Man-Plan Logic In Action

With all the trivial news stories such as vaccines, variants, and Mars landings, you may have overlooked that pertinent (actual) article about the Florida man who stole an engagement ring from one girlfriend and used it to propose to his other girlfriend.

You might want to laugh this off as just some guy being stupid, but I believe this unfortunate episode explains a lot about how male brains operate and the problems which result. But I do want to emphasize upfront: I am not condoning this man’s actions. I am merely attempting to explain them for the edification of all.

You see, Lance had a problem. He was dating Linda, and the relationship had progressed to a point where he was ready to commit to marriage. However, his resources were insufficient to buy Linda an engagement ring. And without that big, sparkly ring, his chances of sealing the deal, and of course scoring big-time that evening, were slim.

But Lance came up with a Man-Plan, featuring basic man-logic. Understand that man-logic is characterized by its simplicity and practicality. It’s not like that woman-logic, which is so complex, convoluted, and complicated, taking into account feelings and relationships and all those pesky “what-if” scenarios. Woman-logic is more complex that calculus or quantum physics, because those disciplines can be computer programmed, whereas woman-logic cannot.

The Plan

As Lance was getting ready to propose to Linda, he happened to be also romantically intertwined with Marla. Now I do realize this interjects some moral issues into the narrative. But my purpose is not to judge poor Lance. I mean, maybe he is a Mormon. Or perhaps, he was just conducting his own version of The Bachelor, starring himself as the main stud-star. And in this episode, he’s ready to present Linda the final rose. Anyway, remember, I’m not here to defend his actions. I’m just trying to explain them.

However, Marla possesses a critical attribute that Linda doesn’t have, and Lance desperately needs, a wedding band/engagement ring leftover from her previous marriage. So, Lance connives up a Man-Plan where he will stealthily remove the rings from Marla’s place and offer them to Linda in a marriage proposal. Now, I know this introduces another pesky moral issue, but I’m not here to condone his actions. I’m just trying to explain them.

The Male Brain

Again, you might want to dismiss this as a hare-brained scheme, but it is really a male-brained, Man-Plan. Men like to find new uses for old objects. Men like to fix things. Men do not want things just sitting around, serving no useful purpose. There is an entire power tool industry based on these concepts. And it is also the reason behind most duct-tape sales.

Lance saw this as an opportunity to put these rings to good use. I mean, they are just sitting there, right? They aren’t serving any useful purpose. Now I know that many of you will technically consider this theft, but in Lance’s male-brain, he is merely repurposing a dormant object that will bring joy to Linda, who he loves.

He also believes Marla will not be needing the rings soon. Cause, uh, her current boyfriend is going to abruptly dump her, and well, maybe she will never need the rings, being judged to be not “wedding-worthy” at this point. So, the man-logic here is: No one has to know, and no one will get hurt by this. And two people are going to benefit, including me.

(Right here is probably a good time to remind you: I’m not condoning his actions. I’m just explaining them.)

Emotional Objects

Now I know many of you of the female variety may be asking: How could that dork be so insensitive not to realize the emotional damage done to both women by this horrific action?

That’s an easy one. With one exception, men don’t attach any emotional value to objects. But women do. Women love knick-knacks and scatter them around the abode in excess. There are several industries based on the female attachment to stupid figurines. For men to emotionalize objects, there must be an accomplishment involved: the mounted fish, the Micky Mantle baseball, the bowling trophy.     

Tell me what that Precious Moments chick has ever accomplished? Nothing, I say, except for getting you to turn over valuable cash so that you can place her in every frickin’ room of the house. And I pity the fool who accidentally crashes her skull in when he leaps out of his chair with joy when the Packers score that last-second playoff win.

Deflect Defect

Lance’s plan to get hitched initially went off without a hitch. Linda enthusiastically accepted his proposal which included the offer of the $6,000 ring set. She was so enthralled, that she announced it on Facebook with a picture of that big ol’ ring. Marla was not so much enthralled, as enraged, when she visited Linda’s page after hearing Lance’s engagement, and recognized her jewelry.

