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!

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Bad Drivers Need More Than Whispers


First there was the Horse Whisperer who calmed wild horses, then there was the Dog Whisperer who trained and brought obedience in unruly mutts, and now AKE TV introduces the fabulous new reality show, The Car Whisperer, who turns dangerous drivers into model motorists!  Welcome to episode #1!

Announcer: Meet Melvin Snerdly. Mr. Snerdly is considered the top driving instructor in the U.S.  He has taught thousands of students how to drive over his 30 years in the business.  He has taken the written driving test in all 50 states without missing a single question.  He is easily recognized by his classic pocket protector and bow tie.

Today’s problem driver in Carl “Crash” Craminski. Carl currently holds the record for license violation points in three different states.  He is not very well liked by insurance companies.  Flo from Progressive once tried to kick him in the nads. The Geico gecko has flipped him off and Jake from State Farm refuses to take his calls.


As our subject drives around the city, Melvin, The Car Whisperer, sits in the back seat, leans forward, and gently whispers words of instruction and encouragement.  The goal is to turn, our reckless driver into a model citizen of the road.

Melvin (in very hushed tone): Yes Carl, check to make sure it’s clear, then slowly back out.

[sound of tires squealing]

YAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Okay you just missed that car coming behind you.  But that’s okay, now pull out onto the street, making sure you give enough space to the cars approachi….

GEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZ!  [tires screeching, horn blasting]

You also might want to turn down your stereo. Just because you enjoy crappy music, it doesn’t mean everyone does.  And unless you are deaf, you surely must be able to hear it at reasonable volumes.

Now you are going to be turning right up here, so you should be getting into the right lane and signaling the turn.  Get over, get over, get ….

BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! [horn honking]

Okay, the turn signal was invented in the 1930’s and has been standard equipment on cars since the 1940’s.  And it’s very easy to operate, down for left, up for right.  See, you can do it.

Ah, now you can make a right turn on red.  It’s clear, you can go. Go ahead. Still clear, what are you waiting for? ….  Okay, now you can’t go because the left turn signal on the other side is on and if you turn now, cars will be coming right at you, so don’t go noooooooooooow……….

WUP WUP WUP WOOOOOOOO! [more horns]

Now you have the left turn arrow.  That arrow pointing to the left means you can go left!  So go, don’t just sit there and stare at it ,go, go, [Massive horn honkings] Now the arrows off, don’t turn now! Don’t turn noooooooooow

YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWZA! [more horns] 

Oh here we are approaching an eight-lane, four-way, stop.  This is one of the most challenging driving situations around. Just slowly pull up to the intersection and stop and I will talk you through – uhhhhhh

RAAAAAAAZMAAAAAAAAAAAA! [multiple horns]

You see, a rolling stop is not actually a stop, because you never actually stop, get it?  The stop sign is there to tell you to stop and all those silly people honking their horns actually expected you to actually stop. 

Alright, you don’t to brake when approaching a green light, that’s just not needed. You will have plenty of time to stop in the light changes.  That’s what the yellow (caution) light is for.  It’s been around since 1920, so you should have had sufficient time to adapt to it.

Now please stop talking on the cell phone. You are weaving are over the road. Okay now you are going straight, straight down the middle, over the yellow line.  (massive honking). Um you really shouldn’t give the finger to other drivers when you are the problem, it makes you look like a jerky numskull.  

Uh you are not providing an assured clear distance. Why are you so close to the next car? Why, why, he can’t go any faster than the cars in front of him, can he. You need to back off, in case he brakes without waaaaaaaaaaaaa

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! [severe screeching of tires]

Now it’s time to get on the expressway and master some highway driving.  Increase your speed on the on-ramp, signal, and look for a nice gap to merge safely into traffic.  Look, there’s a swell space open behind the Buick, no behind, not in front, behind, behiiiiiiiiiiind

GAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRR!

Now you are in the far left lane, the speed lane, or passing lane. When you are in this lane you need to maintain a faster pace so as not to impede other drivers who want to go faster. So you are now five miles per hour under the speed limit.  So speed up, speed up, push the accelerator. Push it, push it. [honking]

Look in the rear view mirror.  See the traffic backed up 10 deep behind you?  They want to go by you, but they can’t because you are hogging the lane.  Look, look. The rear view mirror was invented in 1906 and every car has one.  Either speed up or get out of the speed lane …

Just look for an open space to the right, use your turn signal to indicate you are changing lanes. Whatever you do just don’t jerk the wheel to the right and oooooooooooo (honking)

OHHHHHHHHHHHHH MYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!

