly in front of her new Tahoe, one of her most prized possessions. Centered in the cross-hairs of her vision, this set off all her internal alarms. Every fiber of her being went on high alert. With Big Blue-like speed, she calculated his path would cause him to clip the front end of her SUV.

She really wasn’t dressed for the part then, but at least her hairdo was in fantastic shape in case anybody had been videoing.

Faster than a thrown bull-rider anticipating a pocket full of horns, she jumped out of the Chevy, ran completely around it and stood directly in the truck’s intended path.

“Look! Out in the street! It’s absurd! It’s lost its brain!”

No, it’s Super Woman!

I can see her now, hands on her hips, staring defiantly at Mr. Truck Driver. Her angry thought-bubble encircled her most emphatic superlative for scoundrels such as this: “Igmo!” Yet he still inched slowly forward, oblivious to the force he was about to reckon with.

With the unmitigated wrath of a woman about to be done wrong, she unsheathed her most powerful super-hero weapon: her extended index finger. Had the lightning bolt been unleashed from its most capable tip, this driver’s height would have forevermore been measured atop his upper lip.

The power of this gesture caused the semi to jerk to a stop.

Dead silence fell on the scene. Shadows of circling buzzards suddenly moved slowly upon the street. You’d have almost expected to hear the opening strains of the theme from “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.”

Anyone within a hundred yards of her could feel the throbbing of the rage being emitted through that pointed, slightly quivering finger.

I’m a little surprised her head didn’t explode from this pent-up anger.

Like a well-shaken soft drink just opened, her lips parted unleashing a most flowery dressing down on this fellow. With gestures and verbalizations worthy of a perfect score from any Hungarian judge, he got the LP version of the riot act. I’m sure there were anatomical impossibilities concerning what she told him he could do with his rig.

Needless to say, he adjusted his course along with the upward creeping of his boxers.

Once again, Truth, Justice and the American SUV owner had overcome the evil forces of ignorant driving. All those who had witnessed this stared in awe at her still-in-place hairdo.

I take a bit of responsibility for the development of this real life super-hero. She informed me recently that in our younger days I had lambasted her once for ordering a burger, without pickles, at a place where they don’t make it “your way.” She has this uncanny ability to misinterpret situations. More than likely, it was a case of me emphatically giving her street smarts about ordering burgers without wasting her youth away.

Had I known at that time she was a super-hero in training, though, I would have chosen my tone more carefully.

So if you find yourself surrounded by ignorant drivers or those who can’t order fast food correctly, here’s what you do. Don’t call her. She's not into random acts of super-heroism. Remember her handling of the truck driver. She only breaks out the cape to take care of her own.

However, if you’ve got a mischievous streak, dare one of your uninformed friends to mess with her prized Tahoe. The only thing missing for that to be a pay-per-view event is the voice of Michael Buffer announcing, "Let's get readyyyyyyyyyy to rrrrum-blllle!"

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Give Him the Chair

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Fri, 08 Sep 2006 02:37:00 +0000

Fifty-year-old men shouldn’t be riding down their driveway on wheeled desk chairs. It’s a poor reflection on their level of maturity. It’s a bad example for those impressionable thirty-five-year-olds, and there’s always the chance of soiled drawers. Then again, it could make for some awesome home video.

It just so happened we had such a chair. A handsome five-wheeled, chrome and cloth model. Unfortunately, having seen its better days, it was doomed for the curbside pickup. As it was dark out when this judgement was handed down, it fell to me to carry out the sentence.

When I say I have a long driveway, believe me. If it was completely flat, you could run a hundred-yard dash on it. It’s that long.

From the house it drops about six feet on a rather unassuming incline. Where it flattens out, it crosses a culvert which provides drainage across our property. From there to the street it rises ever so gently.

Being very tired that evening, I couldn’t see myself bending over and pushing this dead-chair-rolling all the way to the street. Ever the thrill seeker I thought, “Why not have some fun?” I sat down and pushed off.

Fear was totally absent from my being. My rationale was, I could steer with my feet. How difficult could that be? What could possibly go wrong?

As I started downhill, my first impression was, “This is going to be way more fun than I thought. This old thing’s still got some speed in it!” I was amazed at how fast it glided over the concrete.

Kicking with my left foot, in an effort to keep myself on track, I began picking up even more speed.

The key phrase here is, “in an effort to.” My perception of how easy this was supposed to be was about to be trampled by a stampeding reality. My efforts at fun were quickly going awry.

At that precise moment I discovered an anatomical fact about myself. I have an honest-to-goodness lead butt. For still some unknown reason it decided to lead the race to the cataclysmic end for which I was headed.

Hurtling backwards now down my driveway, I realized my butt was in line for a little off-roading before eventually sailing off into the drainage ditch.

Did I mention I had lined the ditch with fieldstone last fall?

Common Sense finally roused itself off the couch of my well-being. Surveying the situation, it put in an urgent call to Self Preservation.

“S.P., we’ve got major issues.”
“What issues?”
“The Court Jester here is about to go off the deep end. Literally.”
“Okay?”
“He’s not gonna die, but there could be marks left. If only in his drawers.”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Things might get broken.”
“Oh my!”
“Worse than that will be the sermons, not only from his wife but his mother, too.”
“Man your stations! Prepare for a crash landing!”
“Can I transfer to a new unit after this latest fiasco is over?”