One can only imagine her response in confronting poor Lance about the

situation. But I do know what Lance’s first statement was:

What were you doing on Marla’s Facebook page, to begin with?

This is because once a Man-Plan is developed, it is perfect in his mind. After all, the male-brain developed it using man-logic. Any failure of the plan is not because there were any faults in the logic; it is because someone, usually a female, interfered with its successful execution.

When a Man-Plan goes wrong, the male-brain will try to deflect all responsibility for the outcome:

We all know someone is responsible for this mess, and that person is not me, so it must be ___________(Fill in the blank).

Deflection is the natural male response to most all failures in life. Deflect, deflect, deflect. Men's ability to deflect things explains why there has never been a female goalie in the history of professional hockey.

The Conclusion

Both women severed their ties with Lance, and police issued an arrest warrant. But there is still one large unanswered question: How did poor Lance even know about the engagement ring and where it was kept? Maybe Marla had flashed the diamond at Lance, hoping she might entice him into a proposal. If that is in fact the case, Lance should hire Saul Goodman and claim entrapment.

And I hope Linda will reconsider. Look, Lance did choose you over Marla, didn’t he? You did win his heart. And Lance did come up with a Man-Plan to present you with the most beautiful ring he could find, even risking his freedom in the process. Are the means with which he obtained this rock all that important? But of course, I’m not defending his actions. I’m just explaining them.

Your Check Is In Postal Purgatory

I was thrilled to get a holiday card in the mail on February 2. I thought maybe Groundhog Day cards were a new thing this year because of the plague, and was excited to receive one from a co-worker in Indiana. But when I ripped open the envelope, I saw this picture card featuring the woman’s family and cat. There was no picture of a groundhog anywhere. I was confused until I saw “Merry Christmas” at the top of the card.

The letter was postmarked December 18, which means it took only 46 days to get to me. I think postal service was probably speedier in 1863 when mass delivery began. At first, it was amusing when tardy Christmas cards began arriving in early January. Then they kept trickling in throughout the month. It did give me the chance to experience the spirit of Christmas joy for several additional weeks. 

“On the third week of Christmas, my plumber sent to me, a card with a festive green commode.” 

But now it has gone much too far. I stand here staring at this card. Am I expected to be able to relive last Christmas over and over again, seemingly forever? Ironically on Groundhog Day? I think not. 

These smiling faces and cute pets may have generated glad tidings at Christmas. But no more. 

NOW IT IS JUST A FLIPIN’ WASTE OF TIME. I’LL NEVER MEET THESE PEOPLE AND I DON”T CARE WHAT YOUR PET LOOKS LIKE! NOT IN THE LEAST! IT’S FEBRUARY – FLIPPIN’ FEBRUARY! PLEASE, PLEASE MAKE IT STOOOOOOOP!!!!!!!!! 

The only consolation is the cat on the card is as fat as a groundhog. So maybe it is wishing me a Happy Cathog Day. If the cat sees its shadow, there is six more weeks of tuna. 

Postmaster- We have a problem!  

Now the problem is, the postal service is running a bit behind. Trying to delivery a huge surge in Christmas packages resulted in a huge backlog of other mail. Their response to the problem was not hiring more people or working more hours but: “Hey, just those on the pile over there”. And we know it is a pile, because what gets delivered on any given day is somewhat random. 

It’s like when Newman in that Seinfeld episode refused to deliver the mail. So, in December, the entire postal service went “Newman”. Okay, all of them except my friend Gary and the hot blonde who delivers my mail. (I always order more packages in the summer so she has to run up to my house in those cute blue postal shorts, but I digress). Yes, my carrier does an outstanding job! And I say

this because I don’t want to see my daily mail scattered across the road if she happens to read this.

But the big pile o’mail is causing big problems. My friend Stefanie mailed her mortgage payment on December 23 and had to explain to the bank why it hadn’t arrived four weeks later. These days saying “the check is in the mail” is akin to “you’re check has gone to hell,” or at least it’s stuck in purgatory.  

