Is Twitter A Tool, Or A Useless Toy?…

I was reading one of the other writers I enjoy on WordPress…what’s that?…fine!…I was reading one of the writers I enjoy on WordPress this morning…happy now?…and she was mentioning how our Narcissistic Number 45 blocked her on Twitter after only 3 tweets, and let me say…job well done…signing up to follow him…then to have the stamina and the patience to read every tweet this loud-mouthed dotard types out…We the non-Twitter People only hear and see what makes it into the news, I’m sure he tweets other nonsense that’s just pure covfefe…

And that got me thinking…what?…no, it doesn’t smell like scrapple frying in a pan!…how many other members in the Trump Cabinet of Horrors have their own Twitter accounts from which to be blocked?…members of Congress?… Senators?… corporate C.E.O.s?…how many crazy-assed world leaders are there on this Planet who are currently on Twitter?…if Kim Jong Bad Haircut has an account, there has to be others, am I right?…

How much fun would it be to get Twitter blocked by Vladimir Putin?…by Kim Jong himself?…and what could you possibly say that would insult those guys and make them block you?…maybe you’d like to tell Syrian President Bashar al-Assad what a douche he is for gassing his own people…reach out to the leader of Nambia…how about commenting on the Queen Mother’s newest hat?…do it respectfully though, her country may be one of the last allies we still have thanks to Number 45’s U.N. speech…

Like our president, Twitter can be a real tool…and like WordPress, it might be fun to see how many people I can annoy with irritatingly snide comments…

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The Junk In My Drawers…

I have all the best junk in my drawers…at least that’s how President Trump would put it, am I right?…I would not of course brag about my junk the way he does, I’m a little more humble than him…especially after years of my wife telling me the junk in my drawers is just small and worthless…but don’t kid yourself…she can’t keep her hands off of my junk when it’s something she needs…she needs her battery recharged?…she gets it from my junk…she needs something sticky?…again, right there, all in my junk…something to write with?…well, this time I will brag…my small, worthless junk can satisfy that demand.

If you feel unsatisfied by the junk in your…or your significant other’s drawers…you have my Sympathy…and if you thought this was about anything other than my household junk drawer?…you should probably talk to someone about that…just don’t go looking through the junk in my drawers for the answer…

The Eff You T-Shirt…A Personal Statement or Poor Style Choice…

I don’t get a lot of things…I’ve always been told that…and one of the things I don’t get now is why…and here I’m going to sound like my father…the younger generation feels it’s appropriate to wander around in public wearing clothing with the salutation FUCK YOU?…

UFC champion Conor McGregor…had a whole custom-fit FUCK YOU pin-striped suit…you can purchase one just like it for $6500…and if you do have $6500 laying around, contact me…I know some great charities who can put that kind of scratch to better use…

I was looking on-line for companies that actually sell t-shirts with FUCK YOU on them and while I did find one company, most of what I found were shirts with EFF YOU SEE KAY spelled out on them…one company added OWE EFF EFF to theirs, those sales and marketing geniuses…what a classy way to greet your friends…neighbors…your girlfriend…your soon to be ex-girlfriends parents…you get my point…

I won’t tell you that I’m a saint and that kind of language is beyond me…I certainly know all the words…I’m even lin-flipping- guistically skilled enough to in-frigging-sert the f-bomb in the middle of compound words to create a hyphenated compound word…however I wouldn’t be rude enough to wear them as a greeting on a t-shirt…

…I’m not trying to pontificate or Educate the younger generation, you got parents of your own and I’ve got my hands filled with the two I have…but if you feel the need to wear a shirt that says FUCK YOU or whatever, maybe tone it down some…try the not so offensive, more biblical sounding…GO FORTH AND MULTIPLY…WITH YOURSELF…see, not as offensive sounding…but it certainly tells anyone you meet to go eff themselves…