With the steep edge of the driveway drawing ever closer to the wheels, I can’t imagine why I had to think twice before acting.

Not a second after tumbling onto the blacktop I heard the sound of metal legs ricocheting off rock as the chair went solo into the ditch. I quickly got to my feet and scampered down the slope to retrieve it. No sense in getting the wife all a-twitter at this point if she decided to come outside.

I paused to reflect on the past ten seconds. I’d made it only a quarter of the way down my drive. Was thrown, once again, by a supposedly inanimate object. All my appendages appeared to be intact although without a thorough inventory I couldn’t be sure. I could call it “fun” this time because I wasn’t hurting.

Bending over, I pushed the chair the rest of the way.

Walking back, I checked for blood. At my age, oozing blood is a dead giveaway that I’d not thought things through to their logical conclusion. I could hear my mother’s voice: “Stop that bleeding right now or I’ll give you something to bleed about.”

There’s no doubt, fifty-year-old men shouldn’t be riding desk chairs down their driveway. Next time, I’ll just use my feet and surf it down the slope. Think of the potentially awesome video!

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Antique Man

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Fri, 25 Aug 2006 03:10:00 +0000

My desire for the ultimate in manly thrills has grown. Classic bowling reruns, on ESPN2, just don’t do it for me anymore. Searching for a new level of adrenalin pumping excitement, I recently spent lunch doing recognizance at antique stores.

One of the first things I noticed was a lack of other men in most shops. Several shops had male curators but none shopping. I obviously had ventured into uncharted waters.

Secondly, women would make only brief eye contact. With a scared little smile they averted their eyes and quickly moved away. I wondered when the fog would appear, accompanied by tension-building music.

I followed this older woman a little way toward one shop. Before she could even reach the door, she shot me a number of those looks over her shoulder. It was as if she thought I was some perverted philanthropist. I could just imagine her thought bubble reading, “He’s going to force a thong on me!”

I suppose she really tensed up when I followed her into the first vignette.

As I entered to look things over, I was thinking only one thing. I wanted to see if those legs went all the way up. It was such a nice looking piece. As I was peeking underneath, I thought, “How could she think I was a pervert?” I’d have jumped on that table right then and there if it wasn’t for all the numbers to the left of the decimal.

I did mention I was looking for a breakfast table, didn’t I?

At the next store, I got out of my car at the same time as another lady. Heading to the front door, she struck up a conversation with me. Considering my last experience I thought this either demonstrated the truly friendly character of this part of town, or it was merely nervous chatter until she could get inside. Once there, she’d alert the others to my widely spreading perceived criminal mind set.

However, it was here I spotted something fascinating. Another guy.

My inner stalked-female immediately arose and silently screamed, “Perverted philanthropist!” Taken aback by this unknown characteristic, I fanned myself rapidly with both open hands and billowed my shirt a time or two seeking to cool off.

I watched him thinking he might be a true Antique Man, something anthropologists heretofore had only speculated about. He was checking out objects on the walls of each grouped setting. Those things standing on the floor simply didn’t interest him. He apparently was looking for some small intimate piece.

Then it struck me. Here was no Antique Man. This was Messed Up Man.

As sure as modern antique production was thriving, here was a man who had messed up in his relationship with a woman. Finding him here, I knew he must be in terribly deep.

While trying to appear like the suave Antique Man, he was actually looking for something to save his fanny. I pitied him, knowing his was a tough row to hoe. He was still searching as I left the shop.

Heading to the car, it occurred to me that I had just witnessed a life lesson. Here was a man who had wronged someone and in his obvious spirit of contrition was seeking the thing he knew she would like. Something unique. However, this poor soul was confusing unique with expensive.

Guys, here’s what we can take from this. When you mess up with a woman, go to an antique store. It’s a mind clearing experience. Looking at just a few prices, you’ll quickly come to your senses telling yourself that a card and some flowers will hurt you a lot less and will do just as well.

Start the expensively unique habit and you’re liable to have to get a second job no matter how well off you are right now.

Remember, it’s the simple thing she’ll truly appreciate. Wouldn’t you agree that there’s not much simpler than one of those thongs?

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Back to School

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Fri, 18 Aug 2006 11:10:00 +0000

The very pillars of our communities are lying to your children. They’re being two-faced in our newspapers and on the television. I’m not talking about the cross-dressing, cabaret-singing tendencies of some our public figures. It’s far more serious than that.

Through my astute powers of observation, I have discovered with all certainty that teachers are lying about being glad to be back in school. Contrary to what you may have heard recently, teachers are already starting to be dragged down by their jobs. Here’s how I can tell.

I live 35 miles from the office. On a good day I can make it in 35 minutes. I know what you’re thinking. On the contrary though, with an imagination like mine, I’ll have a great explanation if I do get pulled over. I continuously prepare to be spontaneous.

This week, however, traffic patterns have changed. On Monday, though there was decidedly more traffic. The commute went off without an episode. With Tuesday came a slight case of vehicular constipation. By yesterday, I thought the expressway (a cross-country oxymoron) would shortly become a used car lot. Traffic was moving so slowly the effects of deodorant, shampoo and shaving cream were starting to wane.

Why this sluggish difference? Both city and county schools were back in session. And who makes up the majority of drivers within the schools? Teachers and cafeteria ladies.

Now we can dismiss the cafeteria ladies right off. They look forward to their job. To them, every day is a culinary challenge. It’s, “What can we add to the meatloaf today allowing us to call it something different?”

