Ake's Pains debuted in the University of Akron Buchtelite in September of 1977. The school's reputation as an institute of higher learning has still not recovered. Ake's Pains returns after a brief 32 year hiatus. It's back, baby!

Monday, August 15, 2016

Hot Frog Sex – This is the Summer of Love

The summer of 2016 has been marred by horrific reports that have terrorized us, but enough about the presidential election. In this sea of doom, there is a beacon of hope, with reports of the most significant, uplifting, glorious, scientific discovery this year. It is huuuuuuuuge.

Dedicated, observant, scientific researchers have uncovered a seventh mating position for frogs. Birds do it, bees do it and apparently frogs do it, but until recently, they only did it six different ways. I am not making this up and based on my extensive research, I am assuming the report is true.

That’s right, for many years it was believed that the 7,000 species of frogs mated in only six positions. However, recently the Bombay night frog of India was observed utilizing a new position, labeled the “Dorsal Straddle”.

You may think frog sex is boring, but I learned so much in researching this topic.  I found the diagrams of the six previous mating positions and the new “#7”. Most of these are rather conventional and feature the male  engaging the female from the back.  I would call it “froggy style”.  There is one strange position called the “independent”, where the frogs do it back-to-back, facing in opposite directions.  I assume that species using this method are extremely ugly and this is the human equivalent of doing it with the lights out.

However, the new “Dorsal Straddle” is by far the kinkiest of the bunch.  The male uses his toes to grab on to the twig the female is sitting on.  This gives him increased leverage and ---  I can’t describe what happens next without violating the decency standards of this blog. But let’s just say it’s nasty, very nasty, hot frog sex. The Bombay night frog now is considered a true stud in the frog kingdom and is getting his own chapter in the Froga Sutra.

Frogs also have an interesting mating ritual. In fact, Froggy does go a-courtin’ M-hm.  The procedure is very simple and there is no need for any consent
forms.  The male frog expresses his desire to mate by croaking loudly.  Female frogs find croaking very sexy and approach the male.  If the female finds the male acceptable, she indicates her desire by making physical contact. At that point, it’s on!  No changing her mind or getting upset if he doesn’t call the next morning!
    
If the female frog doesn’t consent, “no means no” and the horny frog must keep croaking to find another lay.  In effect, frog dating is much more civilized than what happens on college campuses these days and makes male frogs more gentlemanly than most young guys and much better than Bill Cosby.

Of course there was something peculiar to me about this story.  In order for it to be true, it meant there has to be “frog sex researchers” who get paid high salaries to observe and document frog sex practices.  Now if you knew these great jobs existed when you were in high school, you would have paid more attention in Biology class, wouldn’t you?

So apparently there are people whose job is to watch thousands and thousands of hours of frog porn, just waiting to make some great discovery.  Titles such as “Freaky Froggy”, “Hop On This” and “Swamp Sluts”, Part 1, 2, and 3, are viewed for research purposes only.  One of the researchers involved in this new discovery was quoted as saying “It has been a wonderful experience to observe the breeding sequence”. Wonderful indeed!

You might think this would be a fun and easy job, but you have to wonder what the impact is of carefully watching frog porn on a daily basis.

Consider these examples:

Margie is a married frog sex researcher.  She appears to be prim and proper, dressed in a white lab coat with her hair tied in a bun.  But when she gets home after binge watching frog porn --- Oh My!

(Conversation between Margie’s husband Brad and their neighbor)

Neighbor: Did I hear loud croaking noises coming from your bedroom last night?

Brad: (sheepishly) Well, you know Margie works at the institute studying them frogs.  She’s says the croaking really turns her on.  I oblige and soon we are hoping all over the bed.

Neighbor: Okay, I guess that also explains the incident in your hot tub last week. Oh, and you still have a bit of lily pad stuck in your hair.

Coincidentally, Margie and Brad’s sons are named Kermit and Tadd.

And then there’s Roger, the young, single, biologist, who struggles in his personal relationships.  His perfect mate would be a shy, demure, woman. However, when he is out trying to find that lady, he is always magnetically attracted to any woman with a tight, green, vinyl, dress, smooth skin, and impressively strong legs.  All she has to do glance at him with her bulging eyes, and Brad starts to bulge as well.

