’m a pretty law-abiding kind of guy. I usually follow the rules. I bring my library books back on time. I don’t litter. And I only give the finger to old Asian-American drivers. If I was a fruit, I guess I would have to be a peach.
However, I do have one semi-glaring criminal tendency. I get a lot of speeding tickets. I don’t think I’m an unsafe driver. I’m not reckless. I don’t drive under the influence of anything except backseat drivers. I don’t weave in and out of traffic at 90 miles an hour with my right arm around a “big, nasty redhead” and use the lover’s knob to change lanes. No, I don’t drive like that. But I admit I have been known to drive a little faster than the speed limit. I guess I just have a lead foot. Some would say a lead head.
As I have mentioned a while back, I used to even budget for speeding tickets when I went on vacation. Yup, we’d head out for Colorado, or New Mexico or Nevada or Montana, and I’d allocate a damn 150 bucks to pay off the speeding fines, and that was usually pretty accurate. And I remember once being with my kids, Mike and Casey, just before we drove into Arizona, and I said, “You watch, I’m going to get a damn ticket.” Two minutes later I see the red lights flashing from behind a billboard, and I said, “Daddy never lies.”
Another time I was with Casey up in Canada, and we’re cruising through Manitoba after seeing a minor league hockey game in Brandon, and I didn’t even know we went through some tiny-ass town. I hear a siren and the Mountie guy with the cool hat stops me and is kind of incredulous and all I remember is I couldn’t figure out the kilometers-per-hour to the miles-per-hour ratio thing. He just kept shaking his head and I think he mentioned something about Americans are a-holes, eh.
I can also recall a couple of other out-of-state ticketing adventures. One time I was in Wyoming, Red Rock or Green Rock, some Rock city place, and a Rock cop guy pulls me over and gives me a ticket for going 27 in a 25 MPH zone. Two miles over the limit! I don’t call that speeding. I call that a reason to cry.
And once my 39-year-old son, Mike, was driving with me in Utah, and I just let him take the wheel because I thought finally he was old enough to drive, and he got a ticket faster than Obama can change his mind. It was fast, baby. And although I was dizzy, I was able to tell him, “I’m proud of you, son, you’re the Lead-Foot Loin-Springer I had always hoped for.”
And I’ve had three, count ’em, 1-2-3, speeding tickets right here on Altadena Drive heading south just before New York Drive. It’s a 35 mph zone, and it seems harmless enough. But you’ve got momentum from going downhill and you’re just cruising at about 40 or so. You’d have to be a sissy or a commie to go slower. I knew I had a problem when, after the third ticket, the cop comes up to me and says all cheery-like, “Hi, Jim.” Yes, he called me by my friggoni first name. Jim. He called me Jim.
My latest brush with the law happened just last week. I was coming down Lake Avenue from Altadena. I wasn’t speeding speeding, but I was regular speeding just a bit. The speed limit was 35 and I was, maybe, doing 40 to 45. Just fast enough to make me feel slightly better than the other drivers, but not unsafe in my own Mensa mind.
Then I looked to the right and my eyes met the eyes of a motorcycle cop. And in that split second of eye contact I instinctively tried not to look guilty and the copper instantly noticed my guilty-ass fake-not-guilty look and kind of pulled his helmeted head back just a little and eyeballed me even harder. And then I, of course, to confirm my guilt, hit the brake like the dumb-ass lead-footed speeding nitwit that I am and will always be.
As soon as I touched the brake and the cop saw me slow down, he knew he had my worthless butt in his Protect and Serve hands. (Now, there’s an image!) So he guns his bike and whips out behind me, and I see him in my rearview mirror, and his red lights go on, and I cuss myself out, and eventually pull up to the curb right in front of the McDonalds near Orange Grove. “You want fries with that citation, loser?”