For the record, ketchup does not go on good meatloaf. A good meatloaf will stand on its own. Not literally. Unless it’s been in the refrigerator for about twenty days. At that point, it might not only stand but it might walk to the door, knock and request to be let out.

With the cafeteria ladies eliminated, that leaves only the teachers. They’ve been on the news, all smiles with a joyful tone in their voices. I’m here to tell you it’s all a facade.

Think about it. They’ve been lying around the house for two, two and a half months, not doing jack. Getting up at 1:00 P.M.. Staying in their robes all week. Saving on deodorant, shampoo and shaving cream because they don’t have to get cleaned up but once a week during the summer. All the while they’re still pulling down a paycheck. They’re thinking, “Is this a great country or what?”

Then one day, August shows up at their doorstep and says, “Party time’s over. Get your tookus off the sofa and get back to school. It’s time to get back to work.” Reality bites hard for teachers.

With that, the cycle starts all over again. They go through their own personal pep rallies getting psyched to deal with the psycho’s, er, students. They rally their intestinal fortitude to believe they’ll actually make a difference. They also buy cases of antacids for when that fortitude sours, usually sometime during the first week back.

Thus, the rest of the working populace has to deal with distraught teachers during rush hour.

It doesn’t have to be like this. I’ve got the answers right here.

Elementary schools should start when they did back in the good old days. First bell at 8:25. Tardy bell at 8:30. With school starting at that time teachers don’t have to be at work until 8:27. That gives them an ample three minutes to make it from the parking lot to their class rooms.

Six periods of classes and turn the kids loose at 3:00. It worked for millions of kids for millions of years.

For crying out loud, bring back recess and have it every day, too. Recess is where you’ve got six or eight classes of kids shrieking and running with delight. Off to one side the teachers huddle together, “networking.” That’s another word for “dealing.” Whoever’s turn it was to bring the “diet pills” that day would be doling them out.

Now don’t be judging. Teaching is a tough job. Just try volunteering as a substitute. There are times when they need something extra to get things accomplished during those long afternoon classes.

I know there are days when I wish I had a little something extra. If we only had recess.

For high-school students, isn’t it blindly obvious by now, with all the studies concerning their biological clocks?

Have them show up for classes starting at 10:00 P.M. After all, that’s the beginning of their peak waking hours. Now instead of surfing the web, talking on their cell phones and raiding the fridge at all hours of the night, they can be learning the three R’s. Parents, please remind them those aren’t Rapping, Ripping and Raving.

Schooling during these hours will cause teachers to feel more fulfilled. They’ll be dealing with a class full of wide-awake students instead of semi-comatose blobs who might show up during daylight hours.

Here’s how all this affects you and me. With all the teachers and students who drive going to school at these hours, 3/4 of the extra rush hour traffic will be eliminated. Thus it will flow more smoothly and once again, I won’t be required to reapply deodorant once I get to the office.

The actuality of this happening though is about as likely as Donald Trump getting up and saying, “I think I’ll try on this chiffon mini and belt out a few Barbara Streisand numbers before I head to the office.”

This being the case, there’s only one group truly happy that school is back in session. Stay-at-home moms. They can now nap till 1:00, stay in their robes all day and save on deodorant, shampoo and shaving cream.

Their only thought upon contemplating the beginning of nine months of school is, “Is this a good country or what?”

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Rodeo, Racing and Reins

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Fri, 11 Aug 2006 02:06:00 +0000

I once rode bulls in the rodeo. Yeah, I've bucked and busted on some of the orneriest creatures around. Trying to stay on for eight seconds, all for the glory of that buckle, had its ups and downs. As it is though, I’d never trade those experiences for anything.

Okay, so it wasn't a bull. It wasn't even an animal but it threw me nevertheless. Shopping carts could have their own rough-stock event at any rodeo. If you don't keep yourself centered on them, they'll throw you like second place at the local beauty contest pitching a hissy. Let me explain.

My wife, Marilyn, and I were doing a little shopping down at the Wal-Mart. We were there to take advantage of those ever falling prices. Knowing there was a passel of things on her list, I got a basket.

Gentle Feeders, if you're ever out shopping and from somewhere a few aisles over you hear a distinct human-made racing-engine noise, chances are it could be me. Pushing a shopping cart is a game, a competition even, for me.

There's nothing quite like the thrill of racing your cart down an aisle toward the turn. As you head into the corner, the wheels start squealing as the rear end breaks loose a little. That’s down right exhilarating!

Or rolling along in a pack of carts you catch a rookie, usually a small child of seven or eight, not paying attention. You nudge his basket a little when you pass him, sending his front end into the display of Vienna sausages made to look like the Eiffel Tower. As the little wieners come crashing down, his mother turns and scolds him, while he's pointing and saying, "But Mom, it wasn't me!"
Meanwhile, you're hightailing it off to the next aisle.

As the shopping trip draws to an end, you start to anticipate the race to the check-out. As you make your move you lower your head, for aero-dynamics, and rush the cart forward. It's especially helpful if you can imitate the horn on a fire truck. Folks will be turning around wild-eyed and bolting from behind their carts. You may even run an elderly couple slap into an aisle-end display of various nuts.

I need to mention here, though, that care should be taken when dealing with the elderly. I once had a ninety-year-old heave a bottle of vitamin E at me while coming after me with her walker. Never underestimate the skill of your fellow competitors.