Soon they are back at Roger’s "pad", where the heat is turned up and they go at it like, like, …. well like frogs.  Sometimes the relationship lasts a few more dates, but it soon ends when Brad asks if she want to play “frogger” (and he doesn’t mean the video game) and she notices the vat of pond scum by the bed.

So friends, no matter how depressed you may get over current events the rest of the year, you can still find joy in knowing that many frogs are enjoying hotter, kinkier, sex than ever before!


Please check out my new humor book - Just Make Me A Sammich http://donake.net/just-make-me-a-sammich-book



Tuesday, August 2, 2016

I Don’t Give Up My Blood Easily

“Don?”  My head snapped up and I nodded as I made my way across the waiting room.  It was time for my annual blood test to check my cholesterol levels.

But there was something wrong, very wrong. This phlebotomist (blood drawer) was unlike any I had seen before.  He was in fact, a guy.  I strongly prefer a female phleby (my term, never call them that to their face).  If this sounds sexist and old fashioned, it’s only because it is sexist and old fashioned.

But I have my reasons. I consider this a semi-intimate experience.  It is not an actual exchange of bodily fluids, but the phleby is taking fluids from me, while in close physical contact.

Also, it is very important that I am distracted from the act of a sharp needle being jabbed in my arm and precious blood being sucked out of my body. (more on this in a moment).  So my ideal phleby is a young, friendly, woman who engages me in pleasant conversation, so I am totally distracted from the horrible thing she is doing to me.

I don’t want her to be too attractive, because I don’t want to be tempted to flirt,
less I say something offensive just before she sticks me with the needle.  You don’t want to fizz her off and have her start grinding your vein, do you?

But the last thing I want is a smoking-hot phleby, tying that strap around your arm and whispering reassuring comments in your ear. Sure, I do want to be distracted, but not too much:

“Oh Mr. Ake, there is not any blood in your arm! Where did it all go?

Me: (Embarrassed look on my face, glancing downward.)

“Oh my, Mr. Ake! Now how are we going to get that all that blood out of there and back into your arm?

Me: “Uh, I do have a couple of ideas.”

Then she takes the needle, thrusts it into my leg, full force – and twists it.

By now, you are probably wondering why I am so particular about having my blood drawn.  Okay, I have to admit I get a little squeamish during the procedure.  Alright, let me restate that. I get SQUEAMISH, extremely SQUEAMISH.

I have been like this my entire life, only improving slightly with age.  If I think about what is happening with the needle in my arm, I become ill.  I do not pass out, but I break out in a profuse sweat, which starts at my head and ends up soaking my entire body.  I feel woozy for the rest of the day and it takes at least 24 hours to rehydrate.  That is why it is extremely important that I am fully distracted during the procedure.

Complicating the situation is that the vein in my arm is not very pronounced. This is not a problem for a skilled phleby, but a major problem for an inept one.  If there is a problem during the blood draw, I starting thinking about the needle and a sweaty meltdown ensues.

And besides his gender, there were other issues which this particular phleby, who I mentally nicknamed “Pokey”, very appropriate for what was about to transpire. Pokey was a little chubby, kind of frumpy, his clothing somewhat disheveled, his hair tousled. He did not present a professional image at all.  He did wear a lab coat, but it was a size too small.  Fantastic, Chris Farley is about to draw my blood. 

His appearance and demeanor did not exude confidence and I was filled with anxiety. My instincts told me to run away screaming, like a little girl.  But that would have been embarrassing, so I told myself everything was going to be fine.  Pokey had received training, right? He could do the job!

As I sat down and extended my arm, I realized that considering my condition, having my blood drawn a mere three hours before conducting an important national webinar, may not have been a great idea.  Pokey started the procedure.  However, there was no pleasant conversation to distract me. Pokey wasn’t very good at social interaction since he probably had spent a great deal of his life playing video games.  But this was not Pokemon, it was pokey me.

I could feel his first attempt fail.  Unfortunately, it was too late to bolt now.  I thought his second attempt had succeeded, but then I heard him mumble.  Mumbles are never good, positive things are never mumbled, only bad things.
 
“Is there something wrong?” I asked.

“The vein rolled and I can’t get the blood out”, he whined.

What I wanted to say is: No, the vein did not roll. You are just an incompetent slob.  But I don’t, because he still has to poke me again.

