Endless wars, mushroom clouds, freedoms falling like ten pins, a tsunami of drugs, crime, cruelty, rape, kiddie porn, hatred, anger, drugs, crime, cruelty, war, crime, cruelty, war . . . and yet here, on Planet Geezer, it seems at times as if we are in a stark raving mad loony-toon mental ward where sense is senseless and insanity is sane. As per. . .
Now that the holidays are a mere memory, in old age I ponder a slight discrepancy in our custom of greetings. Why is it that we only wish people to be merry at Christmastime? As in, Merry Christmas! One week later, we wish them happy as in Happy New Year!
And then there is Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Easter, Happy Valentine’s Day, Happy St. Patrick’s Day and a whole string of “happys” throughout the year. In many ways, merry is so much nicer than happy. Happy can sound somewhat blah. For instance, some of my Irish friends sure do make merry on St. Patrick’s Day. In that case, merry is way beyond happy. Merry has a certain lilt to it. It means to be cheery and jolly.
I know it is going to take a lot of work to change our way of doing things in the greeting department. But with a little effort we can bring more merriness into everyday life.
Have a Merry Day!
Wow. Some of these local geez have waaaaaaay too much time on their hands. I suggest we put folks like Roy back to work, by forcing them into say, a salt mine or say, a saw mill somewhere and sweat all that endless stupidity and senility out of them. Five will get you a thousand that old Roy’s original letter was about ten times the length of that above and some poor young editor had to “trim” this literary masterpiece down a bit, and do a damned good job of it too, just to keep old Roy on board and buying those fish wraps every day. Just madness! And horse apples! And UFOs! And peach preserves!
Brewz in the Newz—Under the category of “Can/Can’t Make This Crap Up” I give you. . .
There was this chap named Herbert Schlitz. Herb was an alcoholic. The fact that he came from the beer capital of America, Milwaukee, certainly did nothing to help matters, I suppose. The fact that he was miserable in his marriage didn’t help either, I suppose. The fact that he couldn’t hold a job added to the troubles, I suppose. In fact, I suppose, there were many “facts” which contributed to Herb’s chronic alcoholism. Herb put away an even case of beer per day. For you teetotalers, that’s twenty-four cans per day, no more, no less, every day, every week, every month, every year. That’s what Herb socked away. And that’s some serious beer.
Herb Schlitz’s heart attack at age 37 was his wake-up call. By the time this propitious event occurred, Herb realized he was a hopeless drunk and he didn’t need the doctor to tell him the obvious . . . but the doc did any who—“keep it up and you’ll never live to see 40.”
Long paragraph short: Herb managed a spectacular turn around. The jolt to his mortality was all that it took for this guy to turn over the proverbial new leaf. Stone cold turkey he healed himself. Not one more brewskie did Herb take unto his lips; he formed a new dietary and exercise routine; he divorced his nag-hag; in a word, by age 39 Herb was well on his way to proving that booze would not kill him and that he would live to see 40 after all.
Another long paragraph short: One sunny Sunday when Herb was out taking his daily jog, as he was sweating and loping across a liquor store parking lot, our man didn’t see the beer truck with the bad brakes until it was too late. And so, Herb—flattened like a wild squirrel--did not live to see 40 after all. And so some more, in the end, technically, booze did finally bite Herb in the butt, though certainly not in the way he imagined.
Moral: You’re dead if you do and you’re dead if you don’t. Ain’t gettin’ out of this one alive.
How Low?—Over at our local Walmart the other day, 28-year-old Justin Haney was doing what he normally does, i.e., hanging around, trying to turn a buck, hoping to get high, looking stupid, acting suspicious. This life-time idiot and full-time fool was really nervous and needed something to get him back up there in that drug-induced oblivion where he normally spends most of his waking hours.
When jittery Justin saw some old coot in a wheel chair picking up an order at the pharmacy counter, he made his move. After first asking the surprised gent if he could buy the pills—and receiving an adament negative—Haney resorted to the law of the jungle and decided to just seize what he wanted. Hmmm. It would seem that in the “jungle” Justin is just a worm or roach. Tugging back and forth, this manly specimen could not even out muscle a cripple in a wheel chair. After punching the victim several times in the face, Justin decided that discretion was the better part of valor and that it was better to run away and live to steal another day and when the going gets tough then the . . . oh, hell, Justin just fled out the door . . . with a dozen security cameras rolling.
With a whole case of arrests—that’s still 24—for such trifles as battery, burglary and bungled robberies, Justin the Jailbird is now in jail again, just a waitin’ for some sympathetic judge to release him for the 25th time so he can get that fix he so desperately needs.
Beating up a cripple in a wheel chair! Now that’s getting pretty low, about as low as a man can go, about as low as a snake’s belly in a wagon rut. Maybe this time Justin can rob some silverware from a church and pawn it, or knock a four-year-old off her bike and sell it, or maybe he can find a grave to rob somewhere or. . . .
War on Drugs? Hahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!! Right! Don't need to go down to Columbia or Mexico to fight it--just come to Charlotte County.
Warning of the Day