After making our selections on this fateful day, we made our way to the checkout area. Ran six old codgers into the pet supplies aisle trying to get there.

Like most people, I wanted to find the shortest line. Scanning the various check-outs I spotted an opening. One of the front-line registers had but two folks and each one had a jar of pickled pigs feet. I jerked the cart around 90 degrees and started to run. You’ve got to be quick or other fools will cut you off before you get there.

As I saw my victory just a few yards away, I decided to "pop a wheelie." Yes sir, I pulled the front wheels up to be cool.

However, cool was not what I felt a moment later.

Why do they wax the floors up around the checkouts? I don’t know, but I'd like to choke the one who did it.

Once the front wheels came up they just kept a-comin'. My knees hadn't hurt that bad in ages.

In one fluid movement, though, I immediately popped back up and never looked back.

You don't look back at the crowd when you've been thrown by a shopping cart. You don't want them to see your face. What pride you might have left would shrivel up as it fried away on your reddening cheeks. You don't want to see them shaking their heads as if to say,"What a doofus! He oughta know better, as old as he is."

Evidently Marilyn didn’t want her face to be seen either. At least not with me. I found her out in the car after I’d paid for everything. Her boldly outlined thought-bubble was too big to be contained within the interior of the car. In it were the italicized words, “What two-bit circus did you escape from?”

Those quiet times on the ride home can give you a lot of time to reflect on your most recent actions.

I've been put on restriction at Wal-Mart and other stores. Not by the stores but by Marilyn. When we go shopping now, I have to keep all four wheels on the ground.

You know, a guy just can't have fun anymore.

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Digitally Re-mastered

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Fri, 04 Aug 2006 10:50:00 +0000

You’ve fluffed your pillow, said your good nights and gotten into your favorite position. You reach over and turn out the light. A final sigh passes over your lips, the benediction to another day. Quietness falls on the darkened room like coolness from the breeze of the ceiling fan. Then you hear it.

Phwheeeet. Phwheeeet. Phwheeeet. The nose whistle.

It’s one step down on the annoyance scale from the incessant buzzing of the mosquito that somehow manages to get locked in your bedroom.

If you’re the culprit, you can take care of it straightway with the digital nasal realignment.

However, if it’s your partner and they are unaware of the problem, let me suggest you approach them gently. Tact and tenderness are strongly urged at this point. They may be overly tired and therefore cranky if their attempt to fall asleep is interrupted. Gently tap them on the arm and, in your most caring voice, ask them if they would mind you preforming the digital nasal realignment on them. They’ll most certainly appreciate your offer.

Sometimes these things can crop up after both of you are asleep. One will wake up and hearing this, will be unable to get back to sleep. They lay there thinking, “Surely it will go away soon.” As time drags on and they consider their alibi for the impending homicide they decide something must be done.

Here’s something to remember at this point. Don’t take it personally if the offending party is a bit edgy once woken up.

I was cranky once after being awaken and accused of being an accomplice to this. Once.

Marilyn nudged me from sleep and said, “Listen. There’s a nose whistle loose in here,” referring, of course, to me. Feeling wrongly accused I asked in a huff, “What d’ya want me to do about it?”

That was the beginning of one of those male epiphanies.

No sooner had those words escaped my mouth than I knew it was exactly the thing not to have said at the time. I slowly turned over to see what was up and my nose whistle nearly ran over itself trying to get to the bottom of my lungs as I inhaled suddenly. I was disturbed at the sight of two unhappily glowing green orbs where my wife’s eyes should’ve been. With a quivering voice I asked, “Your finger or mine?” I fainted dead away as those orbs quickly came toward my face.

Here’s the sad thing, though. One of our cats has a terminal case. At this time there is no known cure for the feline form of this affliction.

We’ve been unable to make her understand how annoying this is to us. Of course, with her air of superiority she doesn't see anything as being wrong.

We’ve tried to get her to quickly take a deep breath in hopes of dislodging the causative factor. All that exercise did was to make me extremely lightheaded with all the quick, deep breaths I took while demonstrating.

To her credit, the cat did come over to get a closer look after I’d fallen out on the floor. To my utter displeasure the nose whistle followed her.

I’ve had other ideas about how to cure her. They all somehow end up with the ASPCA hauling me off to a public shaming.

There is only one thing that prevents me from preforming the quick fix on her. There is an inordinately disproportionate ratio between finger size and nasal openings.

Then there's the story I'm going to have to come up with to tell Marilyn when she asks me about the flared nostrils on the kitty.

I'm almost positive the ape-nose look would be temporary. You think?

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

It's Hot

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Tue, 01 Aug 2006 03:34:00 +0000

This will come as no surprise to anyone who isn’t on a three-day bender. It’s hot!

What happens when you subject anything to heat? Class? It expands. It’s my theory it was even causing Time to expand today. I’d been working away in my air-conditioned cell awhile. Figured it must have been about three hours since I’d shown up. Looked at my watch and it said 9:00! I almost threw myself to the floor in abject disbelief. Fie on thee, oh slow hands!

After slogging my way through the rest of the day it finally came to an end.

You have to be careful walking across parking lots with rubber soled shoes. They’ll melt and instantly bond with the blacktop if you tarry too long in one spot. Depending upon the quality of the shoe, you’ll either be stuck there or, after the sole and upper portion separate, you’ll find out the true meaning of “hotfoot.”