“Try the vein in my hand”, I suggest. (I know to do this from experience)

“The hand?”

I nod (while I think: yes, you moron)

He grabs my hand eagerly and squeals, “You have a nice vein in your hand!” (Count Dracula shows the same enthusiasm with necks)

I think: Whoa Pokey! Easy with the hand. Settle down boy, you are just drawing my blood, we are not going steady.

He sticks the needle in my hand and exclaims that “the blood is coming out!”

Unfortunately, this sequence of events has caused me to think about the needle and I can feel my shaved head getting hot and clammy. Here comes the sweat, the meltdown has started.  I literally start screaming to myself, emphasizing that the danger has passed and there is no reason to get sick now. 

And fortunately it works.  I stabilize and have only a “partial meltdown”. My head is covered with sweat, but that’s all. However, I am still somewhat ill and I slump forward, holding my head in my hands.

“Are you okay?” Pokey asks.

(Do I look okay, moron?)

“I will be alright, I just need some water”, I reply. 

And I do need the water. It’s difficult to emphasize how much I need water at this moment.  It provides both critical physical and psychological benefits. Water prevents the meltdown from spreading and it instantly makes me feel 1000% better.

“I will try to find some water”, Pokey says.

What! You will try to find some water?  Where the hell are we - some freaking third-world country?

“I am veli, veli, sorree.  Der has been no rain and all da wells are dry …”

Or maybe in the Old West – “Thar’s been an awful drought, but Clem’s fixing to git out his divining rod and find you a spring!”

And then instead of getting the water, Pokey asks something else which I can’t even remember.  I reply that I need water, now! He repeats that “he will try to find some” and finally goes on his search.

As I wait, I wonder since he is a millennial, if he thinks water only comes from plastic bottles and that is why he needs to search for it.  Maybe I should have instructed him that they call it “tap water” because it comes from a tap.

Pokey returns from his quest sooner than I expected, with a paper cup.  The cup is not full and the water is not cold, but it does the job.  I leave with a heavy bandage on my arm and another on my hand, it looks like I lost a fight and in a way, I did.

I made it through the webinar and my cholesterol levels are exemplary!   I can’t wait to do this again next year!

Please check out my new humor book - Just Make Me A Sammich http://donake.net/just-make-me-a-sammich-book


Tuesday, July 26, 2016

McCombs & Tanveer - 2 Reviews of "Just Make Me A Sammich"

Reviewed by Lisa McCombs for Readers’ Favorite

Have you ever wondered what makes women pushy and why men tolerate this behavior? Offended by the nomenclature of professional sports teams? In this delightfully entertaining read, columnist Don Ake shares passages from his popular blog that promise to amuse, infuriate, and often confuse the reader. Ake begins his blogging career with a seemingly innocent take on why women refuse to accommodate the male need for catering services, the immediate male need for sustenance. He grudgingly agrees that it is his responsibility to tend to the needs of his stomach, but in a typical male manner of selfish indulgence.

In Just Make Me A Sammich: Absurd Observations from a Wild Mind, Dan Ake shares his often criticized blog entries that range from highly sensitive issues to political satire to male bonding arguments. A very human touch is added with his daughter’s wedding plans that not only tug at the heartstrings, but incorporate his attempt at humor during a rather serious event.

I admire Ake’s blatant honesty and appreciate that his language is appropriate for readers of all ages. While shedding light on serious matters of life’s everyday events, Don Ake finds humor in the common and age old issues that we face every day. Just Make Me A Sammich is a fresh look at the relationship between men, women, children, and neighbors. Ake shares his own personal experiences in a fun debate in this collection of blog posts.

Reviewed by Rabia Tanveer for Readers’ Favorite

Just Make Me A Sammich: Absurd Observations From a Wild Mind by Don Ake is insanely funny, completely absurd, and downright amazing. It is a collection of essays that you can read out loud to your friends and enjoy. The book contains a wonderful range of funny, humorous, witty and absurd essays. I have to say, some of them were downright crazy, especially the one titled “She’s Always A Woman To Me.” Also, I really liked the fact that I got to see a preview of the essay before I read it. It gave me a context and kept my interest.