Ah now you do need to pick a lane and stay in it.  This one’s good, okay this one.  How bout this one. Really shouldn’t pass on the right.  Pick a lane….. please pick a lane, any lane just pick one.

Okay you in that car’s “blind spot”.  It’s called the blind spot because the driver is unable to see you in his mirrors.  You need to speed up or slow down before that other car decides to change lanes ……………

HIJIMAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

All right, you are back in the speed lane and this time you are keeping pace with the traffic.  Good boy, Carl.  Ah but see that sign?  Your exit is coming up and you need to start moving over to the right lane.  Now, start moving now.

 You see your taxes paid for that sign and workers put it up so you would know to get over,  so you would not need to quickly cut across traffic to exit.  And look!, they put up a second sign again letting you know the exit is coming up, just in case you missed the first one.  So get over, change lanes, change lanes now

Well it’s too late now, you can’t make it with that big semi in the right lane, you will just have to get off at the next ex……….

HOLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEE CRAAAAAAAAP!

Melvin (in normal voice): Let’s find a restroom, I need to change my shorts.  Turn left up ahead.

(Back in whisper-mode) Now made a square turn, don’t just sweep across the lane because a car can pull up and

YACKMANNNNNNNNNNA!

You see, it’s called a turn because you are actually supposed to turn the steering wheel, hand-over-hand, hand-over-hand.

Just pull into the space and park the car. Uh well you see someone has gone to the trouble of painting these lines on the parking lot.  You are supposed to park between the lines, between the lines, not just wherever you want.

[after a quick bathroom break]

All right, you are not going to be able to make a left turn out of the parking lot. You cannot go across six lanes of traffic in rush hour.  You can’t even do that on Frogger, ha ha. So just make a riiiiiight

WHOAAAAAAAAAAAAA NELLLLLLLLLLLY!

Melvin: (Screaming) GET OUT THE CAR! GET OUT OF THE #@%!ING CAR, NOW! GIVE ME YOUR #^& *%#@  LICENSE, SO I CAN BURN IT! YOU ARE NEVER, EVER, DRIVING AGAIN!

Announcer: That concludes the premier episode of the Car Whisperer. Unfortunately, there will not be an episode number 2.

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










Monday, April 18, 2016

This Business Dinner Was A Gas


The evening was going so wonderfully. We had a friendly group of several dozen people, gathered in a private room at one of the city’s finest restaurants. As we waited for dinner to be served, the gorgeous young woman on my right was very impressed with my wealth of knowledge. She was pumping me aggressively – for information, sucking hard – on my brain.

And then suddenly, quietly, without warning, everything changed.  There was a thick, pungent, odor engulfing my immediate area. The lively, pleasant, atmosphere was totally destroyed by someone’s inconvenient flatulence.

That’s correct, this blog post is about a fart. But not just any fart, an extraordinarily unique fart, as I will now explain.  

This fart was exceptional due to its extreme intensity. My middle-aged nose may have lost some of its olfactory capability, but this was the most powerful emission of human gasitude that I have ever encountered in my life. It was a nasty, nasty, fart.

If you unleashed this fart on the battlefield, you would be violating the Geneva Convention. It definitely would be considered a weapon of mass distraction. The restaurant was dark, but I’m sure this cloud of thick gastric fog would have been actually visible under better lighting.  It was so potent; I’m surprised the wallpaper didn’t fall off the wall.
Bad, nasty, toxic, gas!

This was far worse than any gas my dog generates. It wasn’t as much nauseating as it was toxic. If I had access to a gas mask, I would have been wearing it.  It is difficult to even describe just how ghastly this gas really was. At one point, I thought I was going to literally pass out.

The other remarkable thing about this disgusting gas attack, is where is occurred.  This was, for lack of a better term, a “business fart”.  It was encountered while I was at a large dinner table, surrounded by customers and potential customers.

The problem is you can never publicly acknowledge a business fart, even though everyone is aware of it.  You cannot ask “who cut the cheese?” because of the potential business consequences of embarrassing the cheezer.  You do not have any idea how powerful that person is.  Okay, so you do have a sense of his power, but what I mean is you don’t know where this person is on the organization chart.  Exposing the culprit could cost you your job and this could prove extremely embarrassing for you.