No lie. I walked out to my car to head home. I placed my Coke on my T-Tops so I could get to my keys. As I open the door I thought someone had been using my car as a furnace. I feared my zipper had been welded shut. To top it all off the Coke can exploded. Not only was it hot outside but now I was very much steamed myself. I never wanted the blasted T-tops/environmentally-friendly griddle in the first place.

I arrived home in a sustained state of coolness. As soon as I opened the door, heat rushed me like a stampede of degrees. There’s only one possible explanation. Heat must be running from itself. I fiddled nervously with my zipper.

This heat rumbled in here on Saturday. It made sustained outdoor activity something to avoid at all costs. I’d step outside to move the sprinkler and the heat would try to invade all of my bodily orifices. Once again, I thought it must be trying to get away from itself. I felt so . . . dirty afterwards. Of course, that had more to do with the sweat-a-thon that broke out during each trip outside than my being violated by both Fahrenheit and Celsius.

It was so bad it almost ruptured my sense of neighborly responsibility. Cut my grass? I was afraid a spark from the lawnmower might ignite it and, in a flash fire, we’d have barbequed Polock.

It was getting to the animals as well.

The cows no longer tried to keep the milk cool by standing teat-deep in the pond.

Buzzards were daring snakes to try and make it across the four-lane blacktop. If one tried . . . Hey! It’s dinner and a show for the buzzards!

That gives me an idea. I think I’m going to grill out tonight. Not because I want food prepared that way. I think it might be cooler huddled by the lit grill.

Somebody tell me, how many more days till the beginning of Winter? After today, we’re one more closer.

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Is This Really Necessary?

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Fri, 28 Jul 2006 11:12:00 +0000

Just this week on her way home, Marilyn spotted one of our local STP trucks. STP in this case stands for Septic Tank Pumper. These are a new necessity in our lives since moving from the city.

Not being on the city sewer, means we've got a septic tank. It’s a monster living under ground not ten feet from our house.

You ask, "Why call it a monster?"

Number one, it requires maintenance. The majority of my life I’ve been dealing with elimination either in an outhouse or with indoor plumbing. To my knowledge neither of these required maintenance. Well, other than a shovel or a plunger. The ebb and flow of nature were taken for granted as being handled without much more than a little paper work.

Now that I've got the septic system, I've got to learn the care and feeding of it. That’s right. Feeding. I'm reading "Septic Tanks for Dummies" to learn about this. As you can guess, it's full of crap.

There are those who say it needs a dose of something extra every now and then. This is to help make sure the microbes and bacteria are well and doing their job. What's their job? Who cares? I'm not going to answer the Help Wanted ad. The pay and benefits stink.

Others say this is useless. It’s throwing money down the toilet. They say you can do the same thing and visit the free buffet if you go to the casinos.

I’m not sure how I feel about this issue. In fact I thought I was feeding the demon. I'll just abide by the point most everybody does agree on. Getting the thing pumped regularly. The operative word here is, "regularly." This brings us to the second reason I call it a monster.

If you don't have its innards pumped regularly, it will get your undivided attention by defying gravity. You see, what goes down can and will come back up. Without warning, one morning you'll go out to get the paper and the stinky fingers of this monster will attack you and cause your bowels to roll over. You'd think they could handle it better since they deal with it on a day to day basis.

Shortly after we moved in last February, we had the STP truck come out. Not knowing what the previous family, with small children, might have sacrificed at the porcelain altar, we thought this money well spent. From now on, though, Valentine's Day will have this bizarre double meaning for me.

Evidently Marilyn didn't notice the wording on the truck when it came to give us this inaugural pumping. Most likely it wasn't there at the time. Her female perceptive skills have only increased since marrying me. However, when she was driving home the other day, she did notice it. How could anybody miss it? On the very end of this tanker truck, prominently displayed for everyone behind it, was the word, "Inedible."

Really?

Am I the only one who finds this a bit disturbing? What act of will or conscience brought about the need to have this word displayed on the back of this type truck?

That thought gives me the heebie-jeebies.

Evidently, the firm that handles this part of rural life feels a need to absolve themselves of any and all liability. Should ever a case like this come up in court you can bet your momma I’m going to be there. I’d have to see it with my own eyes.

If this isn’t the epitome of redundancy, I don’t know what is.

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

My Name's Not Earl But We May Be Related

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Fri, 21 Jul 2006 01:49:00 +0000

I’ve straightened up a bit since my youth. While I was no major league hellion, down in the minors I was involved in things falling under the heading of, "never tell your kids." I no longer heave cans, bottles or Grade A Large eggs out of car windows. The environmentalists tell us the ACLU thinks it’s inhumane for prisoners to actually get out and do some work, such as picking up litter. Therefore, we’re all called upon to do our part. So chunk your cans at members of the ACLU.

Not too long ago, Marilyn and I were traveling in her car. When we’re in close quarters like this she has a way of letting me know my breath would offend a buzzard.

"Want some gum?" she says, forcing the package toward my face.

Once I tried to decline but she persisted. As I opened my mouth to object again she banked a piece off the steering wheel right into my mouth. She’s a crafty little feller, that girl. Now, when she offers, I dare not resist out of fear of her possible slam dunk.

At some point in chewing gum the jaws fatigue. The flavor has gone and the soft chewy texture becomes annoyingly Michelin®. On this particular trip, ours reached that point at the same time.

