humor – If there is something

Old man yells at snow plow

The chatter started to kick into high gear yesterday afternoon as news emerged that the first big snow event of the season was barrelling down on our fair community. The local snow tracking weather prognosticators searched mightily to find the perfect expression to Chicken Little the shit out of this fairly typical weather event. Would we get a Snowmageddon, or a Snowpocalypse? Would a snow bomb explode in our midst, leaving us all crying snow mas? To me, it felt more like a Snownami because Lake Michigan was about to deposit some of her contents at our doorstep in the form of lake effect flurries.

Soon, word got around that a bit of a dust up was breaking out on social media. Apparently, some members of the local populace were questioning the official narrative coming from the crack team of meteorologists at one of the local television affiliates. The pile on became so severe that an off-duty weather person had to come to the rescue and defend the credibility of her colleague. It seems even our once sacred weather institutions are no longer immune to a populist revolt.

We ended up getting a good, solid blanketing of snow, resulting in barely any disruption to our daily routines. Some areas further north got more than a blanket, maybe something approximating a thick, cozy comforter of snow. No epic blizzards or snow globe cyclones.

I get the impulse to catastrophize the shit out of everything. Nobody wants to be caught unprepared, and the catastrophizers want to be able to say we warned you, if all hell breaks loose. But far from being less informed or misinformed, people are actually better informed these days, and they’re not going to listen to experts and prognosticators tell them one thing when the truth is something clearly different. In weather reporting, it’s mostly not a big deal, but in other areas it can contribute to less than optimal outcomes. Maybe telling people the sober, boring and occasionally inconvenient truth is where it’s at.

Local dad has everything under control

Herb Gluck was enjoying reading a book on a quiet Sunday afternoon when he suddenly recalled that a number of things on his weekend to-do list had yet to be addressed. Realizing his daughter needed to pack a lunch for school the next day, he wondered if the family pantry contained all the necessary food items. Picking up his phone, Herb immediately called his wife and learned she and his daughter were already at the supermarket making all the necessary purchases. Emergency avoided, Herb returned to his book, content that he’d successfully managed that near miss. Herb had only completed a few more paragraphs of his engrossing spy novel when he remembered that tomorrow was trash day and he had not yet rolled the garbage bin out to the curb. He texted his son to get a status update. Herb’s son texted back that he took out the garbage when he left the house to meet his girlfriend for a study date. Satisfied and mildly surprised to learn that his son had a girlfriend, Herb enjoyed a sip of his Arnold Palmer and again returned to his spy thriller, pleased that he’d put out yet another fire. Moments later, however, he had a start when it struck him that he was supposed to pick up a pizza for dinner that evening. But before he could grab his phone, it buzzed with a notification that a pizza had been delivered and was currently sitting on his front porch. He wasn’t sure who placed the order, but he nonetheless left the delivery person a generous tip. Once again, Herb returned to his book, at last relaxed and satisfied that he finally had everything under control, yet still mildly perturbed that he had to do everything himself.

Instant Karmala’s gonna get you

Instant Karmala’s gonna get you. Going to knock you on the head. You better get your message together. And don’t be voting red.

Think of poor old Morning Joe, and the folks over at WaPo. They’ve all got second homes, you know. And a portfolio, well there you go.

Instant Karmala’s gonna get you. Going to gaslight you to sleep. Better get yourself together, darling, and get behind the veep.

They all said old Joe’s just fine. Nothing’s the matter with his mind. Then he spaced out on TV. For all to see, it’s not cheap fakery!

Well they all clown on. Like the news, politicians and corporations. Well they all clown on. Come on.

Instant Karmala’s gonna get you. Going to tell it to your face. You better get yourself together, sunshine, and join the presidential race.

It’s way bigger than you and me. It’s even bigger than TV. It’s just our democracy, they’ll fricassee! Just wait, you’ll see!

And they all clown on. Like the news, politicians and corporations. Well they all clown on. On and on and on and on.

New glasses, big problems

Lately, I’ve been receiving signals that I ought to do something about my eyesight. The menu board at an unfamiliar takeout restaurant can be confusing enough, but if you can’t read the selections, then you’re pretty screwed. I tried just making up menu items for a while. I would say, “Just give me a club sandwich, or something.” Then the order taker would politely inform me of their choices that most closely resemble a club sandwich, which often just included the addition of avocado, and I’d say, “That would be fine,” and we’d go from there. But, lately, they’ve begun to treat me like I’m illiterate or something, speaking to me slowly and patiently like I’m a child. Even my own daughter began to shoot me looks that seemed to doubt my literacy.