Interviewer: “Why were let go from your previous job, Bill?”

Bill: “Our CEO cut a horrendous fart and I called him on it”

So even as this fart choked us all, not a word was said. We all had to carry on with what we were doing, pretending everything was fine while being poisoned.  You could not even cover your nose with your hand, you just had to sit there, hoping you were not going to die.

Unfortunately, I was talking (I know that’s difficult to believe) at the time of the fart.  I was espousing my profound business knowledge to those around me, including the lovely lass mentioned previously.  However, when the smell hit my nostrils, my brain literally shut off.  I’m in mid-sentence and suddenly I can’t think because this horrendous odor is trying to kill me.  I mumble out some meaningless words to finish my thought and try to maintain my composure. All while trying to conceal the fact that an atrocious fart has been farted.

I assume the human body must have a defense mechanism that when you are exposed to poisonous gas, your brain shuts off because you are not supposed to think, you are not supposed to speak, you are just supposed to run like hell to save your life.

Only I couldn’t run. If I jumped up and ran for the door, it would be an acknowledgement that a business fart had been discharged.  Worse yet, the people around me might think I was running for the bathroom, therefore making me a prime suspect as the farter.  So I had to sit in the middle of this warm, thick, fart-fog, trying to maintain consciousness at all cost.

I did consider telling people I had to make a call and excuse myself to the hallway.  I also thought about calling 911.  However, I did not think the operator would take serious a report of someone at La Grenouille “cutting silent, but deadly, horrendous farts”.  I feared becoming an Internet sensation as the guy who called 911 because people around him were passing gas.  If I had called 911, I would have told them to bring the bomb sniffing dog so it could sniff out the butt of the perpetrator.   What an interesting scene and fine end to the evening that would have been. “Line up and bend over and ol’ Betsy here will identify the shooter.” 

But I never was able to determine who the nasty dealer was.  I know it wasn’t woman seated to next to me. She was way too hot and petite to accomplish this feat.  No, this was indeed manly fart, farted by a man.   

I do feel somewhat guilty about not reporting this to any health officials. If this guy is capable of generating gas this toxic, I fear that he has a serious health problem and may already be dead.  If that is the case, may he rest in peace and may his family be successful in fumigating their house.

Unfortunately, they never prepared me for an evening like this in business college, not even in the MBA program. Although I doubt “Managing Business Farts” would be a popular course at the Harvard Business School.  Perhaps I should write a whitepaper, er, make that a brownpaper on the subject.

Fortunately, I survived the nasty, nasty, fart, had a superb dinner, and was able to maintain excellent customer relationships despite the challenges.  Next time somebody tells me “business stinks”, I will tell them just how much it really does.

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



Saturday, April 2, 2016

The Wackiest Presidential Election Ever

Who knew democracy could be so darn entertaining?

A surprising, new political party has emerged as a powerful force in the 2016 U. S. presidential race.  It is the Pissed Off Party (POP) and boy are they ever pissed off!

People are really pissed at the Elite Establishment Party (EEP) who either ignore the problems, deny they even exist, or hope they will get better by sprinkling magically fufu dust on them.  The EEP’ers are too busy eating expensive shrimp, playing exclusive golf, sipping fine wine, and walking around looking important in fancy, exquisite, suits, to be bothered by actual governance.

The POP’ers want candidates who are in a pissed off rage, in hopes that in being so pissed off, they will actually do something beneficial if elected. It is suspected that the EEP candidates wish to get elected so they can eat more expensive shrimp.

Fortunately, two extremely pissed off candidates have emerged to lead the POP.  These guys are really pissed off and they yell and scream at their rallies, which results in people getting even more pissed off at everybody. It has created a circle of piss, and you obviously don’t want to be standing in the middle of it, that’s for sure.

Ironically, even though the POP has two enormously pissed off candidates, one pisses to the left and the other pisses to the right.  The important thing is both these pissed-off guys are raising significant political issues that the EEP candidates do not want to discuss, which frankly pisses them off.  It has turned in to one huuuuuge pissing match.