Isn’t that the greatest about being connected with someone so completely? You just do things simultaneously without even trying. Either that or her dominant control of the conjoined marital brain willed my jaws to tire when she had had enough. Either way, from that point on she knew she wouldn’t have to worry about others passing us thinking there was a cow driving the car.

Inquisitiveness is one of her many traits. Having blown quite a robust bubble she showed me so I could admire it. She must have had the "Husband View" option unchecked on her thought bubble because I missed the, "I wonder what would happen?" Having lowered the passenger side window, she tossed out her tired gum with the bubble still intact. I asked for a piece of paper for mine.

"Why not throw it out?" she asked.

"Did you get it off the road?"

"No, it landed in the middle of the other lane. Why worry? It’s biodegradable."

"Not before some other car runs over it and slings it all along its body."

Karma is that cosmic all-seeing mother whose mantra is, "I told you so." For those not acquainted with this belief, Karma says, "Do good and good things will come your way. Do bad and you might end up a politician or real estate developer."

It’s the reap what you sow principle. What goes around comes around. The goblin’s gonna getcha if you don’t watch out.

During my life I may have had a total of three instances where I’ve had to remove gum from the outside of my car. Since she threw the gum out, back this April, she’s had at least three "accidents" (not according to Karma) where she’s come home and brightly colored bubble gum was pin-striping itself down her car. She knows why and she rues the day she nonchalantly tossed her gum.

I would say, "I told you so," but I value my life too much. She is a crafty little feller after all.

Besides, I’m in no position to cast the first stone. Karma sometimes chooses what behaviors it will deal with. Not only was I throwing cans and bottles from cars back when I was younger, but I joked incessantly about hemorrhoids.

The Potty Principle

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Tue, 18 Jul 2006 01:57:00 +0000

You know the routine. When several couples get together at a restaurant it never fails. The females' biological clocks are all synchronized so potty time arrives for all of them at the same time. You couldn't get two out 200 guys to have to go at the same time, no matter what they'd been drinking.

One lady in the group will say, "Excuse me, but I have to go to the ladies room." Glancing at all the other girls, with eyebrows slightly raised as if to say, "Well, you coming or not?" the entire female clan rises and with purses in hand, head for the restroom. Before they return, a quarter of the males present will experience the beginning of male pattern baldness.

What keeps them that long, in of all places, a restroom? All we guys have to go on is what we see in the movies and on TV, and our own trips to the ladies room. The latter of these two happen only on an extremely rare occasion.

What takes so long is inventory. They have to check out what the others are wearing and what's in each other's purses. Coupons will be exchanged. The dieters will be asked to show off, followed by words of affirmation. Either that or a group hug followed by the exhortation to keep on trying. They'll try on each other's clothes. One of two of them will pull out a different pair of shoes to show the rest. There will be a makeup party where they all apply makeup to each other.

That's why these get togethers often involve trips to the emergency room for one or more of the males. Guys rarely are ready for a reveal from Extreme Makeover Bathroom Group Edition when they take a girl out. They get a bad case of whiplash, doing a swiftly intense double take when their date returns. Or else, when they're alone in the car again, he gets wacked on the back of the head with her purse for looking too closely at one of the other females.

Just one from the massive list of male faux pas.

Sometimes when the female exit-to-the-john happens, one girl stays behind. Gentlemen, be wary when this happens. She is known as the DH. The Designated Hearer. Her job is to record the conversation that transpires between the males, even to the point of participating in the mitigating conversations while the other females are out of earshot.

How does she manage to do this without taking notes? All women have a digital high-definition audio/video recorder stored somewhere within their bodies. They take it all in and it's immediately stored on some organic media for fast and accurate retrieval at the snap of a finger. To compliment this sophisticated system, they have a bazillion gigabytes of storage capacity. Elephants envy them.

When the others return, this information is passed on merely with expressions of the eyes, eyebrows and head movements. One will look quizzically at the DH, with head slightly tilted, eyes intent. The DH nods, her eyes rolling in the direction of the unsuspecting male. The questioner changes her expression. With eyes slightly closed in anger, one eyebrow arched to a point above the forehead and pursed lips being pushed to one side, her expression pleads, "Are you sure?" Once the affirmation is made, the others stare with their heads stretched forward on the stem of their necks. Mouths are either gaping or more politely covered with the fingers of one hand. Some poor sap is about to experience a double pain in the neck after this dinner party, if you catch my drift.

Gentlemen, if you find yourself with a bunch of guys at a table with one girl, who so conveniently stayed behind, just go monk. Observe the rule of silence until the ladies return. Your neck will be most appreciative.

A Vessel of Consternation

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Tue, 18 Jul 2006 01:18:00 +0000

To the majority of males, a woman’s purse is an enigma. It's as mysterious as the wherabouts of the Holy Grail. As curious as the reason Donald Trump still wears his hair that way.

Want to see a grown man get weak in the knees? Let his wife or girlfriend say, “Look in my purse.” Male thought patterns become scrambled hearing these words. For a few seconds he’s like Jell-O right before it sets up. The smart man will back off and say, “Forget it.” Nothing is so important that he need stick his bare hands into the equivalent of the River Styx. No sir. Put out the fire and call in the dogs. This hunt is over.

I picture women, quietly giggling in disbelief and rolling their eyes thinking, “But why?”

Men like simple things such as the wallet. In the wallet you’ve got the compartment for folding money. Slots where you stash your driver’s license and credit cards. Lastly there’s the plastic see-through accordion for pictures of the kids and the one of you in the two-piece from years ago.