The copper comes up to my window and says, “Do you know why I stopped you?” I said, “Because I have a bad Facebook photo?” He said, “You look worse in person,” and informed me that I was going 50 in a 35 zone. I offered that I was going 40, tops. He then inquired if I had ever heard the expression “Going like a bat out of hell.” I said I had heard of that expression, but this here particular bat-mobile I was driving was barely going fast enough to get out of purgatory.
He had no sense of humor. He gave me the speeding ticket. And since I couldn’t see any excruciatingly bad old Asian drivers around I gave him a kind of proxy finger. I kept it below the window so as not to hurt his feelings.
Even though I’m a speeder, I’m always considerate of others.
Jim Laris is a former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Aging White Males Need Love Too (Cigar Smoke 6-18-09)
You know that new Supreme Court nominee, the one with the broken ankle, and the broken compass. Yeah, that one. Well she has raised my ire, my hackles and my blood pressure. Too bad she couldn’t do anything about my ED.
Anyway, her whole whining, tiresome, racist Latina diatribe about her being better than an old white male has frosted this old white male’s frijoles, baby. Of course, she’s not the first one to have this learned opinion. You hear it constantly. It’s the new mantra. All the sensitive, understanding types want to have “people of color” for elected officials and judges, etc., etc. Now, you gotta be black, brown, yellow, or red to be one of the correctly colored guys. Well, white is a color, dammit.
And you know, us old white guys haven’t done all that badly for, say, the last 300 years. We’ve created the greatest country in history for starters. We have the best system of justice since time began. We have had an incredibly strong economic system, a free capitalistic system, which has given the world a wealth it never dreamed of. Our medical system is second to none. Our farmers, mostly white males, have fed more people in history than any other particular color of farmer that I know of.
We have the most powerful military in the history of mankind, a military which has not only kept us free for over 200 damn years, but has also freed millions and millions of oppressed “people of color” around the world. Most of the dead guys buried in foreign fields are our white males who gave up their white male lives so their white male children could be bashed by non-white revisionist short-memoried ingrates.
Hell, I could go on and on about what us disgusting old white guys have accomplished — from the computer industry to the car industry to the life-saving drug industry to almost any other industry you can think of.
Of course, I realize we, as old white guys, didn’t do all this alone. We had the help of wonderful and talented women, and equally deserving people of every race and color. I am thankful and grateful for how we all pulled together to achieve what we’ve achieved. I applaud us all. I applaud all the people of color. Including the white color.
A lot of women and minorities died in our wars, and they were all absolutely essential to helping create this great country. I am not trying to pit one group against the other. On the other hand, I would have to say that the old white guys were the dominant force in what happened for centuries. And most of that was pretty damn good in this old white cowboy’s opinion. Maybe with all the talk about tolerance and understanding and acceptance, Judge Broken Ankle might cut us a little slack. Or is cutting a little slack just for people of the correct color?
And you know, some of these great people of color who are idolized haven’t done all that well in most of the countries they came from. The old brown males from South America and Mexico have, for the most part, established dictatorships and caused misery for millions and millions of their own people. Their economic systems have generally been a disaster — considering all the resources they have. Hey, you don’t see Americans risking their lives to sneak across the southern border too much, do you? I wonder why.
And Africa is almost a total catastrophe. It’s painful to see the level of corruption and despair on that continent. The millions of black people slaughtered — by their own people of color. It’s heart-wrenching. And when us old white males (along with others) send billions of dollars of food and aid over to help them, most of it is wasted or stolen by the people of color in charge.
Hell, using a person’s color to determine your role models just doesn’t seem to cut it. Old black males and old brown males can be just as bad as us old white males. So, I guess in this case, white is as good as the other colors.
And hey, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison, Abraham Lincoln, Dwight David Eisenhower, Jonas Salk, Elvis Presley, FDR, George Washington, Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Albert Schweitzer, Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, Red Grange, Jerry West, Bill Clinton, Alexander Graham Bell, Johnny Carson, Johnny Cash, Johnny Unitas, Willie Nelson, Audie Murphy, Alan Alda, Al Gore, Ross Perot, Tommy Lasorda, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Mark Twain, Wayne Gretski, Clarence Darrow, Billy Graham, Paul Newman, Robert Redford, Robert E. Lee, Ronald Reagan, Ernest Hemingway, John Updike, John Irving, Carl Sagan, Lenny Bruce, Rodney Dangerfield, Edgar Allen Poe, Merle Haggard, Warren Buffett, Charles Darwin, Benjamin Franklin, and Rush Limbaugh all have one thing in common.