So, at the urging of my better half, I decided to get new glasses. Several hundred dollars later, these cheap plastic spectacles seem to have brought about an entirely new set of challenges. Don’t get me wrong, they’ve also opened up a whole new world of possibilities. Before, I mostly stuck to driving familiar routes because I had difficulty reading signs and recognizing landmarks. But now that I can read highway signs, I’m exploring entirely new realms and unfamiliar territory. Also, it came as a pleasant surprise to see that the speed limit on most highways has been raised from 55 to 70. This explains why I’d been the recipient of so much hostility from other drivers in recent years.

The challenges invariably arise when I’m indoors. I seem to have difficulty and lack confidence knowing where to place my feet. This has caused me to stumble around and bump into doorways at work. My boss has been looking askance at me like I’m intoxicated or something. But I assured her I haven’t been drunk or stoned at work for pretty close to ten years now. Also, going down stairs is like descending into a murky abyss. Sometimes I just close my eyes and hope for the best.

However, an incident this morning might be the final straw as far as these new glasses are concerned. I had just gotten a cup of coffee at Starbucks from the friendliest group of young people you’d ever want to meet, when I merrily strode out to the parking lot to get in my car and head to work. For some reason, however, I had a difficult time unlocking the car door. The key fob didn’t seem to work and when I tried to manually unlock the door, the key wouldn’t fit in the lock. After a few moments, a woman came running out of the Starbucks with one of the larger male employees shouting at me to get away from her car and that she’s calling the cops. Mortified, I noticed that my car was in the next space over, so I hurriedly jumped in it and sped out of there like Vin Diesel. I made it to work without incident, not knowing whether an a.p.b. had been issued for my capture. At any rate, I’m probably going to ditch these glasses, but I may wear them for another week as an aid to eluding authorities, or at least until the heat has died down.

Office personnel have no answer for “The Deflector”

Employees of Graphplex Corp. are running out of options when it comes to dealing with a shifty employee who stumbled into their mix some time ago. Known to office staff as The Deflector for his ability to deflect any projects or tasks thrown his direction, management and staff find themselves struggling for answers of what to do about the scourge in their midst. Emails that land in his inbox immediately get bounced to another. Questions brought to his attention are deftly waved off in another direction. Tasks planted on The Deflector’s desk are quickly and stealthily transplanted onto another. Even efforts to develop a Deflector detector to keep oneself from falling prey to The Deflector have thus far proven unsuccessful. Nearly all Graphplex employees have at one time or another discovered an unexpected document on their desk or had a surprise phone call thrust upon them courtesy of The Deflector. All this while The Deflector reclines in his office chair, scrolling casually through his mobile device and posting to social media.

Of course, the thing everyone knows but cannot talk about is where The Deflector derives his extraordinary powers of deflection. Born and raised the dull and dim witted son of a politically connected family, he was placed in the midst of this group of unsuspecting office workers due to his parent’s connections to upper management and their desire to be rid of the dependent pest. Unable to productively contribute in even the most superficial and half-assed manner, it was then that he quickly and expertly honed his powers of deflection. The Deflector can spend hours viewing videos of game shows or shopping for ugly sweaters on Amazon. Some have even taken to cozying up to The Deflector in the hope that participating in his devilish schemes is the only way to avoid falling victim to them.

Even as the author rushes to put the finishing touches on this anonymous memo, The Deflector is peppering his inbox with forwarded emails. A vacation would be nice, but a week away from work would merely guarantee The Deflector a free and unguarded workspace in which to deposit his manifold deflections.