Yeah, we still carry it.

Every woman is currently making a mental note to thoroughly search her man’s wallet to find and destroy this picture. After that catharsis, there might be a heated sermon from her along with some laying on of hands. Most assuredly, it won't be for healing.

A purse, on the other hand, is akin to two or three carnival fun-houses, grafted together, with twisting halls and multiple mirrors. It has compartments within compartments. It’s a behavioral modification maze for the male. No matter how many times we run up and down its corridors, we’re never going to find the cheese.

It is the epitome of, “A place for everything and everything in its place.” No matter how a man concentrates on the arrangement of items inside this magic kingdom, if he upsets the fragile ecosystem, he’ll never be able to restore it to its undefiled state.

Other women know exactly how to navigate in each other’s purse. It’s an innate ability. One female can tell another, “Go look in my purse and bring me my lip gloss. Not the hot, wet-looking one but the wholesome-mommy one.” She will ram her hand into its depths and come out with the right lip gloss in less than four seconds. A man on the other hand would fish for a while. Next he would open it wide and peer down into it as if he could see the desired object. Finally he would wind up taking every single thing out, and still not be able to find it. It’s that hidden compartment thing. There’s no other explanation.

It’s all an illusion for men. We see the purse as a bag, slightly larger than a biker’s wallet on up to almost brief case size. Yet in feminine reality they are bound to be the size of a walk-in closet. How else can you explain how a woman can go to the restroom and return wearing a totally different outfit?

It was a challenge to our fathers and grandfathers. It still remains so. The mystery of the purse versus the ineptitude of the man when confronted with it. We’d sooner jam our hands into a pail full of dirty diapers than be asked to dig around in a purse. Either way, it’s going to raise a big stink.

You can wash off anything acquired from a diaper pail but you can never wash away the failure of being unable to fetch from a purse what was asked of you.

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

The Lawn More Man (with all due respect to Stephen King)

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Sun, 16 Jul 2006 23:02:00 +0000

On Saturdays, or the day prior to the one when lawn waste is picked up, DNA manifests itself with homeowners breaking out lawn mowers, weed-eaters and leaf blowers. Meanwhile, their counterparts in apartment complexes are going to pool parties, where there’s music and dancing, grilled food and chilled beverages, along with the smell of coconut flavored SPF. “Poor saps,” we homeowners think. “They don’t know what they’re missing by renting instead of buying.”

DNA is shaped by both parents to make our personal genetic quilt. There are times, though, when certain genetic receptors malfunction. During these times, the gene racks marked, “factory seconds” and/or “slightly damaged,” suddenly get thrust into the main draft rotation. This, in turn, causes slightly flawed individuals known socially as “politicians” and “developers.”

My DNA, as well as that of a few others, renders us mute when it comes to the following phrase: “It’s just grass. Let it grow how it wants.” We are incapable of letting by lawns be by lawns. No, we have to enhance it, romance it and finance it to keep us within the status quo of our neighborhoods.

My father is Lord of the Lawn. No, he doesn’t go out and dance a fast-paced Irish jig on his grass. He’s Polish. It would be a polka.

His yard has always been top class. If there were commencement ceremonies for yards, his would graduate magna cum lawne. He’s the only man I know who uses a carpenter square to check his edger’s accuracy. Before anyone had conceived of an edger as something you pushed, he used grass shears. On his hands and knees, he would go around the yard, clipping it so the edge of his Bermuda stood at right angles to the sidewalk.

I’ve heard of sod farms trashing an entire harvest after seeing his yard. His grass blades know how they should stand because he is the Grass Whisperer. I have seen moles crying at the yard’s edge because they are enamored by the sight of his beautiful sod and wouldn’t think of disturbing it. Homeowners have moved from his cul de sac because they couldn’t take the pressure, un-implied as it was, of rising to the bar he sets in lawn maintenance.

His relationship to Bermuda grass is directly disproportional to what Donald Trump’s is to hair.

However, I have two parents as most everybody does, except politicians and developers, and this grass growing gene has been diluted by my mother’s side of the family. Mom grew up on a farm. At her earliest opportunity she hastily made way for another life. She packed her suitcase and was off to the big city. Afterwards, her idea of picking cotton was for garments or household accessories from some department store.

Pappaw was a farmer/watch repairman. Whenever he wasn’t in town repairing watches, he was out on his modest farm. To him grass was wasted ornamentation. It was unrefined milk. Cows eat grass. Cows produce milk. It's all a part of the food chain. If due to some environmental quirk, the grass in the field had suddenly dried up and disappeared, Pappaw wouldn’t have had any qualms about turning the cows loose in the front yard, while admonishing the rest of the family to make sure they didn’t pitch over into the ditch.

There were always stories about some form of livestock pitching over into a ditch. Early on, I got the indication that livestock, especially cows, weren’t the brightest animals in the lot. I mean, any animal that's going to let you pull on its udders day in and day out, without exhibiting some sort of resistant behavior has got to be a few curds shy.

You'd think at some point in the evolutionary theater some cow, having become sufficiently fed up with matters, would have stood up and said to a farmer, "Now see here, my good man. This yanking and pulling on my nether regions must stop. What form of amusement or satisfaction do you derive from this behavior? Your forwardness with me can be described as nothing more than the mannerisms of a cad, a scoundrel and a boor, as it was, and I will not allow it to continue any further. I am no strumpet nor tart. Restrain yourself and refrain from this dastardly act or I shall rain terror upon your hind pockets, if you catch my drift."