They’re all old white males.
Jim Laris is a former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Anyway, her whole whining, tiresome, racist Latina diatribe about her being better than an old white male has frosted this old white male’s frijoles, baby. Of course, she’s not the first one to have this learned opinion. You hear it constantly. It’s the new mantra. All the sensitive, understanding types want to have “people of color” for elected officials and judges, etc., etc. Now, you gotta be black, brown, yellow, or red to be one of the correctly colored guys. Well, white is a color, dammit.
And you know, us old white guys haven’t done all that badly for, say, the last 300 years. We’ve created the greatest country in history for starters. We have the best system of justice since time began. We have had an incredibly strong economic system, a free capitalistic system, which has given the world a wealth it never dreamed of. Our medical system is second to none. Our farmers, mostly white males, have fed more people in history than any other particular color of farmer that I know of.
We have the most powerful military in the history of mankind, a military which has not only kept us free for over 200 damn years, but has also freed millions and millions of oppressed “people of color” around the world. Most of the dead guys buried in foreign fields are our white males who gave up their white male lives so their white male children could be bashed by non-white revisionist short-memoried ingrates.
Hell, I could go on and on about what us disgusting old white guys have accomplished — from the computer industry to the car industry to the life-saving drug industry to almost any other industry you can think of.
Of course, I realize we, as old white guys, didn’t do all this alone. We had the help of wonderful and talented women, and equally deserving people of every race and color. I am thankful and grateful for how we all pulled together to achieve what we’ve achieved. I applaud us all. I applaud all the people of color. Including the white color.
A lot of women and minorities died in our wars, and they were all absolutely essential to helping create this great country. I am not trying to pit one group against the other. On the other hand, I would have to say that the old white guys were the dominant force in what happened for centuries. And most of that was pretty damn good in this old white cowboy’s opinion. Maybe with all the talk about tolerance and understanding and acceptance, Judge Broken Ankle might cut us a little slack. Or is cutting a little slack just for people of the correct color?
And you know, some of these great people of color who are idolized haven’t done all that well in most of the countries they came from. The old brown males from South America and Mexico have, for the most part, established dictatorships and caused misery for millions and millions of their own people. Their economic systems have generally been a disaster — considering all the resources they have. Hey, you don’t see Americans risking their lives to sneak across the southern border too much, do you? I wonder why.
And Africa is almost a total catastrophe. It’s painful to see the level of corruption and despair on that continent. The millions of black people slaughtered — by their own people of color. It’s heart-wrenching. And when us old white males (along with others) send billions of dollars of food and aid over to help them, most of it is wasted or stolen by the people of color in charge.
Hell, using a person’s color to determine your role models just doesn’t seem to cut it. Old black males and old brown males can be just as bad as us old white males. So, I guess in this case, white is as good as the other colors.
And hey, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison, Abraham Lincoln, Dwight David Eisenhower, Jonas Salk, Elvis Presley, FDR, George Washington, Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Albert Schweitzer, Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, Red Grange, Jerry West, Bill Clinton, Alexander Graham Bell, Johnny Carson, Johnny Cash, Johnny Unitas, Willie Nelson, Audie Murphy, Alan Alda, Al Gore, Ross Perot, Tommy Lasorda, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Mark Twain, Wayne Gretski, Clarence Darrow, Billy Graham, Paul Newman, Robert Redford, Robert E. Lee, Ronald Reagan, Ernest Hemingway, John Updike, John Irving, Carl Sagan, Lenny Bruce, Rodney Dangerfield, Edgar Allen Poe, Merle Haggard, Warren Buffett, Charles Darwin, Benjamin Franklin, and Rush Limbaugh all have one thing in common.