I thought all these late Christmas cards and people dealing with tardy payments was amusing until …..

And Then It Got Real

I was making an on-line purchase when my credit card was rejected. I tried three times, but it came back with a message, “Your credit card has expired.” I was furious because my card's expiration date is more than two years away. I immediately call the credit card people.

It’s after hours, so I get the call center. Which all I will say, is not located in these United States. The woman informs me that a company where I had used my card had a data breach, so they canceled my card and issued a new one.

Me: Why didn’t you tell me you did this. (snarly!)

Card Rep: Oh, we mailed a notice right away, Mr. Ake. And then we mailed you a new card a couple days after that. You should have gotten your new card more than a week ago.

Me: My mail service is late, and I never received any notice. And now I don’t have a credit card!

Card Rep: Oh! We berri, berri sorry Mr. Ake. Perhaps the mule died.

Me: What mule are you talking about?

Card Rep: In my village, it takes about five days for the mule to bring the mail. But when the mule dies, the mail is late. Then they must use the goat instead, and the goat is very slow. The goat takes nine days. How late is your mail?

Me: Over 40 days.

Card Rep: Oooooh Nooooo! All your animals have died! The Covid has killed them all. Blessings on your village, Mr. Ake.

Me: So, my new card is stuck in a big pile of mail at a postal center, and you can’t reactivate my old card. So, I’m screwed, right?

Card Rep: Oh, Mr. Ake, You are screwed. You are so screwed. You are berri, berri screwed. Hopefully, you get a new mule soon.

The Twilight Zone

Imagine a world where your checks are stuck in Hades and your new credit card is buried at the bottom of a huge pile of junk mail. And Newman is your mail carrier. This problem will persist until the mail pile is gone. But then maybe it starts all over again next December– better mail those holiday cards and packages early. Perhaps by July 4!

Fortunately, my card arrived about a week after my phone call. But it should be duly noted that it still took 17 days to arrive, or eight days longer than the village goat. However, the notice telling me my card is canceled is still somewhere in that pile. And this whole incident has been a large pile of, well, you know ……

 

We Need Things To Slow Down Fast

 If we didn’t already have enough to worry about, with the plague killing us with disease and our politicians killing us with hate, along comes this disturbing (actual) headline:

“Scientists say Earth is spinning faster than it has in decades”

That’s right, while you thought 2020 was the longest year ever, it was, in fact, the shortest. By using atomic clocks, scientists say that July 19 was the shortest day ever recorded, and the Earth spun faster last year.

Not being influenced at all by the dangers of the plague or watching the nightly cable news, there is only one way to interpret this phenomenon: The world is literally spinning out of control.

Now I know they taught us in school that the Earth spins on its axis. But there is no real axis! Nothing is sticking through the Earth that it actually spins on. That’s why they teach us this in third-grade because we are still too young to question the stupid things we are being told.

When I was a boy, I had a metal globe with an actual plastic axis sticking through the center. Of course, when I spun it too fast, it would pop off its axis and go rolling across the floor. Let’s hope that’s not going to happen here.

But the Earth is just hanging out there in space, spinning away. And now spinning even faster, with nothing – I repeat nothing - keeping it from just flying off into the universe. You atheists better hope you are wrong. You better say a prayer that you are --- uh well, that won’t work, will it? Well, do something …..

The scientist’s solution to the problem is to “add a negative leap second” to the atomic clock. In essence, they want to “turn back time”.

If they decide to do this, I believe they should have Cher do the honors. I mean, she sang about wanting to, and now she can. She would also be a great choice because she has “turned back time”. Just look at her! Cher is 74 years old and still hot. She may have set the record for hotness longevity, since she has been hot since age 18. That’s 56 years of hotness. That’s impressive.

I realize she may have been hot before age 18, but it is not culturally acceptable to refer to females younger than that as hot. It can even be dangerous to think that way. Just ask Jeffery Epstein. Uh okay, maybe you can’t do that – but you get my idea.