Quite a high brow cow, eh?

Of course, the whole cow /grass interface is lost on politicians and developers. Politicians would want to tax the cow, tax the farmer for having the cow, tax the land that the farmer has the cow on and then tax the things which the cow would produce. For schools and road improvements, of course. Next thing you know, they’d want cows of their own but with loopholes to escape all the taxes. They want to be cowboys’ in-absentia. Developers on the other hand would say, “Cows? Forget cows! We can buy the farm land cheap, put 160 houses on those 40 acres and have room for apartments with pools. Cows? Aren’t they antiquated by now? Put ‘em in a museum or the zoo.”

All this leads to my predisposition to want to mow myself silly. I panic if something comes up to delay me even a day from mowing. That extra day could mean more mulched grass lying on top of the lawn for all my neighbors to see. This could lead to a formal shunning.

Am I complaining? Heaven forbid! Cutting the grass is like therapy to me. I strap on my portable CD player, place my beverage of choice in the cup holder and I’m off. Listening to the tunes, I’m seat-dancing and foot-stomping, as I ride my way to a halfway decent looking yard. Sure the neighbors probably think I’m off my rocker when I’m singing along to “Long Cool Woman.” We’re talking full frontal lip moving here. I make no pretense about having a good time at every opportunity. I take the much-bandied-about e-mail enticement, “Dance like nobody’s looking,” to heart.

Think that’s something? You ought to see me and my weed-eater.

© 2005 Michael Wicinski

The Baking of the President

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Wicinski) — Sun, 16 Jul 2006 18:38:00 +0000

Because I make a mean biscuit I’m the designated biscuit maker in my house.

This past weekend, Marilyn asked if we could have biscuits for breakfast. At first I said no, knowing we were running low on the mix. Then I noticed that sad, teary look in her eyes and I reconsidered. How could I deny her when she was getting emotional about this?

It wasn't till later that she told me her allergies were bothering her.

Being low on mix, I measured out enough for 2/3 of a recipe. Looking into the box I saw there wasn’t even enough to save. Throwing caution and the recipe to the wind, I dumped the remainder into the mixing bowl. Got the milk out, poured in what I needed and then a tad bit more for the extra mix. What could possibly go wrong?

As I stirred this concoction, I could tell it wasn't right. To say the dough looked dry would be like saying Death Valley is a wee bit warm during the summer. It looked like a glob of white play dough that’s been sitting in the sun way too long. Adding more milk helped some, but I began to wonder whether these would be fit to eat or better used in a rock wall I’m starting.

With trepidation, I threw the dough onto the cutting board, kneaded it a time or two and then set about cutting my biscuits. When cutting biscuits you wind up with oddly shaped fragments, such as triangles and Siamese-concave strips. Not one to be wasteful, I always gather these up and press them out by hand to make a few more to add to the pan.

After folding all these fragments together, I came up with something resembling an albino, hairless protozoa on some serious steroids. I didn’t think the slightest thing about it. I’ve ended biscuit making this way many times, so why should I? I popped the pan into the oven and shortly thereafter we were sitting down to breakfast.

There’s the unspoken need to relish my biscuits yet another day. So there’s always a few left over. Among them this day was the biscuit I formed from the leftover fragments. Looking at it with biscuit-happy eyes, Marilyn commented on how it was layered and textured, and quite interesting looking.

She sometimes wishes I was more like that.

Rising from the table, I stared down at it and was totally shocked at what I saw. On this biscuit was a face staring back at me. It was totally unplanned but still it was a face. But whose?

My initial thought was it must be a president. Not a movie-star, athlete or religious figure. I knew it had to be a president, but which one? I tried picturing it as Bush or Clinton. Neither was it Ronald Reagan nor Jimmy Carter. The biscuit lacked that sincere Carter smile. Nor did it look to have the capacity to lust after other baked goods. Then it hit me.

Gerald R. Ford.

When I uttered this, the first thing Marilyn said was, “Sell it on eBay.” Then she giggled at herself. Mind you, she was still sitting and hadn’t experienced the aerial view as I had. As I left the kitchen, I heard her say, somewhat surprised, “It does look like him.”

Why would she ever doubt anything I say?

On that day, four biscuits were leftover. Three of them would be part of some later breakfast. However, that last one was special. In the realm of presidential baked goods, I believe this last biscuit becomes, the First Biscuit. Somewhat biblical in perspective, wouldn’t you say?

The Gerald R. Ford Commemorative Biscuit is now securely sealed in the depths of our freezer, being preserved for the future. True to her jest, it could possibly end up at auction on eBay. It might not bring as much as the fabled grilled cheese sandwich with the image of the Virgin Mary on it, but it should still fetch a pretty penny nonetheless. After all, what Gerald Ford memorabilia collection could be considered complete without this one-of-a-kind piece?

Or we may just donate it to the Gerald R. Ford Presidential Library, to have it displayed for the world to see. That might be a more noble thing to do, not taking money for our own personal gain, but bestowing the wealth of this work for the masses to enjoy.

Since when have I ever given a flip about nobility?

They say everything’s for sale. We may just have to see.

Correct me if I’m wrong here, won’t you, but there are Gerald R. Ford memorabilia collectors, aren’t there?