“The Smoking Hot Exemption Rule” and, oh boy, the whole “Celebrities Absurdities” chapter had me smiling the whole time I was reading and I think I even laughed so loudly, my mother asked me if I was okay. That said, I think you will have no doubt about the power of Ake’s writing. He has the ability to bring up the toughest of topics and still keep you laughing and smiling through it. This is a lethal talent and he is using it to the best of his abilities and in all the right ways. I think I will be reading this book even years from now because it is that good. Ake’s wit, charm, and intelligence just make this book that much better than your average humorous novel or book. I loved the cover!




Please buy my new humor book - Just Make Me A Sammich http://donake.net/just-make-me-a-sammich-book


Sunday, July 17, 2016

I Should Have Played Pokémon Go Instead

I wanted to join in on this Pokémon craze, so I got out my iPhone, the iPhone6, and searched for the app. But then my eyes lit up when I noticed this new game. This one appeared to be the greatest game ever created by mankind.  I then enthusiastically downloaded Sammichmon Go! and couldn’t wait to start playing.

In Sammichmon Go, a specific type of sammich appears on the screen. You then go to various locations around the city collecting the ingredients for this particular sammich. You score points for getting each ingredient, but then you must locate a “sammich-making spot” where someone will make you that sammich. You score mega-points for the finished sammich and then of course, you get to eat it.  The motto for this game is “Gotta eat them all”.  I love this game!

My first sammich was a basic turkey on rye.  I raced around and collected everything and then located the sammich-making spot. I burst through the doors and exclaimed “Make me a sammich!” just as my screen instructed.

I did notice the sign outside the room that said “AAF”. I assumed it had something to do with the American Air Force.  Regretfully, it stood for American Association of Feminists and these women were not inclined to make me my sammich. In fact, they became rather agitated at the request.  Fortunately, even though they were feminists, they still hit like girls.  Unfortunately, they didn’t throw like girls.  As I made my escape, they pelted me with all the stuff.  Sadly, I did not collect my mega-points on this one.

But then suddenly a delicious cheeseburger appeared on the screen.  I gathered everything and ran into the next sammich-making spot yelling “Cheeburga, cheeburga, cheeburga”, in my best John Belushi voice, just as it said on the screen. I thought that a Hindu temple was a strange place to do this, but I needed the points and getting lots of points playing this game is extremely important, right?

The Hindus didn’t react any better than the feminists, but they did hit harder, which I didn’t think Hindus were supposed to do. I ran out of there with no cheeburga, no chips and no bonus points.

This game was much more difficult than I ever imagined, as I failed with the veal cutlet sammich at the PETA office, the BLT at the Muslim hall and the ham sammich at the Jewish Center. I also failed to achieve a foot-long at the strip club. Although two of the ladies were eager to make me a sandwich without using any of stuff I brought. They claimed they would be the bread, if I tipped them well.

Since I was failing miserably at the sammich portion of the game, I decided to try to score points my acquiring, nookagoochi, a tangy sandwich spread, that when added to your sammich, earns you triple, yes I said triple, bonus points!  You get so many points for this because the game says “good nookagoochi is hard to find!” The spread comes in three flavors: Sweet, Spicy, and Hot.

The game app directed me to the local health club and indicated some nookagoochi was in the women’s locker room.  Normally I wouldn’t have gone in, but I think Obama said it was now okay, so I channeled my inner Caitlyn Jenner and confidently marched through the door. I startled a woman who looked like a Ronda Rousey wannabe. She asked me what I was doing and I answered “I’m looking for some sweet nookagoochi!”  She then threatening to do something to me that would allow me to use the women’s facilities on a permanent basis.  I was fairly certain that she did not hit like a girl, so I quickly ran to the lobby.

Unfortunately, the club manager had summoned the cops.  I explained to the policewoman that I was just playing Sammichmon Go. She was very understanding and released me with just a warning. Everything would have been fine except that when I walked outside my phone started buzzing and the screen indicated there was a large jar of nookagoochi only a few feet away!

“Officer, can you give me some of that hot nookagoochi in the back seat of your squad car?” I asked enthusiastically.  After a phone call to my attorneys, Duckem, Buckham and Fucarelli, and paying a fine, I was back in search of tangy nookagoochi.