I do understand that Cher has received some assistance in maintaining her hotness. But it’s time we recognize that her body sculpting has been superb. We marvel at the ancient sculptures of women by Alexandros and Bernini. Why not hold Beverly Hills plastic surgeon Murry Goldstein in the same high regard. I mean, Cher is a
master-piece, no?

On second thought, maybe Cher shouldn’t be there when they turn back time by adjusting the atomic clock a “negative leap second”. This sounds difficult, and you wouldn’t want that scientist distracted by Cher’s hotness, would you?

I certainly hope that adjusting the time on the atomic clock is much easier than changing the time on the clock in my car. That task, done twice a year due to the time change, is an arduous one. Never accomplished without multiple failures and the expression of profanations.

If resetting the atomic clock is as challenging, I fear:

Science Boss: Wilson, were you successful at resetting the atomic clock?

Wilson: I almost there, boss. The thing keeps pushing me back to the previous menu, but I’ve almost got it. There are only a few problems to work out. I should have everything corrected sometime tomorrow.

Science Boss: Problems? What Problems?

Wilson: Well, we are now at war with Germany. And oh yeah, you probably want to stock up on butter on the way home. We will be rationing it soon.

The Three Hopes For This Year

We need the world to resume its normal existence as soon as possible. So, as we enter 2021, we have three hopes. We hope that the vaccine ends the plague. We hope that the Earth slows down and resumes spinning at its normal speed. And we hope that Cher remains hot – or at least warm.

He Wouldn’t Throw In The Towel

 I had initially planned to launch my third humor book, “Turkey Terror At My Door!” at the end of last March. I had just started to schedule book signings and events when the lockdown hit in Ohio on March 13th, Friday the 13^th, by the way.

I consulted with my publisher and decided to delay the release, but there wasn’t a clear consensus.

Me: We need to delay the book release.

Publisher: Why would we do that?

Me: Haven’t you heard about this coronavirus?

Publisher: That cold germ? Are you letting that stop you? What are you, a pussy?

But other artists were delaying the release of their works, Lady Gaga, for example. And if it’s good enough for Gaga, it’s good enough for me. My publisher and I may have disagreed, but Gaga and I were totally in sync. Ooooh baby!

Lady Gaga decided to release her album on May 29^th, and because I was following her behind closely – No, let me restate, because I wanted to be close behind her, oh you know what I mean - I decided to release my book on June 3rd.  But this also lacked a mutual agreement.

Me: I want to release the book on June 3rd

Publisher: Are you insane? Haven’t you heard about this coronavirus?

Me: Yes, but if we wait until the pandemic ends, we could be waiting a long time.

Publisher: Fine, but what are you, an idiot? 

The decision to release the book was the right call. Sales were decent, considering the circumstances and the lack of in-person events. As the the pandemic eased some in August, I held a couple “open-air”, in-person book-signings. I scheduled several events held outside in September since I would not be able to have any events outdoors the rest of the year.  

However, if the September events went well, I would need more books. This was a great accomplishment under the circumstances, and I was reordering much sooner than I had for my previous books.  So, of course, I called my publisher.

Me: I need to order more books.

Publisher: What did you do with the books we sent you?

Me: I sold them.

Publisher: How did you do that?  Haven’t you heard about that virus?

Me: I’m working harder, smarter, and safer, and I’m selling books.

Publisher: Well then, I recommend you order more books.

Me: Good idea, send me another box, please.

I was away on a short vacation to a safe, remote location when I got the delivery notice that the books had arrived. I was concerned because my  daughter would have to move the heavy box off the porch. When I got home, I was surprised to see the box on the kitchen counter. When I asked my daughter how she had managed to lift the box that high, she laughed it off and said she had been working extra hard at the gym. This was the first indication that something was amiss.

The box sat on the counter for a couple of days, as I got caught up from being away. But then I accidentally bumped the box, and surprisingly, it moved. I grabbed the box with both hands but it was lighter than expected, much lighter. Very, very, light.