Foul brew

On a recent morning, I decided to grab a cup of dark roast coffee at a Starbucks I often stop at on my way to work. A great group of young people work there and they nearly always serve up a fine brew with kindness and courtesy. On this particular morning, however, things started going south shortly after I pulled up to the drive-through window. I gave the young man $2.85 for my $2.84 order, and he handed me the cup of coffee. Almost immediately, the 85 cents in coins seemed to confuse the young gentleman. Granted, I had fished around in my change drawer to come up with a quarter, five dimes and two nickels, and the combination of coins seemed to present quite a challenge to his powers of arithmetic. Eventually, he had to pull out a calculator to finish the job. In the meantime, I’m sitting there feeling like the lord of all tightwads while waiting for my penny in change, but I didn’t want to just drive off because sometimes I screw up and hand over the wrong amount. As I waited, however, a foul odor that can only be described as the smell of decomposition began to fill the inside of my car. Penny in hand, I began to pull away as the odor of dead, decaying animal carcass grew in power and potency. Thinking perhaps some varmint had crawled up under the hood and died, and the vent was blowing the smell into the cab, I quickly turned off the fan. But this did nothing to stifle the inescapable smell of death that now surrounded me. Then my attention turned to the cup of coffee. I picked it up and took a sniff. The horror! From what ancient crypt did this foul brew flow? Quickly, I weighed my options. There was no way I was going to drink this roadkill roast that currently sat in my cup holder. But I couldn’t survive a morning of work without a cup of joe. Fortunately, another coffee shop lay up ahead and I swerved into their lot. After pouring the java of death into a sewer grate, I went inside and explained my predicament to the young ladies behind the counter. They set me up with a fresh cup of brew for which I tipped them generously. I held the steaming cup to my nose and took a big whiff. Ahh, it smelled like charred wood and fresh dirt, just the way I like it.

Man still haunted by “unholy burrito”

A local man continues his recovery today after a frightening encounter Tuesday night with what he describes as an “unholy burrito.” Still visibly shaken, the man recalled the incident for reporters.

“I’d just finished a workout. I thought a carne asada burrito sounded good. They asked me if I wanted red salsa. I should have said no. I should have turned and gotten the hell out of there!”

But he didn’t. Instead, what followed was a night of merciless torment.

“Like a fiend from hell, that burrito pursued me through the night. It stalked me in my sleep and haunted my dreams. Every time I began to doze off, that monstrous burrito would appear to mock and scorn me. Sleep became an impossibility.”

After multiple visitations that frequently caused him to seek refuge in the lavatory, the man plucked up the courage to face down the unholy burrito.

“Foul beast, I said, be gone! I cast you back into the pit of hell from whence you came! Back you go into the fire that cannot be quenched!”

Presently, calm returned to the man’s life. Famished from the night’s adventure, he next set about securing a delicious plate of huevos rancheros.

What rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards the tortilla to be born?

Agony of victory

Whenever I do something really stupid and foolhardy, I can take comfort in knowing I come by the impulse honestly. I descend from a long line of proud men whose pride has sometimes led them to undertake imprudent and reckless challenges. The line between glory and sheer stupidity can be difficult to discern. Unfortunately for myself and some of my forefathers, striving for greatness sometimes has the opposite result, often depositing one on the manure heap of ignominy.

Once I read a newspaper account of my Uncle Gus, who many generations ago was a baker in Los Angeles, California. It was 1908 and the city was still young and construction was booming. Everywhere, utility poles were erected and daring men, working high above the city, strung electric lines and telephone cables.

On the ground, residents watched the men work and marveled at their bravery. Everyone, except for my Uncle Gus, of course. He was not the least bit impressed. Spitting a large glob of tobacco juice onto the dusty ground, he told the assembled crowd, “They ain’t so special. I can climb a telephone pole as good as any lineman.”

The crowd jeered and mocked the 37-year-old baker, who was caked in flour and still wearing his apron.

Fixing his gaze on a tall, sturdy, steel pole at the corner of Amelia and Turner streets, Uncle Gus threw off his apron, grasped the pole and began his ascent. As promised, Gus scurried up the pole with twice the speed and skill of a lineman. Down below, friends and onlookers marveled at his nerve. As he neared the top of the pole, the crowd’s cheers ringing in his ears, Gus made plans to sit atop the pole and bask in his well-deserved glory.

Unaware that the lines the pole supported carried 1200 volts of electricity, “Gus threw one leg over one of the wires,” the newspaper reported. “In an instant blue flames shot out from his head, arms and legs and he fell from his lofty perch. He landed on a network of telephone wires and from them bounded to the pavement, thirty feet below. He lay as if dead and his friends notified the police station.”

Gus survived the daring stunt, suffering a compound fracture to his right leg and severe burns to his feet and hands. The glory that was nearly his evaporated in a brilliant burst of blue flames. Undoubtedly, this result caused Gus a great deal of consternation. However, Gus took comfort and was humbled by the reality that some benevolent hand reached out and broke his fall. Bounding off those telephone wires surely saved his life. Perhaps next time I’ll stick the landing, he thought, and all the glory and honor will be mine.