The EEP candidates have tried to pander to the POP’ers by claiming they are pissed off about things too! Unfortunately, they may be highly agitated, greatly annoyed and egregiously irritated, but they are not sufficiently pissed off.  To appeal to the POP, you must be truly, undeniably, tremendously, pissed off, and these fakers are not. 
  
Another strategy from EEP’ers is to tell the POP’ers that they should not be pissed and they should just “calm down”.  Of course this just pisses them off even more. (As any married man could have predicted) This huuuuge level of pissofficy has created one of the most bizarre presidential campaigns in history.  No subject is off limits.

Candidates have argued about who has the largest wanker and the subject even came up … er no, it was raised, um no…..  let’s just say it was masterfully debated in Detroit. At one point during the debate I thought the guys were actually going to whip them out and compare, just like junior high school.  And though there is disagreement on which candidate has the biggest wanker, there is no question who has the biggest balls.

Next election, I think there should be a Wanker Party that runs candidate Iva Biggun for president.  You may laugh, but considering the choices this year, you would take a look at him, er I mean you would have to consider him.  And the Wankers would win every big caucus, wouldn’t they?  Their campaign slogan could be “Make America Straight Again”.

There is also a discussion regarding women voting with their vaginas.  In the old days this would have been impossible, but now we do have touch screens for voting in Ohio. Still, the screen is probably too high to reach with a hoo-haa, but maybe if a woman stood on a chair and straddled the thing, she might be able to do it.

I really hope women do not try this. If the woman next to me is voting with her vagina, it is going to be darn distracting.  I am going to have to stop and watch her vote, and if she is that limber and that skilled, I’ll probably applaud when she finishes, maybe even tip her. I know it’s not likely to happen, but I’m
You may want to clean the screen before voting!
bringing a “wet-nap” with me, just in case, to clean my touch screen before voting.

Some idiots have even tried to disrupt and stop POP rallies. This is stupid for two reasons. First, the people there are already pissed off. Piss them off even more and their commitment to being pissed off greatly increases.  Second, you risk pissing off the moderately agitated. If they do become pissed off, then they become new members of the POP.  Either way, by staging these protests, you strengthen the opposition.

And I must point out that people have the right to express their political opinions, even if these opinions are so disgusting and frightening to you that you $h!+ your pants.  I realize you Millennials out there will think that I am doing “kooky” talk and making this up, but if you Google “first amendment to the U.S. Constitution”, you will see that I am correct. I’m not sure what they are teaching in the schools these days, but it sure as hell ain’t American history and probably not much economics either.

So there is now one good candidate and four whackjobs. I can say that without offending anybody, because everyone now believes this to be true, we just vehemently disagree who the “good” candidate is!  The real problem is; we have way too many whackjobs still in this race.  

And there is a good chance when you go to vote, you will be challenged with choosing between two whackjobs and trying to determine which one is less wacked. It is unfortunate there are no longer actually “voting booths” or you could close the door and start to cry before casting your vote. Unfortunately, your high school civics class never prepared you for this moment.  I think I can hear Karl Marx laughing, or is that Bernie Sanders? I can’t really tell.

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



Monday, March 21, 2016

I Am Raising Cane Over This! (The Aging Chronicles – Part 4)

“Soon I'll be 60 years old
My daddy got 61”

“7 Years” is the worst song that has ever been written and Lukas Graham should shut his singing pie-hole (an explanation follows at the end of this post)

BUT FIRST – VERY ALARMING NEWS!

By now you have seen the media reports about a recent “scandalous-type” purchase I was purported to have made.  TMZ, Gawker, Entertainment Tonight, Perez Hilton and my nosy neighbor across the street, are all blasting the news across the entire Internet, including Facebook.

I find this accusation ridiculous and unwarranted, because the purchase in question is not for a hooker, opioids, videos or even HGH, but for a cane.  Of course this is ludicrous, because there is no possible way I am close to being old enough to need such an elderly-type device.

The "alleged device"
I would like to officially issue a denial to these salacious rumors, but that is difficult to do since TMZ has somehow obtained an invoice with my name on it from a company called “Fashionable Canes” in Largo, Florida.  This has to be a forgery. Though I am tempted to claim this cane was for my wife, the Peyton Manning defense, I won’t because if my wife found out,  I might have to call medical specialists to extract the cane from where it was forcibly lodged and I could end up needing a walker instead of just a cane.