They’re all old white males.
Jim Laris is a former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Plunging In (Cigar Smoke 6-4-09)
I know I have been accused of being anally retentive. Many of you astute readers, and even some of you stute readers, have mentioned over the years that I have a tendency to discuss certain things that, shall we say, are south of the Mason Dixon Line.
Well, I have tried to stop doing this, because I want to be accepted by all you non anally retentive people and live in a world where the opposite of being anally-retentive is really cool and maybe we could have some ice tea and play Canasta.
But something happened last week. Something so embarrassing and humiliating that I have decided to never go to the bathroom again. Oh, sure, I’ll go Number One, but I will hold in all Number Two urges until I either explode or shoot a few nuns.
I was at my sister’s house in Colorado last week, and I was enjoying talking to Carol and her housemate, Brent. Then I made the fateful decision to go to the bathroom. Excuse the expression, but I did my duty, and then when I tried to flush the results of doing my duty, let’s just say that the flushing was not exactly complete. I looked around for a plunger. No luck. God can be a kidder.
So I go back out to the living room and say to Carol and Brent, “Uh, excuse me, but would you happen to have a plunger?” Brent says, after moistening the twinkle in his eye, “What do you need a plunger for?” I ask my sister why she hangs out with these kinds of people. Finally, Brent brings me a plunger and says, “Be sure to put the round rubber side down, and hold the thin wooden handle in your hands.”
I go back into the emergency area wondering if they have the death penalty for homicide in Colorado. The disaster is still there. It’s a color now I have never seen before. And it has teeth. I plunge my little plunging heart out. Plunge. Plunge. Plunge. But nothing moves. So I go to my extensive plunging background and experience, and I do a really high suction suck with the plunger where I keep making the plunger progressively suction like mad in ever increasing suction sucks so eventually I will be able to suck the enamel off the damn toilet bowl.
I mean, I am really plunge sucking, baby. And that disgusting giant toxic glob of semi-solid and semi-liquid, grossly colored mess just looked back at me. And laughed. A little No. 2 semi-solid waste laugh that I will never forget.
Then I hear Brent’s soothing voice, “You been in there a long time. You need some help?” I think this over. Do I need help? Probably. Will I open the door so he can come in the bathroom in his own house and see what has come out of my body and is now coiled in swirls of wrongly-colored revenge and poised and ready to cause emotional damage to the next person who sees it? Probably not.
But, of course, after a while, I had to open the door. Brent came in. He looked right at where I thought he would look first. He staggered a little. And then said, “Jesus, this would make Richard Pryor faint.”
Then Brent plunged for a while. He’s younger than I am so maybe he plunged a bit better, but the results were the same. Nothing had moved, except our stomachs. If a director had asked for a disgusting bathroom, and walked in on this, he would have said, “Perfect!”
We worked on it for 10 more minutes and then he yelled, “Carol, come on in here.” Jeez. I had tried to protect my sister all my life, and now this. Carol came in. She looked you-know-where and she grabbed the towel rack and took a few breaths to get some oxygen. When she was able to speak, she said, “Did we have the same parents?”
So there we were. Me and Brent and Carol and The Thing in the toilet bowl. I asked if maybe Carol could call a few of her neighbors over to look at what had come out of her brother’s body. She said something quite un-ladylike into the handkerchief she was holding up to her nose. I further inquired if maybe she could get her church pastor over here. (We still had some space in the bathroom.) Or maybe some Girl Scouts could squeeze into the shower. Hell, we could call 911. Let’s just see if the Colorado Cops could Protect and Serve that.
Oh, I guess it’s kind of funny now that it’s over. Sure, Carol and Brent looked at me like I had an alien coming out of my chest. A coyote-ugly non-green alien. Yes, it was embarrassing. And yes, I was humiliated. But I think in some weird way it brought us all closer together.