The game app then sent me to the local convent and instructed me to ask, “Sisters, who here wants to give me some spicy nookagoochi?  The nuns explained that I must be mistaken, because there was no nookagoochi there.  They said they would pray for me. Well, prayers are nice, sisters, but they don’t score me any points, do they?  I need points, lots of points, because ah, um, well, I just do.

I also struck out at the gay bar. Okay, let me rephrase that. The app was wrong again, no nookagoochi in the whole place!

I was about to quit my search when my phone started buzzing again directing to a young woman on the corner who was obviously dressed for the summer heat.  She said should would be glad to provide some sweet nookagoochi, but I would have to pay for it.  I told her I thought she should give it to me for free. An argument ensued, and unfortunately that same policewoman appeared to restore order.

Now I’m sitting in jail and my attorney is not returning my calls.  I am strongly considering deleting the Sammichmon Go app from my phone.  I was trying to play this game, but I think the game may have been playing me instead.



Please buy my new humor book - Just Make Me A Sammich http://donake.net/just-make-me-a-sammich-book

  

Monday, July 4, 2016

Marriage Is All About Hot Sex And Sammiches

A long-time friend and my first softball coach, Bob Myers, passed away recently.  His obituary said he was known for his intellect and wise council. And while many obits inflate a person’s attributes, those words accurately describe Bob.  The word “integrity” never appears, but I think it probably should have.

Bob was an interesting man, so I have three stories to share (hint: the third story is the real reason for this post)

Story 1

I was writing an article for a college journalism course about the tragic shootings at Kent State University (May 4, 1970).  Bob heard me discussing this at a softball game and told me he was actually there as a member of the Ohio National Guard.  He gave me his perspective of what it was like being in that difficult situation. 

But then he told me something supremely interesting.  There is an iconic photograph (except I cannot find it anywhere on the Internet) of a hippie chick sticking a flower in the rifle of a guardsman as he stands cordoning off part of the campus. (there was also a TV commercial that reenacted this event.)  Bob told me he was the guardsman in that photo.  Now if most of my goofball friends, especially my good pal TV journalist Brian Williams, would have told me this, I would have laughed it off. But if Bob said it, I believe him.

Story 2

Bob was pitching in a softball game, when some bizarre argument started between him and the batter.  From my position in short-center field (maybe 20 feet from second base) I could tell there was a conflict, but I couldn’t understand what was being said. Suddenly the hitter dropped his bat and took a couple steps toward Bob.

Instinctively, I started to trot in to the infield.  Bob was a little guy, maybe 5’6” on a good day, and a few years older than most of us.  I was the biggest guy on our team and I was not about to let someone pick on our coach.  Well this goof-head may have wanted a piece of little Bob, but he wanted no part of me.  Which was a great thing since I really didn’t want to fight him, I mean this was church softball, after all.  So the dude picked up his bat and the game resumed.

After the game Bob explained to us what the dispute was all about.  I revealed to him, I had jogged into the infield and would have protected him if necessary.  He then looked at me with utter disdain and said:

“If he would have come at me, I was prepared to kick him in the head”
This statement was so ludicrous that we tried not to laugh, but we did all look at Bob incredulously.  Then Bob explained:

“I am a trained master in the martial arts. I would have kicked him right in the head.  But it wouldn’t have hurt him.  He may have blacked out for a couple seconds, but he would have been fine” (I mean this was church softball, after all)

Again, I wouldn’t have believed most other people making this statement.  But then I did remember during the incident that Bob had quickly flipped his glove off, stood his ground, and assumed a position that one sees often in a Bruce Lee movie.  Yes, my actions had prevented someone from getting a major butt-whipping – but that person wasn’t Bob. 

Story 3

My bachelor dinner had ended and the guests were leaving.  Bob walked over and motioned for me to bend down because apparently he had something important to tell me.

He said, “If you don’t think about getting divorced more than three times the first year, you are doing well”.

I looked at him skeptically, my jaw dropping.  He just nodded, flashed a wry smile, said “Good luck” then quickly departed.

I was completely and utterly dumbstruck.  This was the most ridiculous advice anyone had ever given to me.  Think about divorce?  No, my marriage was going to be a blissful experience filled with hot sex and sammiches. And maybe even both together -  after some tantric sex, I might be hungry and my wife would then make me a delicious sammich. Oh yeah, this would be nirvana.