I ripped the box open, only to find it did not contain any books, but two packages of white bath towels. I just stared at the towels in disbelief. I quickly checked the shipment notice, which confirmed that one box of books had been delivered to my house on Wednesday.

I was unsure of what to do next. If I call the shipping company, they would ask me to return the towels. I did not want to do that because my possession of the towels is the only proof that I had not received my books and that the shipping confirmation notice was also incorrect. So, I call my publisher. 

Me: I didn’t get the books. They sent me towels.

Publisher: I thought you ordered books. How you gonna sell more books, if you got towels? Can you sell the towels?

Me: I don’t want to sell any towels. I want to sell books. Just find where my books are, please.

While I was waiting for an answer, I examined these towels in greater detail. These were not just any towels. They were EXQUISITELY FLUFFY, made of 100% RING SPUN COTTON. And I just hate it when my towels are only 85% ring spun. The towels feature supreme loft, are quick-drying, and have long-lasting fibers. Everything you would want in a bath towel. They were made in Pakistan, and you know how luxurious Pakistani cotton products are.

Oh, these were tremendous towels. I could imagine stepping out of a hot shower and wrapping myself in one of these babies. It might feel better than the shower itself.

I hoped that no one would ask me to send back the towels. I wanted these towels. I fantasized about these towels. At some point, I cared more about the towels than my books.

My publisher soon called back. The shipper had assumed liability for the mistake, and the books would be reprinted and reshipped. This was fine because one of my book events got cancelled and another one wasn’t well attended. I still needed the books, but there was no rush. And more importantly, there was no mention of returning the towels. The towels, all 12 of them, were mine! All mine! Woo Woo – score!  

Upon hearing that the problem had been resolved, my wife walked over to the box of towels which had been sitting in the living room for over a week. Why she waited so long to get involved is a mystery. She then carefully pulled back the shipping label. Underneath was the package label, which revealed the towels were supposed to be sent to a hotel. And this is key, a hotel less than four miles from my house.

Now, prior to this knowledge, I had no problem keeping the towels. Someone had made a mistake that had inconvenienced me, and it would be a hassle to send them back. However, now that I knew who the towels belonged to and could quickly rectify the situation, I couldn’t in good conscience keep the towels.

I called the manager of the hotel and explained the situation. We both had a good laugh about it, and I explained he could send someone over to get the towels when convenient. We were wrapping up the conversation, when:

Manager: By the way, what were you supposed to get in your delivery?

Me: Books.

Manager: Books with a turkey on the cover?

Me: Uh, yeah.

Manager: Yes, I’ve got your box of books in my office.

Twenty minutes later, I am driving over to the hotel to make a much-welcomed trade. However, I was still upset about giving up those luxurious towels. But then, I had a great idea.

When I met the manager, I offered to trade him one of my books for one of his towels. A more than fair offer, no? But sadly, he turned me down. You see, the pandemic had caused a severe towel shortage, and he needed every one of those towels. No, he could not spare a square. I was crushed.

I called my publisher and cancelled the new book order since it was no longer needed. Everybody, the shipper, publisher, hotel manager, and hotel guests were happy, happy, and happy that the problem came to a surprisingly satisfactory resolution. Everybody was happy except for one person. I didn’t get one darn towel out of whole bizarre episode. Now it haunts me whenever I shower.

 

 

 

 

Mall Maskness – 2020 Edition

 Despite the pandemic, I decided to make my annual Christmas shopping excursion to the mall. So, I put on my turkey mask (yes, it’s real) and ventured out. I was concerned there would not be interesting things to see this year, but I was wrong.   

                                                                                

Candle Crazy

Unfortunately, I happened to pick the day of “Huge Candle Sale” at the “bath soap and body lotion” store. But I didn’t think many people would risk their lives for cheap candles, but I was wrong – so wrong. They were limiting the number of people within the small store, so there was a staging area with 30 socially distanced people waiting outside the store and another 20 people in a second waiting area about 50 feet down the concourse. This means I would have waited an hour just to get in, and I wasn’t even shopping for candles. I decided to stroll on by.