We laughed about it for a couple of days. We all wondered if Hallmark made a card for this. And then when I was driving out of Carol’s driveway, I could faintly hear Brent saying, “I don’t care if he is your brother. He does that again, I kill the sucker.”
Jim Laris is a former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Well, I have tried to stop doing this, because I want to be accepted by all you non anally retentive people and live in a world where the opposite of being anally-retentive is really cool and maybe we could have some ice tea and play Canasta.
But something happened last week. Something so embarrassing and humiliating that I have decided to never go to the bathroom again. Oh, sure, I’ll go Number One, but I will hold in all Number Two urges until I either explode or shoot a few nuns.
I was at my sister’s house in Colorado last week, and I was enjoying talking to Carol and her housemate, Brent. Then I made the fateful decision to go to the bathroom. Excuse the expression, but I did my duty, and then when I tried to flush the results of doing my duty, let’s just say that the flushing was not exactly complete. I looked around for a plunger. No luck. God can be a kidder.
So I go back out to the living room and say to Carol and Brent, “Uh, excuse me, but would you happen to have a plunger?” Brent says, after moistening the twinkle in his eye, “What do you need a plunger for?” I ask my sister why she hangs out with these kinds of people. Finally, Brent brings me a plunger and says, “Be sure to put the round rubber side down, and hold the thin wooden handle in your hands.”
I go back into the emergency area wondering if they have the death penalty for homicide in Colorado. The disaster is still there. It’s a color now I have never seen before. And it has teeth. I plunge my little plunging heart out. Plunge. Plunge. Plunge. But nothing moves. So I go to my extensive plunging background and experience, and I do a really high suction suck with the plunger where I keep making the plunger progressively suction like mad in ever increasing suction sucks so eventually I will be able to suck the enamel off the damn toilet bowl.
I mean, I am really plunge sucking, baby. And that disgusting giant toxic glob of semi-solid and semi-liquid, grossly colored mess just looked back at me. And laughed. A little No. 2 semi-solid waste laugh that I will never forget.
Then I hear Brent’s soothing voice, “You been in there a long time. You need some help?” I think this over. Do I need help? Probably. Will I open the door so he can come in the bathroom in his own house and see what has come out of my body and is now coiled in swirls of wrongly-colored revenge and poised and ready to cause emotional damage to the next person who sees it? Probably not.
But, of course, after a while, I had to open the door. Brent came in. He looked right at where I thought he would look first. He staggered a little. And then said, “Jesus, this would make Richard Pryor faint.”
Then Brent plunged for a while. He’s younger than I am so maybe he plunged a bit better, but the results were the same. Nothing had moved, except our stomachs. If a director had asked for a disgusting bathroom, and walked in on this, he would have said, “Perfect!”
We worked on it for 10 more minutes and then he yelled, “Carol, come on in here.” Jeez. I had tried to protect my sister all my life, and now this. Carol came in. She looked you-know-where and she grabbed the towel rack and took a few breaths to get some oxygen. When she was able to speak, she said, “Did we have the same parents?”
So there we were. Me and Brent and Carol and The Thing in the toilet bowl. I asked if maybe Carol could call a few of her neighbors over to look at what had come out of her brother’s body. She said something quite un-ladylike into the handkerchief she was holding up to her nose. I further inquired if maybe she could get her church pastor over here. (We still had some space in the bathroom.) Or maybe some Girl Scouts could squeeze into the shower. Hell, we could call 911. Let’s just see if the Colorado Cops could Protect and Serve that.
Oh, I guess it’s kind of funny now that it’s over. Sure, Carol and Brent looked at me like I had an alien coming out of my chest. A coyote-ugly non-green alien. Yes, it was embarrassing. And yes, I was humiliated. But I think in some weird way it brought us all closer together.
We laughed about it for a couple of days. We all wondered if Hallmark made a card for this. And then when I was driving out of Carol’s driveway, I could faintly hear Brent saying, “I don’t care if he is your brother. He does that again, I kill the sucker.”