Hot sex and sammiches! Hot sex and sammiches! Maybe even good sex and hot sammiches, it didn’t matter.  Marriage was going to be totally wonderful. I’m not ever going to think about divorce, especially the first year – no way, no how, not gonna do it!  Maybe somebody else, but definitely not me.
A very hot and sloppy sammich!

I wondered why Bob would say something that preposterous.  However, he had recently completed his first year of marriage, so he did have some credibility.   But his wife Julie was such a sweet, quiet, gentle, woman, I couldn’t even imagine Bob having any problems in his marriage. But nope, this did not apply to me. Hot sex and sammiches! Hot sex and sammiches! That’s how it’s going to be.

I believe it was somewhere around the fourth month of blissfulness that my wife did something that really fizzed me off.  Of course I have no idea what it was. Maybe I was hungry and she claimed she was too tired to make me a ---- well you get the idea.  But whatever, it was totally unacceptable. I can’t believe she did that, I fumed. This behavior is just terrible and if it continues, I want a divor……  Oh my, suddenly I remembered what Bob Myers had said.  But this was only one time and it probably was just a fluke, so I still thought he was crazy.

And then it happened again during the seventh month.  All right, the first time wasn’t just a fluke, maybe Bob is on to something after all.  But still it’s only twice.  If my wife wouldn’t keep doing stupid stuff to fizz me off, this wouldn’t even be an issue.

However, I was alarmed the third time it occurred, in month eleven.  Oh my gosh, Bob actually did know what he was talking about.  I realized I had exhausted my limit and still had around six weeks to go. Fortunately, I made it to the one-year anniversary with a “three count” which meant I was doing well! And Bob was correct, because my marriage is still going. (and Bob’s marriage lasted also).

I must state that my wife had a much more difficult time during the first year of marriage than I did (if you read this blog regularly, you know I am stating the obvious.)  I admit that I can be difficult to live with. Heck, sometimes I don’t like living with myself.  For my wife to keep an accurate count of how many times I fizzed her off that first year, she would have needed one those clickers designed for counting golf strokes.  And I think I finished over par for the year.  If Bob would have given my wife advice before the wedding, he would have pointed to the door and said “Run that way, and don’t stop until you hit the state line”.


Therefore, I believe Bob’s rule is highly accurate.  However, I’m thinking with the changes in society over the many years since he developed the rule, that maybe we can add a fourth time due to inflation.  So the Myers-Ake newlywed rule is this: “If you don’t think about getting divorced more than four times the first year of marriage, you are doing well”.  As it is written, so shall it be done.



Please buy my new humor book - Just Make Me A Sammich http://donake.net/just-make-me-a-sammich-book

Monday, June 20, 2016

Bikini Madness (My Vacation Is Ruined – Part 2)


(I am vacationing in Florida, but the vacation is being ruined by Tropical Storm Colin)

I can imagine George Harrison being on vacation during a tropical storm, gazing into the dark clouds over the ocean. Suddenly he sees a glimmer in the distance and is inspired to write “Here comes the sun! And I say it’s all right!”

But the sun is still nowhere to be seen here, and it is not all right, it is not close to being all right.  If Harrison was writing about the current conditions, he would no doubt be so bummed that he would ingest mass quantities of drugs and write a horrible, unintelligible, song containing many swear words. This composition would not make the Billboard charts.

Now the worst of the storm has passed. There is still a gusty wind and a steady rain, but this does not deter people from emerging from their refuge to reclaim the beach. However, it is difficult to describe the immense damage and utter destruction caused by Tropical Storm Colin.  None, I repeat, none of the young women walking on the beach are wearing bikinis. This is a tragedy of enormous magnitude.  It is a severe bikini shortage. It is a bikini crisis.

It is June, it is the afternoon, it is Siesta Key, the second best beach in America.  I am here on vacation and there are no bikinis.  I am devastated by this tremendously woeful situation.  The women walking on the beach are wearing shorts and t-shirts.  But not tight t-shirts, and unfortunately the rain is not heavy enough to spur an impromptu competition.  Some of these women are even wearing long pants. Just let that sink in for a moment.  No bikinis, long pants.  And they are walking, not strutting. One does not strut on the beach in long pants and t-shirts because there is no point in doing that.  I’m sure some of these ladies are incredibly beautiful, but I can’t tell, because there are no bikinis, none. 