Now you and the entire world may be laughing at me, but I assure you that the cane, if there really is one, is only needed because of a medical condition that flares up very infrequently. Let me be clear, even though this ailment is more prevalent in geezers, this does not mean I am old, getting old, or even feeling older.  No, this medical condition is just causing more pain to me now for some mysterious, unknown reason, totally unrelated to my age.

I repeat, it is not due to me being old.  The condition is hereditary.  This is all my ancestors fault.  They had the same disorder, but they were highly irresponsible and negligent in dealing with it. Those bastards then passed it on down to me and now I have to deal with it by allegedly buying a £#!êing cane! 
   
If I did have to purchase a cane, it would upset me greatly and be a major blow to my fragile, male, ego.  It is darn difficult to appear macho, vibrant and relevant, when you require a stick to remain standing upright.   Fortunately, this purported cane has not been used yet, because my ailment has not returned since the alleged purchase.  It may be here, just in case the illness ever returns, and of course that is highly unlikely since it is usually prevalent in old people and I am certainly not that old.

I am sure these scandalous reports come as a shock to my many young, hot, female fans, of which there are legions around the world.  I need to assure them that my medical condition only constrains me when I am in the vertical position and in no way limits my ability to perform horizontally.  Let me also say that my cane, if it exists, is long and stiff, just like my ….. well you get the idea.  Fortunately for me, the cane, unlike other things, does not need a 60-minute, blue-pill, notice to achieve functionality.

I may no longer be macho, but the rumored cane is distinguished and fashionable.  I mean it did allegedly come from a place called Fashionable Canes, didn’t it?  So if the women don’t find you functional, they should at least find you fashionable (tip of the hat to Red Green).

I would also like issue a warning to all you insensitive young whippersnappers out there.  I am extremely sensitive about having to use this alleged cane in public. If you see me using this device, I strongly suggest against making any mocking-type comments.   I swear, you may be able to outrun me, but I have a long reach and if you make the mistake of getting within literal striking distance, I will take this cane and smack your £#!êing ankle so hard that you won’t be able to walk, without, without …… uh …. without using a cane, yourself!  And if you need a recommendation, I may or may not know of a good cane company.  If you happen to use the word “cripple”, I will take out both your ankles Tony Soprano style.

Of course, if I have to defend my honor in this totally justified manner, I will no doubt fall over and unlike a Weeble, I will not be able to get back up.  This would be extremely embarrassing, so if you happen to see me lying on the ground next to younger guy who is clutching his ankle and crying out in pain, you will know what has taken place.  I would ask that you quickly help me up because I will need to leave the scene before the authorities arrive, which will be a challenge since I can’t run away, but will be forced to hobble away as fast as I can using a gosh darn cane.  And rest assured, I will shake my fist at you as I shuffle away, sonny boy.

You may think I’m getting cranky, but I’m not.  Only old people get cranky, so I am obviously not cranky, since I am not that old.  I am merely just very upset.  Upset, not cranky, got it?

This concludes my response to these nasty, offensive, salacious, false, unsubstantiated, malicious, untrue, fabricated, fictional, made-up, unproven, deceitful, rumors and lies.  Please carry on with your normal lives and try not to let these awful reports about me disturb you or ruin your day.

Song Explanation

“Soon I'll be 60 years old
My daddy got 61”

This song creeps me out every time I hear it because in a couple years I will be 60 years old and my father died at age 61.  No need to remind me of this every time I turn on the radio Lukas Graham, you stupid sonavabitch.

This concludes The Aging Chronicles. I had much more to write on this, but for some reason I can’t remember any more of it.  All this writing has made me very tired, I will be taking a nap now.  

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



  

Monday, March 7, 2016

This Retirement Community Is Rotten (The Aging Chronicles – Part 3)

When you start having to check the “55-64” box when asked for your age, you know your life is changing. That box may as well be labeled “irrelevant”. You are no longer hot and attractive to advertisers, but you are not yet a “senior citizen” and gullible enough to be taken advantage of by charlatans.  Still, you do begin to get mailings for “age-appropriate” products.

However, some of these are just totally stupid.  I just received one for a place called “Sunset Valley”, which I assume is a retirement community. Not that I’m old enough to retire, of course, but I do like to watch sunsets.  So even though the sunsets may be difficult to see from the valley, I decided to check out the brochure.  Just for fun, of course.