Over-Priced Sweaters

I went into the fancy-smancy department store. I’m not going to buy anything. I’m just looking for what’s trendy this year. I see this nice display of $150 sweaters. But what guy is going to spend $150 on a sweater? The answer is “none”. But women will. Put a high-price tag on anything, and it perks up some of the female species. It is the equivalent of product porn. Women know they shouldn’t buy it, but many can’t resist it. There ought to be a law against it, but the stores and credit card companies would go broke if there were. And this year, there is nowhere to impress people with your $150 sweater anyhow.

Blatant Discrimination

The department store already knows that men aren’t going to buy anything here. I came to this realization when I was in the store and had to take a whizz. However, even though there were two “women’s restrooms prominently marked, there was no sign of a “men’s room” anywhere. They do not want men hanging around their store, talking women out of ridiculous $150 sweater purchases, and using their restrooms. Alright, this is probably because men are much messier than women and are more prone to “stink up” the place. And this can cause problems ….

Woman at the fragrance counter about to purchase some $500/oz “watair du tolay”:

“Oh I just adore the subtle fruitiness of this scent. But whoa! What is that stench?”

Clerk: “I’m sorry. Some guy has found the restroom again. We took down all the signs, but sometimes they find it anyway.”

Woman: “Eww! I can’t buy this “watair du tolay” while being overpowered by “stench day toilet”. I have to leave now.”

It’s a good thing I didn’t have to whizz badly because the facilities are well hidden. Probably back in a dark corner, where a desperate guy might try to whizz he had to. “Oh look, there it is.”

I know I could have asked one of the clerks, but I fear it could be embarrassing.

Me: “Could you please direct me to the men’s room?”

Clerk: “There is one way back over there. But you are not planning to stink up the place, are you?”

Me: “Thanks, I’ll just be leaving now.”

More Bathroom Issues

Fortunately, I made it over to the main mall restroom just in time. But I was surprised to find that several urinals were out of order, making social distancing more difficult. To provide the acceptable man-distance, I had to use kiddie urinal, which is lower to the floor. Because I am tall, sometimes when I must use the kiddie whizzer, the guy at the urinal next to me will make some smart-ass comment about it being a long shot. When this happens, I stare straight ahead and in the most serious tone possible reply, “I can use the extra space”.

Worst Christmas Ornament Ever

At two stores (and also on the web), I saw overpriced ($12) tree ornaments with messages: “2020 – the year we quarantined” or pithy sayings to that effect. (There was even one on the Internet designed to look like a coronavirus). Why would you hang something on your tree that reminds you of how awful this Christmas is? Are you a moron, or a sadist? Maybe just a moronic sadist. Pick one. And the other reason you buy a dated ornament is to relive warm memories of that year for many future Christmases when they are hanging on your tree.  No one will have any warm memories of 2020 unless they are running a fever. If you choose to hang the 2020 ornament on your tree next year, you need a mental evaluation. All these ornaments deserve to be burned in hades.  

Baby It’s Cold Inside

I was visiting the second fancy-smancy department store when I turned the corner and thought I saw a young woman wearing this tight, little crop top, with no bra. Her large nipples were stretching out the thin fabric. Only it wasn’t a woman; it was a mannequin. Apparently, enhanced-nipple mannequins are a thing. I would have taken a pic, but I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was weird (here’s a pic from the web).  However, if I knew I was going to write about it, I would have flagged down a store clerk and pointed (ha) out that they had

neglected to put a bra on the mannequin, just to see her reaction.

Regardless, this is wrong on so many counts. It is false, or maybe falsie advertising. You do not see points that big except in an NBA All-Star game. And even if the woman is exceptionally nipped, unless you remain in temperatures around negative-20 degrees, you ain’t matching, nor maintaining the firmness exuded by that mannequin. It’s also a horrible model for young women. That mannequin looks so slutty that you know it wouldn’t take much to get her to spread her legs – well, if she had legs, that is.

And it’s also the wrong image to send to young men. As I stood there, a man and his son walked past. The boy looked at the mannequin …

“Hey dad, can I get a girl like that for Christmas?” he asked hopefully.