Somebody pointed out to me that I really should not complain about the weather in Florida since the flooding in Paris is so bad that they had to close the Louvre.  “How would you have liked to flown all the way to France and then had your vacation ruined?” they said.   This is of course kooky-talk. Because I choose to visit the sunny beaches of Florida, except there is no sun.  If they ever put Mona Lisa in a thong bikini, I might consider vacationing in France (I wrote that last sentence to be at the top of the search results when someone Googles “Mona Lisa thong bikini”).

But I am not out lazing on the beach. I am going stir crazy, locked inside this condo, being held prisoner by that bastard Colin.  Sometimes I just stare at the walls. I notice that the condo has a “parrot” theme. Normally I wouldn’t even notice, because I wouldn’t be inside, I would be outside, on the beach, the sunny beach.  But now I glare at the stupid parrot artwork on the wall, as it mocks me.

“Look at me pale, vacation-boy.  You don’t want to see me, but you have to. Caaaaawrk! No bikinis for you! But you can always check out my tail feathers, caaaaaaaaaaawrk!”

I could watch more TV, but it is a dinky 42” model, with no HD.  I repeat, no HD, it is standard definition.  I didn’t even know that still existed.  And the Internet is not high speed, so I can’t even surf as fast as I can at home even though I am at the ocean. But there is only so much “Judge Judy” I can watch. On the last episode, a woman boyfriend agreed to pay for breast implants, but only paid for one.  Now she is having problems staying upright.  I wonder what Judge Judy looks like in a bikini?

Author Stephen King has a $9-million mansion nearby on the beach.  During a break in the weather, I sashayed down there hoping since I am a fellow author, we might share some wine and brie and have a discussion about our craft.  I was thinking I could give Stephen some pointers about how to incorporate humor into his stories to make them less scary.

I found the front gate and told the person on the intercom that the author of Just Make Me A Sammich wanted to chat with his buddy “Steve”.  For some reason, the line then went dead. It must be defective. You would think for $9 million you could get a intercom that worked.

So I stood at the gate yelling “Sammich!, Sammich!”

Soon a lackey appeared and informed me that no one there had ordered any sandwiches.

“No, not sandwich”, I explained. “Sammich, sammich. Just Make Me A Sammich”.

He just stared me.

“Do I look like the Jimmy John’s delivery guy?” I asked with disdain.

Okay, so apparently I do.

They keep talking about the dangers of riptides during the storm, but I think I am in danger of being ripped off.  So I marched down to the rental office and demanded a refund for the two days of rain during my stay.  The guy refused and said no one can guarantee sunny beaches. C’mon, it’s Florida, I wasn’t born yesterday.  The beaches are supposed to be sunny all the time.  I’m being ripped off.  But when I protested again, he just started angrily screaming at me “Sunny Beaches! Sunny Beaches!” and chased me out the door.  I don’t understand, this is all that I want. Just give me a sunny beach, please! This has to be the worst vacation ever.

But now as I write this, something miraculous is happening.  The clouds have parted, it’s getting brighter. Yes, it is really happening and I am inspired!

(Cue the Beatles music)

Beachy beauties, it’s been a long wet rainy season

Beachy beauties, it seems like days since it’s been bright

Here come the buns, here come the buns

And I say, yeah all right!

Buns, buns, buns, here they come …..

Uh, this post is over, gotta run.

Please buy my new humor book - Just Make Me A Sammich http://donake.net/just-make-me-a-sammich-book

Sunday, June 12, 2016

Really Colin? You Stupid Son Of A Beach (Part 1)

I was eagerly anticipating my summer vacation. I desperately needed relief from the stress of being a best-selling author (well, in my neighborhood) and a well-respected, industry expert (yeah, really). This year’s destination was Sarasota’s, Siesta Key beach, recently named the second best beach in the entire country!

Except today, as I write this, it is not the second best beach in the country.  In fact, it is not a beach at all.  It is a cesspool of heavy rain water swirling with the white sands, caused by something awful called Tropical Storm Colin.

Yes, today, Siesta Key would be rated well behind the beach closest to my home.  That one is located on Lake Erie, something the locals call the North Coast. The beach on Lake Erie is horrendous.  It is cloudy, with a cool wind, and it is covered with craggy rocks which can pierce your buttocks if you are not careful where you sit. And the water is filled with a smorgasbord of unidentifiable industrial chemicals.  But today, I could be actually enjoying my vacation on this beach, without paying for costly plane tickets or renting an excessively expensive condo.