They claim it is a beautiful, park-like, setting which provides quiet, peaceful, surroundings for when family and friends come to visit.  That’s nice, but what about me, what about my needs?  Butterflies and trees are fine, but I don’t plan on being still and quiet all the time.  Am I supposed to bury my emotions?

They strangely do not mention any activities designed for me. Where are the walking paths, shuffleboards and tennis courts?  Yes, I’m getting older, but I just don’t want to lie around all day, do I?

They promote it as a great “resting place”. Sure, I’m looking forward to taking some long naps, but then I want rise up and do stuff.  And they show no photos of the residents having fun at cookouts and parties.  I mean the place just isn’t very lively, in fact it looks kind of dead.

It says plots in good locations are still available.  Well I would like one overlooking the lake, but not too close to the lilacs due to my allergies.  I
wouldn’t want to startle anyone if I suddenly started sneezing unexpectedly.  It is also confusing that they don’t list the size of their plots in square feet, but in cubic inches. I haven’t done the math, but these plots seem to be a bit small.  I don’t think I want to be confined in that limited of space, that might make me a little stiff. 

There are just too many things wrong with Sunset Valley for me to consider “spending the rest of my days” there.  I may just be thinking outside the box, but they need to add some activities for the residents to breathe some new life into the place.

Dental Problems - Crown Me

And for some unknown reason, I am suddenly having more problems with my teeth.  Of course this has nothing to do with me getting older, it is totally random, without any age-related explanation whatsoever.  I think my teeth just to it step it up and become tougher.

Recently one of these wimpy teeth needed a crown.  I have told my wife for years that I deserved a crown, but I didn’t mean one this small.  During the procedure, my dentist was struggling to reach my molar and made the most ridiculous statement ever.  He said “I wish your mouth was bigger”.

Of course he had to stop, when I started to laugh uncontrollably.

“Did I say something funny?” he asked. 

“You have to be the only person on the planet that wants me to have a bigger mouth”, I explained.  “Even the people who like me a lot, don’t wish for that!”
So there is at least one person in the world that doesn’t think I’m a big mouth. Okay, so only one person.  I’ll take it.

During the preparation for the crown, the hot, young, dental assistant gave me a Lidocaine shot to numb that side of my mouth.  I wanted to impress her with my hipness, so out of the other side of my mouth I mumbled,

“I can’t feel my face when I’m with you, but I love it, but I love it”

Now I can’t say she bitch-slapped me, because she is a lady. So I guess she lady-slapped me.  She’s smart too, didn’t slap me on the numb side either.  Got me on the side where I could still feel pain -  lots of pain.

Guess I shouldn’t have winked after I said that ……

No Hearing Problems Though

I get mailings for hearing aids, which is stupid since I am not old and have outstanding hearing.  There are several old people in my neighborhood, which of course does not include me, so there is a hearing aid sales guy who often comes around driving his mobile-testing van.

The neighbors tell me that he is very aggressive in his approach, ringing the doorbell and banging on the door until somebody answers.  Well this guy must realize that I am a still a virile, vibrant, strapping, man with excellent hearing, because even though I’ve seen his van parked by my house numerous times, he has never once come to my door!

So I repeat, I am not getting old.  No way, no how.

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



Monday, February 22, 2016

You Will Not Force Me To Retire (The Aging Chronicles – Part 2)


I am being aggressively recruited by a vile, evil, cult.  They are relentless in their efforts to brainwash me.  They send messages to my television, they tempt me with radio advertisements, they run full page ads in my newspaper.  They desire me so much, they even send me personal mailings which are so presumptuous that they include a membership card with my name and number already on it.

They seem to target old people, probably because they know that declining mental abilities make geezers more susceptible to their lies and tricks and more likely to join their abominable cult.  But me? I am not old, I’m really not, so I have no idea why this organization is even interested in me.

What is this repulsive group?  They go by the stealth, coded, name, AARP.  However, through extensive research, including use of the “dark web” I have been able to determine that their real name is the American Association of Retired People.

These bastards want me, but I am not interested in joining them at all.  I am not retired, nor do I plan to do so soon. Why do they want me and why do they want me to retire now?  These disgusting bastards want me to quit my job, come over to the dark side, and join with them into some type of “association of retired people”. 

These so-called “retired people” walk around aimlessly, like zombies, all day with huge smiles on their faces because they don’t have stressful jobs, they don’t have @$$h^!# bosses to deal with and they can do whatever the hell they want.  Sometimes I see these poor souls at the mall and it is so pathetic.