“No, Ralphie, she’ll shoot your eye out,” his father warned.

 My Last Purchase

I did end up buying three candles at another store in the mall. There was no waiting, and candles are candles, right? They are made of stuff that melts. They have a wick; you light ‘em, they burn. Been that way for 5,000 years. And the one I bought for my wife smells like the beach. We didn’t get to go to the beach much in 2020, so my wife can experience the beach without leaving the house, which means I just  saved thousands of dollars. So, such a deal!

Happy New Year to you all!

 

 

There Are No Congratulations and There Is No G-word

Recently my daughter gave birth to a son, the first time my children have had a child of their own.

Now, wait!

I SAID, WAIT!!!! --  WAIT!!!!  JUST WAIT!

I’m warning you! I know what you are about to do – but don’t do it! Not until you hear me out.

I understand that many people view this as some kind of significant event. For some reason, people feel the need to congratulate me for it.

I find this strange, even bizarre. Because I had absolutely nothing to do with it. Nothing. I wasn’t there at the conception. I didn’t even know any procreating activity was going on. And I didn’t deliver the kid. I wasn’t even present at his birth.

Granted, I did provide food and shelter to my daughter when she was growing up. So, I guess I kept her alive until she was around 23 years old, but then she left the nest and has functioned well on her own for several years. This just seems like such a low bar to clear for a “congratulations”.

Now I did pay for the wedding, so maybe I did invest in this eventual outcome. And yet, perhaps my actions just ensured the kid would be “legitimate”. But then again, that is no small accomplishment, as legitimacy has not always been the norm in my family tree.

But this still seems like such a strange thing to congratulate me for. I just didn’t do anything. So, the world now remains populated. Whoopee! Around 385,000 babies are born around the world every day. Every day! So, what’s the big deal about adding one more?

Worse yet, when people congratulate me, they are assigning me a new moniker, without my permission I must say, that implies I am a decrepit old man and not the vim and vigor specimen that I obviously resemble.

Of course, I am “grand”. Everyone knows that. I mean I have written three books, while still working in a prestigious, “smarty-pants” day job. My wisdom, intellect, and modesty are all noteworthy. “Grand” is a very proper word to describe me.

And I am a “father”. I am listed on two birth certificates, that I know of, and even though there have never been any DNA tests, my daughters' paternity has never been questioned.

However, under no circumstance, none, should those two words ever be combined in any reference to me. No reference! I find that title much less than grand. Not very grand at all. More like it’s so small, it’s grand-ular.

It is the G-word, and it is just as offensive to me as the N-word, C-word, B-word, M&NOP-word, is to those other alphabet offended peoples. (Yes, I could have written a much funnier sentence than that one, but some people's heads would have exploded.)

I am obviously not the G-word in any sense. This word is used to describe old, feeble, ancient men, who, who, ah, yeah, have fading memories and leaky pipes which require dependable protective solutions. The kind of frail men who walk with canes! Okay, so I do own a cane, but only occasionally use it for medicinal purposes only and not because I am old.

I do not resemble anything associated with the G-word. Not anything! It shall not be used in reference to me because I am still a vibrant, virile, young-for-my-age, strapping man. And by strapping, I am in no way referring to my knee-brace straps, elbow-brace straps, truss-straps, or back-brace straps, which I may or may not be familiar with.

All right, so to review: There is no need to congratulate me, because I have done nothing, absolutely nothing, to deserve it. However, if you still insist on commending me, there will be no use of the G-word, none, because it is highly offensive to me. So, so, offensive.

I understand that eventually, the kid will have to call me something. But rest assured, it will not be the G-word or any variant of the G-word. I’m leaning towards “Pops”. Yes! Explosive – with lots of fizz still left! 

However, I must say that this kid, who does carry some of my DNA, is extraordinary. He may be the most exceptional baby ever born in the history of man. And I’m not just saying that. I’m not biased in any way. This baby is just amazing. He really, really is.  Also, I think he may even have inherited my large ears, which won’t help him any in the looks department, but at least he will be able to hear extraordinarily well.

