So my war on restaurant condiment crimes rages on. . . . Arby’s lady, not only could you not keep the Buffalo sauce contained within the confines of the bun of the Buffalo Chicken sandwich, but you somehow managed to get it all over the outside of the bag you put it in.
WORSE YET . . . I know that after you handed me the bag containing my grossly over-sauced sandwich, you most likely reached immediately for a napkin to wipe the sauce off of your hands that came from handling the saucy bag. . . . I would think this might be a prompt for you to think about the poor slob who has to eat this aberration of a sandwich in his truck. . . HE MIGHT WANT A NAPKIN TOO! MAYBE A DOZEN!
For some mysterious reason, I have successfully fooled the kind folks over at Sweatpants and Coffee into thinking I’m a real writer. I’ve somehow become a bit of a regular. Here is my latest creation that they have posted . . . . (If you go check it out, don’t let on that I’m only a pretend writer).
Gluten Save My Marriage
Sweatpants & Humor | Gluten Saved My Marriage
I remember exactly where I was. I remember who it was that first told me. I remember the images on the television. I remember the disbelief, the confusion, the horror and the anger.
I remember those who lost their lives in the attacks. I remember those who lost their lives trying to save lives. I think of those who lost a husband, lost a wife, a mom, a dad, a child, a family member, a friend.
I didn’t realize it on that day, but looking back, I remember a day when we weren’t from different cities or states. We weren’t black or white. We weren’t Right or Left. We weren’t rich or poor. . . . .
We were victims.
We were heroes.
We were people who cared.
We were people who grieved.
We were fierce in spirit.
We were United in thought.
We were simply American.
I remember 9/11.
There are three rules for keeping my phone out of the toilet. I only need to use one of them.
1. Stop using the toilet.
2. Stop wearing hoodies.
3. Stop putting my phone in my hoodie pocket when going to the bathroom.
I tried rule number one and only made it for half a day. Number two is out of the question because hoodies are my thing. And I keep forgetting to observe rule three. . . . Luckily, this time my phone fell outside the bowl instead of in after bouncing around the rim.
Sweatpants and Coffee has posted another of my stories. It’s about the alleged un-manliness of not being a big fan of sports. Give it a look and a like!
Personal Essays | Sports Shaming
I made my living as a tree trimmer and tower climber for over twenty years. I loved every minute of it. Unfortunately, this career choice has a bad effect on your body over the long term.
I have had three surgeries on my right shoulder, one surgery on left shoulder, and just last week I had surgery on my worn out neck vertebrae.
I don’t mind surgery all that much. I’ve had enough of it over the last five or so years that it doesn’t seem any more inconvenient than mowing the lawn or painting the living room.
In some ways, it might even be better than doing those things. I get to lay on the couch for weeks without anyone bothering me or making me feel guilty about not accomplishing anything.
I also get to engage in legal recreational drug use for a few weeks. The pain pills I was given after this last round of surgery were especially potent. They send me off into a blissful slumber while the penguins and unicorns, that magically appear, sing lullabies to me.
One of the biggest down sides to surgery is the stoppage of the digestive system that occurs from the anesthesia. You are constantly asked, “did you poop yet?”
It was three days after this last surgery that I finally did poop. But in those three days, my bowels must have been something like a car pile up on an icy freeway.
When it did finally decide to move. . . . Oh boy . . . . I have now experienced child birth. For a minute there while I was in labor, I even googled whether or not they perform C-sections on bowel movements that had been piling up for three days.
I have a healthy new respect for mothers.
I am still writing from time to time, but I thought it greedy of me to hoard my sure-to-be-classic-literature all to myself . . . . actually I’m tickled to death that my nonsense has been chosen for posting by a big blog.
I am fortunate enough to have one of my stories accepted by Sweatpants and Coffee.
Personal Essays | Letting Out the Novel Within
This is a story about finally writing the novel we all have inside.
I like cats. I really do. You might even say that I’m a cat person.
But three is a lot for our small house. The hair and litter boxes are hard to keep up with.
Two of the three cats are very old and grumpy. They have lived good lives
Basically what I’m saying is . . . If the kitty-cat Death Angel came calling, I would not paint my door frame with lambs blood.
So if aliens were to take over a persons brain . . . Does that person know that their brain has been taken over? Or would they just suddenly wake up one day and find that their hat fit a little tighter and it seemed like maybe they could read the thoughts of their cat?
. . . No not me. . I’m asking for a friend. . .
On TV, there is always that one good guy “expert” who can explain how to disarm a Bomb over the phone by telling you what color wires to cut.
Now if I was a TV bad guy, I probably wouldn’t follow any type of specific color code for my bomb wires. Or I might even get tricky and use a black wire where the red one is supposed to be. That would make any bomb manual wiring diagram inaccurate, and thus, making the TV good guy expert not such an expert
I feel compelled to explain this to the TV bad guys so there evil plans aren’t so easily foiled . . . Thus, improving their skills as bad guys, and thus, improving the quality of their TV lives.