To this I say, “No! Hell no!  AARP just leave me the *%$&⃰⃰⃰⃰⃰⃰ alone!”

Yes, I know they say you don’t have to be retired to join the group, but of course that is just part of their evil, deceitful, plan.  Once you join, I know they will surround you with so called “happy retirees” who will introduce you to new activities such as bingo and shuffleboard.  In addition, the mailing I received promises me AARP (read SENIOR) discounts on groceries, dining, travel and shopping! (and you know what I think of senior discounts from my previous post) They also promise big discounts on healthcare insurance and prescription drugs.

So of course once they get you hooked on bingo and valium, you will naturally want to quit your job and join them.  And in addition, you won’t need a salary because you are now getting so many freaking discounts!  These bastards are intent on having me quit my job and becoming dependent on them.  I have no idea why they are so committed in forcing me to do this.  I suspect it may have something to do with Bernie Sanders.

There is no way I am old enough to join AARP! There is no way that I have grown old enough to retire.  No way, no way I tell you!

Okay, I must admit there are people I graduated with from high school who have recently, gulp, retired.  But that is irrelevant to this discussion.  These “retirees” will say they were able to quit their jobs because of generous government pensions or that they managed to save lots of money and invested it well.

This of course is hogwash.  The truth is they quit their jobs because they are lazy, slothful, bums.  Just lazy, lazy, people who don’t have a good work ethic.  I also suspect they are Bernie Sanders supporters.

You may think I’m overreacting but I assure you that I’m not.  I’ve heard alarming reports of “retired people” just sitting for hours holding on to a pole, with a line and hook attached to it, waiting for some unsuspecting fish to literally take the bait.  Others sit in the park and actually feed pigeons.  Please be aware these are just random birds, that these people have no connection with whatsoever.  After the pigeons are full and bloated, they fly away and crap on the cars of people who are hard at work, like these slackers should be.  In addition, sometimes these retired people have been known to buy and consume ice cream in the middle of the afternoon for no apparent reason!  How sick is that?

Because of all this lollygagging, these retired people are not attending long, super-productive, business meetings.  They are not developing complicated, multi-linked, macro-powered, spreadsheets, critical for our economic survival.  And these malcontents are not checking their messages every 15 minutes, they may not even respond to emails for days. For days! I ask you, do we really want this?

The latest AARP ploy is to try to tempt me with a free Weekend Duffle Bag.
Sorry, what I do on the weekend is my business!
  These guys never quit with their intrusiveness.  What I do on my weekend is also my own damn business and if I need a duffle bag to do it, I will use my own, which I paid for with the salary from my job!

The AARP is most definitely an evil cult that wants everyone to retire and join them.  And this is so hypocritical, since many, many, people actually are employed at the AARP – yeah, think about that!

Their latest propaganda letter says they want to welcome me and my family to AARP.  I say “Hell no” and you can shove your membership card and your weekend duffle bag right up your @$$.  I will retire when I’m ready to retire, you stupid bastards.

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





  

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

I’m Not Getting Older – Don’t Even Mention It (The Aging Chronicles Part 1)


It was one of those, horrendous, milestone events.  The type which shakes you to your core and you remember forever, because it is so traumatic.

And it all started so pleasantly.  I met my good friend Michael for breakfast at, what used to be, my favorite restaurant.  We had just started perusing the menu, when Michael said:

“Hey Don, look, you qualify for their senior specials!”

I quickly lowered my menu and gave Michael my best “what chu talkin’ bout Willis” glare.

“See right here on back”, he said as he reached over and turned my menu around.

And there they were, six entrees discounted for those customers, not 65 and older, like most places. No, these discounts applied to people age 55 and older.

That’s right, some stupid sonavabitch in corporate marketing thought it would be a swell idea to start their senior discounts at a lower age than the competition.  What a stupid, stupid, sonavabitch.  He’s probably one of those “millennials” who drives a Prius.  I bet he doesn’t even wear a tie. What a horrible idea by this stupid sonavabitch restaurant.  I wanted to bolt out of the place right then.

I didn’t even look at these “special” dishes. Not that I was afraid I would actually want one, absolutely not.  I assumed that all of them came with a big glass of prune juice and I’m certainly not interested in that.