Jim Laris is a former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
The Larry David Syndrome (Cigar Smoke 5-21-09)
You guys like Larry David? To me, he’s one of the funniest guys around (even if he does have two first names). Obviously, the “Seinfeld” stuff was great, but I liked him even more in his own show, “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” That damn show used to make me weak. I’d be laughing so hard that I had to wear diapers — over my nose. I would be snot-snorting, baby.
In case some of you excuses-for-qualified-readers still can’t quite remember who Larry David is, he’s the lanky bald dude who is seemingly neurotic but who I think has his head on pretty straight. He notices things that most people miss, and not only does he notice them, he acts on them. Not only does he act on what he notices, but he can’t not act on what he notices. If Shakespeare wrote “Hamlet” for Larry he would have had him say, “To be or to be, what is the question?”
Well, I’ve always had a little Larry in me. I do tend to notice weird stuff and find myself not quite able to let things go. The other day I go into a Starbucks to get a regular black coffee (which they had to send out for), and when I get my coffee and am about to sit down I notice that the little table I’m about to sit at has a checkerboard/chess game grid painted on the top of it. Yes, I was hesitant. My mind flashed to Larry and Hamlet arm wrestling.
Anyway, I’ve got my crusty cinnamon roll in one hand and my coffee in my other hand and I look around and notice that there are no free tables around. People are sitting at every table — except for the table with the checkerboard/chess layout painted on it. There is one table for four with one guy sitting there. I could have joined him, but I am not the social type. I can’t even come up with things to say to my friends. What the hell would I say to a latte stranger? Had any good mocha lately?
Well, I really wanted to have my coffee and cinnamon roll, so I asked myself, very quietly, “What would Larry do?” And, of course, I instantly knew what the answer was. I put my coffee and the roll on the checkerboard/chess grid on the table and said in a rather startlingly loud voice, “Excuse me, Starbucks coffee drinkers. May I have your attention? Please stop sipping your beverages for a few seconds.” The place went dead quiet.
I raised my hands up to try to reassure them that I wasn’t carrying an Uzi and that they shouldn’t be alarmed, and continued. “I am about to sit down at this table which has a checkerboard/chess layout on it and I just want to make sure that none of you are about to play a game of checkers or chess. I just don’t think it would be right if you were really wanting to play checkers, say, and some jerk-off such as myself just sat down at the official checkerboard table with no intention of playing checkers or chess. It just wouldn’t be fair. And I want you to know that I know it wouldn’t be fair, and if I sat there and didn’t say anything I would feel guilty and I would think you were looking at me with justifiable disdain.
“And because I am a person who does not handle public displays of disdain all that well, I thought I should just be upfront and see if any of you had plans to use the chess table before I just assumed you didn’t and sat there. Well, I am asking you now. Do any of you want to use the checkerboard/chess table?”
If possible, the room became even quieter than before. All you could hear were the thoughts of people wishing they hadn’t been born. I went on.
“Because of your silence I can only assume that none of you wish to play either checkers or chess at this time and that the table is free for me to use without even any glimmer of guilt. Is that correct? Have I made the correct assumption? I don’t see any little boxes of checkers. Anybody carrying a case of chessmen? I am going to sit down right now. Any problems with me sitting here?
I am pulling the chair back? I don’t hear anyone. I’m sitting down. Thank you for your time and attention. Please continue sipping your coffee or the other flavorful drink you have purchased. This checkerboard/chess announcement is now over. Thanks again. Appreciate your time. Take care.”
As I sat there at the checkerboard table enjoying my guiltless cup of coffee, I got to wondering. Why are checkerboards and chessboards the same? Same number of rows. Same number of columns. Even the squares are the same size. What kind of crap is that? Are Scrabble boards the same as Monopoly boards? Just what is going on here? I stood up again and said, “Excuse me, excuse me. One more thing, everybody …”
I think Larry would have been proud.