My current location would also today rank behind the Jersey Shore, known for its wide variety of washed-up debris, including used condoms. “Look dad, I found a jellyfish!”  When your beach is ranked below used condoms, you know you are at a lousy beach.

And this must be a freak tropical storm, because I am not in the tropics, I am in Florida, for St. Petersburg's sake. It’s part of the United States. Maybe this storm is due to global warming, but it should absolutely not be happening right here, while I am on vacation. I think this is just the type of stuff Donald Trump is promising to fix.

And why would you have a tropical storm at the ocean?  I mean the ocean already has enough water. It has plenty.  Why would it need any more? But it is getting more, lots more, torrents more. More rain than I have ever seen in my life. Children, what did you see on vacation? “I thaw a dolphin!”. “I thaw a pelican!”  And how about you Donnie? “I thaw a &!@#ing tropical storm!”

This is an historic storm, the earliest in the season for one starting with the letter “C”.  I guess I should feel some prestige in being a part of a momentous event, yeah, maybe similar to a passenger on the Titanic. 

They claim the storm started off as a tropical depression and this is absolutely true. Because when you are in the tropics and see those bizarre colors on the weather radar heading straight for your vacation resort, you do get extremely depressed. If I ever meet this Colin guy responsible for this deluge, I’m kicking him square in the nuts, twice. 

At first I was determined I wasn’t going to let a little rain stop the festivities, so I grabbed a lounge chair and headed for what used to be the beach.  In retrospect, this was a bad idea.  I felt like one of those pathetic news reporters they send out to report on bad weather. “Yep, it’s wet out here, with some gale force winds alright!”  I will probably completely dry out sometime next week after I’m back in Ohio.

I’m so glad I paid extra for this ocean-side unit.  It was supposed to give me an “up-
close view of the water” and boy did they ever deliver on that promise, as this photo demonstrates!  I love to vacation in Florida for all the fresh seafood and now at high tide, it is now swimming right outside my door. A bit too fresh, I’m afraid.  

And the main reason to visit this particular location is the awesome, breathtaking, Sarasota sunsets.  Of course I haven’t seen the sun in days.  I have no idea if it ever rose or set.  For all I know it ran away like a scared little girl when the storm hit.  

Here's a photo of last night’s sunset.  Isn’t it awesome? Yes, awesomely bad.









So I am stuck inside watching multiple episodes of Judge Judy (From the case of The Shitting Shih Tzu):

Defendant: “You said I could have Jerome stay in the apartment!”
Plaintiff: “I didn’t know Jerome was your dog!”
Defendant: “Oh yes you did!”
Plaintiff: “Oh no I did not, you (bleep)”

This vacation is so utterly ruined.  You might think I am being selfish and non-caring, since people have died in the path of this storm and millions of people in Africa cannot afford a vacation like this one.  Well, I paid lots of money for sunny beaches and I want sunny beaches!  Besides, some of those Africans get to live on the beach their entire lives, for free, so in my mind it evens out.

Now you may ask why I am not praying for the rain to stop, since I all but took credit for stopping the rain this way at my daughter’s wedding two years ago.  Well you have to save up your prayer markers and pick your spots carefully.  Since I am planning to get the Zika virus this summer, (I’ve previously been infected twice, once seriously, with mosquito-borne maladies) I need to be able to save my important prayers for this.

So no, I am not losing my religion, but this Colin storm is ruining my vacation, cue the REM music:

(Ruining My Vacation)

Oh storm, it’s bigger
It’s bigger and wet
And wet is so me
The lengths that I will fly to
The distance in air miles
Oh no, I bitched too much
I set this up

That’s me in the condo
That’s rain on the window
Ruining my vacation
Trying to have fun inside
And I don’t know if I can do it
Oh no, I’m bored too much
I haven't bored enough

I thought that I heard it storming
I thought that the ocean roared
I think I thought I saw the sun

But that was just a dream
That was just a dream

Ruining my vacaaaaaaaaaaaaaation …….

Please buy my new humor book - Just Make Me A Sammich http://donake.net/just-make-me-a-sammich-book