A Presbyterian In Catholic Purgatory…

I didn’t know I could do this…as a Presbyterian, the last thing I thought I would ever find myself doing is bringing up the bread and the wine for Communion in a Catholic Church…I mean, is that legal or even covered under canon law somewhere?…I’m pretty sure over in South Jersey my long-departed parents turned over in their graves…don’t get me wrong, my parents didn’t hate Catholics…to be honest, they didn’t always get along with our neighbors who were Methodist…I think they just thought Catholics were a little too showy…too in your face…always the nicest church…a crucifix instead of a cross…the best carnivals…

Anyway, my wife and I (me?) went to the late Mass a couple of Sundays ago…and as usual, we arrived early…as we’re sitting there, my wife praying the rosary…me, using the time not to pray, but to stare blankly and judge the other parishioners now arriving in their best Sunday shorts, t-shirts, and flip-flops…,at least I had the decency to rock a nice collared shirt…this guy comes up and asks if we would like to present the gifts for Communion…before I can tell him he’s got the wrong guy, my wife gladly volunteers us…

“I can’t do that”, I quietly protest to her after he leaves,”I’m not even Catholic.”…

…since mostly my wife, and somewhat me, have raised our kids to be good Catholics, which they make you do when there is a religiously mixed marriage…it’s become a standard excuse I Continue to use to get out of attending holy days of obligation…giving up cheesesteaks during lent…and working a booth at the church carnival….

“Won’t my Presbyterianism somehow spoil the Body and the Blood?”, I panicked. And my wife, in the snarkiest tone possible and with a look usually reserved for my 20-something year old son after one of his occasional transgressions says…”Don’t worry, the priest will transform it…pretty sure the congregation will survive you bringing up the wine.” It was about here that I realized we were doing this…so I chose this moment…this issue…to make my stand…”I’m not taking the wine…if I spill it on the rug, there won’t be a baptismal font deep enough for me to hide in.”

And that ended that…my wife had just gotten me to choose how I wanted to do the thing that I was fighting her about doing…

…after all these years…had she finally started me on the road to Catholicism?…and my eventual visit to Purgatory?

 

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You Wanna Know Why I’m So Miserable?…

Improper food handling. Improper food handling by poorly trained food preparation people.

On Saturday, I stopped at my local convenience store on my morning commute …ordered my raisin bagel toasted with butter…then like an idiot, I sat and watched as a poorly trained food preparer, while buttering my raisin bagel, stopped to grab an oversized handful of pickles he must press with his gloved hand into a little container, which he then handed to a customer who was not me…and then he re-commenced buttering my toasted raisin bagel…WITHOUT RE-GLOVING!

I watched, in my morning zombie-like state…knowing what comes next…that first flavor-filled bite of toasted raisin and now pickle juice bagel. Ahhh!

When you change from one food to another in food prep…you have to re-glove!!!…it’s food handling 101 for crying out loud…

I guess I should be somewhat happy…at least he was wearing one of those beard condoms, so I didn’t have any of his beard hair on my toasted raisin pickle juice bagel with butter…10474075-E503-4372-98B6-8E9C4E324F86-1660-000000FBDAAD94BB

 

Let the Job Search Begin…

I’ve finally decided it’s time to go. No, not this blog… from my current employment situation…You’s can’t get rid of me that easily…

Don’t get me wrong…I have a great boss who has a really cool car and reads this blog in the bathroom…what more could I ask for…am I right?

Fortunately, I can take my time looking since I still have a job that pays my bills…and with websites like Zip Recruiter, I have access to all kinds of jobs in my area that were posted months ago, and to my good fortune, seems they were never filled.

I’ve created a resume with so much Shimmer and shinola…there’s no question in my mind that I’ll have a new gig before the end of the year…so boss, if you’re reading this during your morning constitutional, this is my provisional two-week notice…there may be more to follow depending on my success…

I’ve read where NASA is looking for a new Planetary Protection Officer…wonder how many of the boxes I check off for that job?…

 

My Family…Caring And Supportive…Or Batcrap Crazy?

I’ve done more than my share of self loathing lately. But then, I’m what you would truly call a miserab, and disliking myself and my actions are all a part of the experience. But there are other reasons, external forces that help create and when needed, re-enforce my true miserable-ness.