They named him Liam. This was a disappointment because I was hoping they would name him after me. I mean, there is absolutely no reason you wouldn’t want to name your kid “Donald” this year, right?

Now Liam is not a bad choice for one of those more unique, “modern type” forename. And I’ve heard some really wacko choices lately. The name Liam does fit him well, because if he is anything like his grandf… ah, whoops. What I mean, is if he is anything like his mother’s father, he will have a very particular set of skills.

So, now that this event has passed, I’m just going to find a nice chair, relax and focus on enjoying life again. And NO, IT IS NOT A ROCKING CHAIR!!!!

 

 

Which Grandpa Do You Want Driving The Car?

 Jan has a dilemma. She and her neighborhood friends need someone to drive them to volleyball practice. Everyone who normally does this is busy, so Jan must choose between her two grandfathers, Grandpa Joe, or Grandpa Donald to drive them. But who is the best choice to drive the car?

Some people would argue that both Grandpa Joe and Grandpa Donald are too old to drive and would be a danger behind the wheel. But they are very eager to prove they are capable drivers and much more skilled than the other in directing the vehicle.

However, Jan is leery of letting either one of them drive the gang to the gym. But these are her only choices, so she thinks long and hard before her decision.

Grandpa Joe is really a nice guy. He smiles a lot, laughs a lot, and everybody likes him. But lately, Grandpa Joe has increasingly been showing his age. Sometimes he doesn’t know where he is or what he is doing. He gets confused quickly and often says stuff that doesn’t make much sense.

Grandpa Donald still has most of his mental faculties in place, however he is totally missing that filter that prevents offensive and sometimes ridiculous statements from leaving his mouth. If he thinks it, he just says it, with no regard of how people will interpret or respond to it.

Grandpa Joe will adamantly insist he can still drive the car, but Jan has her doubts. He is going to need lots of help on the drive to school. She can tell him when to turn, but he might be rambling aimlessly about how he once played volleyball naked. And lately, Grandpa Joe has started making too many left turns, sometimes resulting in him driving around in circles and providing no clear direction.

Grandpa Donald will boast that he is a great, great, driver – possibly the greatest driver ever. But he’s not. He drives recklessly and all over the road. He zips through 4-way stops and often blatantly runs red lights claiming, “Those rules don’t apply to me.”  If there are pedestrians in the street, he doesn’t brake for them shouting, “They are here illegally, and it is my job to protect the curbs.”

If Grandpa Joe is chosen, Jan wants to make sure all her friends get in the car quickly. Because Tiffany uses that fruity, herbal shampoo, and Grandpa Joe enjoys sniffing girl’s hair. And there was that incident last year when he tried to give Sheila that shoulder massage when they both happened to be over at the house.

If Grandpa Donald is chosen, Jan will hope he doesn’t find out that Aniellka is Nicaraguan and ask how her parents got into the country. He might even ask her for proof of citizenship. And hopefully, he won’t brag about how he built that wall on his property to keep the Honduran kids out of his yard.

If Grandpa Joe is chosen, the gang will bolt from the car because it was a long and frustrating trip, where the driver was confused and preoccupied from beginning to end. The worst part was when he aimlessly started singing along to a different song playing on the radio. Jan is concerned that Grandpa Joe won’t be able to find his way back home without some help after dropping the gang off. But he assures her that he can call his friend Kam, if he is no longer able to drive the car himself.

If Grandpa Donald is chosen, the girls will rush from the car because it was a fast and harrowing trip, featuring numerous traffic violations and several driving maneuvers the girls had never experienced before and never want to see again. The worst part is when he became upset with another driver and screamed some vulgarities out the window, some of which the girls will have to Google when they return home. Jan is concerned Grandpa Donald may stay and watch volleyball practice, shouting “Loser” when somebody misses a shot. 

Jan has a difficult choice to make. She wishes there was another way to get to volleyball practice, but there isn’t. She must choose one grandpa or the other.  Which one will it be?