In case some of you excuses-for-qualified-readers still can’t quite remember who Larry David is, he’s the lanky bald dude who is seemingly neurotic but who I think has his head on pretty straight. He notices things that most people miss, and not only does he notice them, he acts on them. Not only does he act on what he notices, but he can’t not act on what he notices. If Shakespeare wrote “Hamlet” for Larry he would have had him say, “To be or to be, what is the question?”
Well, I’ve always had a little Larry in me. I do tend to notice weird stuff and find myself not quite able to let things go. The other day I go into a Starbucks to get a regular black coffee (which they had to send out for), and when I get my coffee and am about to sit down I notice that the little table I’m about to sit at has a checkerboard/chess game grid painted on the top of it. Yes, I was hesitant. My mind flashed to Larry and Hamlet arm wrestling.
Anyway, I’ve got my crusty cinnamon roll in one hand and my coffee in my other hand and I look around and notice that there are no free tables around. People are sitting at every table — except for the table with the checkerboard/chess layout painted on it. There is one table for four with one guy sitting there. I could have joined him, but I am not the social type. I can’t even come up with things to say to my friends. What the hell would I say to a latte stranger? Had any good mocha lately?
Well, I really wanted to have my coffee and cinnamon roll, so I asked myself, very quietly, “What would Larry do?” And, of course, I instantly knew what the answer was. I put my coffee and the roll on the checkerboard/chess grid on the table and said in a rather startlingly loud voice, “Excuse me, Starbucks coffee drinkers. May I have your attention? Please stop sipping your beverages for a few seconds.” The place went dead quiet.
I raised my hands up to try to reassure them that I wasn’t carrying an Uzi and that they shouldn’t be alarmed, and continued. “I am about to sit down at this table which has a checkerboard/chess layout on it and I just want to make sure that none of you are about to play a game of checkers or chess. I just don’t think it would be right if you were really wanting to play checkers, say, and some jerk-off such as myself just sat down at the official checkerboard table with no intention of playing checkers or chess. It just wouldn’t be fair. And I want you to know that I know it wouldn’t be fair, and if I sat there and didn’t say anything I would feel guilty and I would think you were looking at me with justifiable disdain.
“And because I am a person who does not handle public displays of disdain all that well, I thought I should just be upfront and see if any of you had plans to use the chess table before I just assumed you didn’t and sat there. Well, I am asking you now. Do any of you want to use the checkerboard/chess table?”
If possible, the room became even quieter than before. All you could hear were the thoughts of people wishing they hadn’t been born. I went on.
“Because of your silence I can only assume that none of you wish to play either checkers or chess at this time and that the table is free for me to use without even any glimmer of guilt. Is that correct? Have I made the correct assumption? I don’t see any little boxes of checkers. Anybody carrying a case of chessmen? I am going to sit down right now. Any problems with me sitting here?
I am pulling the chair back? I don’t hear anyone. I’m sitting down. Thank you for your time and attention. Please continue sipping your coffee or the other flavorful drink you have purchased. This checkerboard/chess announcement is now over. Thanks again. Appreciate your time. Take care.”
As I sat there at the checkerboard table enjoying my guiltless cup of coffee, I got to wondering. Why are checkerboards and chessboards the same? Same number of rows. Same number of columns. Even the squares are the same size. What kind of crap is that? Are Scrabble boards the same as Monopoly boards? Just what is going on here? I stood up again and said, “Excuse me, excuse me. One more thing, everybody …”
I think Larry would have been proud.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
So Far, So Dumb (Cigar Smoke 5-7-09)
First of all, before I try to be semi-funny, I want to thank all of you who sent me emails and cards about my having to put down my Airedale, Hadley. They meant a lot to me. Thank you very, very much.
Well, to kind of get my head out of what had been going on here, I decided to take another trip up to my new hovel in Oregon. I’m in the process of trying to make the place livable and I needed to take some special bunk beds up there.