I am not going to order some “senior-discounted” meal because I am not “old” by any means or by any standard.  I am still a vibrant, virile, man; full of life and making a meaningful, relevant, impact on my world.  By no means do I need any help whatsoever paying for my £#>*ing breakfast!

I can’t image why the sonavabitch restaurant thinks I would need one of these geriatric specials.  Do they include stuff like creamed oatmeal to make it easier for geezers to chew and digest?  Well, that might give the old people less gas and I certainly don’t have that problem … okay forget I even talked about that.  Maybe the foods are high in fiber, because I’ve heard that elderly people have problems pooping.  I certainly don’t need that because I take fiber pills.  Oh yeah, I know many old people use Metamucil, but I don’t take it because I’m old.  I only use it because it helps certain health conditions that have built up over the many years … okay, forget I even mentioned that.

“Are you going to get one those specials?” Michael asked enthusiastically, not realizing he was really fizzing me off.

“No, I’m not”, I calmly replied. “Are you?” (said with a bit of irritation)

“Well unfortunately, I don’t qualify for the discount”, he said with just a touch of smugness and a smirk.

Now I’m really fizzed off.  I want to scream “Michael, shut your pancake hole about these d@%m specials. You stupid, stupid, sonavabitch.” But he’s my friend, so I let it go.

Fortunately, our perky, chicky-babe, waitress bounces over to take our order.  But after Michael orders, she turns to me and says excitedly:

“Sir, did you see our senior specials?!!!!!!!!!"

Thought, but not said: Yes, you cheerful bitch, thanks to that sonavabitch Michael. I know all about your stupid specials.

And “Sir”, really? Once the young hot chicks start calling you “sir” you have crossed a line that hurts you deeply.   I wanted to tell her that even though I am middle-aged, I could still be a stud muffin, like Sean Connery, for example.  Well maybe a younger Sean Connery, who was able to play James Bond and frolic with the “Bond Girls” into his 50’s.



I wanted to tell her that I was still capable of ringing her bell. Of course, I would need 60 minutes’ notice in order for my blue pill to kick in.  Obviously I don’t really need this drug, only old guys really need it.  I just use it for a little help. Wait, I don’t mean anything is actually that little. I’m just making sure, as the commercial says, it’s very beneficial for guys as they age …. okay, let’s forget I ever brought this up, err, I mean, mentioned it.

My fantasy was rudely interrupted by the waitress joyfully asking:

“Did you see our new Prune-tastic Platter?  It’s like a shrimp platter you get at a seafood place, only with prunes!  There are stewed prunes, dried prunes, pureed prunes, prune casserole and a prune muffin. You also get a large glass of prune juice to wash it all down!” (Prune juice! – I freakin’ knew it!) 

I looked at her incredulously and was at a loss for words.

She then continued, “Don’t worry about eating that many prunes. Since we added this to the menu, we’ve stocked the restrooms with 3-ply, super-soft, toilet paper.” Then lowering her voice to a whisper and leaning towards me she added, “Because some people who order this have hemorrhoid issues.”  Of course I do have hemorrhoid problems, but not because I’m old. It’s just from sitting on my butt in cushy office jobs for many, many, ye…. okay, forget I mentioned this also.

This breakfast had gone totally wrong.  The waitress is supposed to be flirting with me in hopes of getting a big tip.  I am supposed to flirt back, because that’s how this game is played.  But now, all the waitress cares about is making me poop and assuring that it is an enjoyable experience.  I now feel like I am 90 years old.

I said defiantly, “I will have the Atomic Bacon Blast with a side order of bacon and I will wash it all down with a couple of raw eggs. And I want my bacon, shaken, not stirred”.

I do this to prove to the chicky-babe that I have the arteries (among other things) of a much younger man.  Which of course I don’t. My doctor is treating me for high cholesterol, not because I’m old, but because that gunk just builds up in your arteries over an extended time … ugh .. forget I said anything about this too.

I was finally able to enjoy my breakfast, as I stuff my face with over a pound of delicious bacon.  I leave the waitress a huge tip to prove I didn’t need their insulting discount.  I proudly walk past the restroom and its soft, 3-ply paper, on the way out.  However, as I reach the parking lot I do experience some strong chest pains, but I think it may have just been gas. Maybe I should have ordered the creamed oatmeal after all.

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