So what is it that drives me batcrap crazy? It would be easy to tell you it’s the political shitstorm we’re all subjected to everyday, but that’s not it, at least not yet. Lack of friends, snooty neighbors…probably, but they’re for another day…

No, the number one thing on my list is family. Don’t judge me just yet, if you’re reading this I’ll bet you’ve said the same thing before, only to yourself and not in print where anyone in your family will read it. I can honestly say I have no worries there…no one in my family has ever read, or asked to read a single word I’ve published. But I’m not bitter. Let me introduce them…

My wife may be the smartest woman I know or have ever known, and it ain’t because she hitched her wagon to this horse’s ass. Her one major flaw…she doesn’t listen, or maybe it’s respect…a word I tell her. Sure she’ll ask for my opinion, but most of her time is spent performing this painful monologue where she speaks and I only move my mouth when she puts her hand in the back of my head like I’m some sick sort of wood dummy. On the rare occasion that I do spout a semi-coherent thought, she chipmunks it away in her brain, only to see the light of day again if someone she actually has respect for confirms it as a good idea. But then it’s, “(Fill in any name here) said this and it seems like good advice.” You’ll notice there is no mention of me as the original author of that good advice. But that’s okay.

Now, my wife, is also a mom, just ask my son. They have this relationship, and I swear they do it to annoy me, where one minute she’s the loving Italian mother talking to the son who would do anything for her, and the next minute I’m looking to hide all the cutlery in the house. It can turn that quickly. There is a saying that goes, “Pick which hill you want to die on”, and there isn’t a hill in our house, in our lives, that isn’t out of their war zone. They’ll debate his grades, his job, religion, politics, food, beer…anything, it’s all up for grabs, and I find it’s best to duck when the verbal bullets start flying. Things get heated and that’s when my wife drags me into the fray. I’m the human shield, I’m that thing that signals to my son that he can’t win this one, run and live to fight another day…and then like that, the relationship is back to loving mom and adoring son (kinda)… I’m left in a state of not ready to let it go yet…next thing I know, their off to a movie, to the mall, to grab a sandwich…and everything is right in their world…it’s me who’s left holding the bag labeled “Hostility”.

My son, God love him, is the most over-confident student currently on academic probation that I know. He’s also a bit of a beer Buff and there isn’t one he won’t try, which might shed some light on his academic probation status. But he has a dream, a vision of opening a brewery and cooking his own brand of beer, a part of society so underserved that as of last year there were only a mere 5,000 brewers in the United States. But I give him credit, it’s his dream and I won’t squash it, there’s already over 5,000 people in line for that job.

I also have a daughter. She was smart enough to move to Florida after graduating college, thereby avoiding all of this familial strife. It also allows us to take our show on the road a couple of times a year, possibly educating other families, especially younger ones, in new and sometimes brutal ways of dumping on each other. Now, my daughter, she’s truly crafty…she has made it known to each of us separately that she enjoys us coming to visit her…one at a time. It gives her more one-on-one time with each of us… and thereby avoids the hysteria that accompanies a full family visit. It’s her brand of divide and conquer strategy…and to be honest, it works like a charm.

I have a beagle. His name is Bailey and he’ll be 14 years old this year. That would make him 75 to you and me, and just like me, he’s got bad feet, he’s a little overweight for his size, and I think his hearing and sight are starting to go, and occasionally he’ll have a senior dog moment when he walks into a room with no clue as to why he wants to be there. He’s a great dog though, except he has his days and nights confused. I also think he has some separation anxiety as well, and nothing cuts into my sleep faster than a beagle howling for attention at 3:00. That’s A.M., after midnight, when we should all be asleep. So for the next half hour, we go outside, we might wrestle over a toy, maybe have a biscuit or two (him, not me), whatever it takes to settle him down.

There you have it, an attempted humorous look at my family, the folks who irritate me, promote self loathing within myself, and drive me absolutely batcrap crazy on occasion,  and with whom I couldn’t do whatever it is I do if they weren’t in my life…

 

Featured Image via from Dorkly via flimsyspoons