So, after reading all the bed ads on craigslist for two weeks, I bought this kind of funky regular double bed with a twin bed on top. I got it at Couch Potatoes. I was going to haul it up to Oregon in my big old Dodge Durango. Finally, that polluting, gas-guzzling sumbitch was going to pay off.
The only little problem arose the day after I bought the beds. I sold the Durango. Pretty good planning, huh? (The White House has called me to help them screen their cabinet nominees. I kid Obama.) Just so you don’t think I’m completely nutso, I only sold the Durango because it wouldn’t start. I got stranded four times. It wouldn’t even start after I cursed at it and kicked it silly.
I got a neat used car that I really like, except it is not made to haul funky large bunk beds. It did, however, have a roof rack, and that’s where I made a really bad decision.
I was able to stuff all the wooden bed parts in the car. Yes, it was not completely safe. I had planks and springs and boxes going from the folded-down back-seat area up to the passenger side in the front. Just jammed in there. I could barely get in the driver’s seat, but I could see the right side rearview mirror, so I thought it would be relatively safe. My son, Casey, helped me get everything in there, but he made me sign a release form so he could show people at the funeral.
So far, so dumb. Then I decided to put the double-bed mattress on the roof and drive 830 miles. So far, so dumber. Being a conservative type, I wrapped the mattress in a special plastic tarp cover, and then I tied it down to the roof. And I knew the wind would be brutal, so I got six tie-down straps and cinched those suckers down tight. And I bought a bunch of bungee cords. And — I hate to say it — it looked pretty damn secure.
So I kissed Marge goodbye, and she said those 10 special words that I love, “Honey, you got the life insurance premiums paid, haven’t you?”
So off I went. I’m tooling along the 210 Freeway, everything is smoother than Nicole Kidman’s butt, and I merge onto Interstate 5, heading for hovelville. I am smoking a stogie I bought on the Internet so I didn’t have to pay California taxes; I am listening to Waylon say he is “too dumb for New York City and too ugly for L.A.,” and then I look out my left-hand window (the only window I can see out of) and I see a shadow. And the shadow is flapping around. Flapping shadows are not good. Then I hear the flapping shadow. Audible flapping shadows are even worse.
I pull off the freeway at Gorman. I stop at a gas station and I get out and look at the roof. It was like looking at Rosie O’Donell — it wasn’t pretty. The plastic was all ripped up; the straps were loose; the bungee cords were laughing.
So I go into this hokey AM-PM store and I look around for roof rack help and end up with some electrical tape, some duct tape and two coils of cheap rope. I spend 45 minutes in 60-mile an hour winds tying up that mattress, and I use up all the rope and the tape and the sanity I have left.
I go on down the road. It’s my life. I do not get far. I just make it over the Grapevine and the flapping is now so loud it’s making Big Bird horny. I get out and look up and I shudder. There is a loose, flapping, bleeding mattress, with ripped strands of tape and frayed rope everywhere.
Luckily, I have stopped at a Mobil station that has some pretty heavyweight tie-down materials. I buy four more cinch straps, wider ones. I get some better rope that doesn’t come apart as soon as you pay for it. And I get industrial-strength tape with fiberglass threads embedded in it. I spend another hour tying down that mess.
I head up the road again. I’m not having quite as much fun as earlier. I had to tell Waylon to put a lid on it. (You’re too ugly for Nashville!) Somehow I made it another couple hundred miles to a rest stop south of Stockton. I get out to go to the bathroom. Even bad roof-rack movers have to pee, dammit.
And, as I’m walking to the restroom, this guy next to me looks at the roof of my car, looks back at me, and then says, “Hey Tom, I loved you in ‘The Grapes of Wrath.”
I’m not going to tell you if I made it up to Oregon or not. However, if you’re driving northbound on Interstate 5 between Stockton and Sacramento, you might dial it down a few notches.
Well, to kind of get my head out of what had been going on here, I decided to take another trip up to my new hovel in Oregon. I’m in the process of trying to make the place livable and I needed to take some special bunk beds up there.
So, after reading all the bed ads on craigslist for two weeks, I bought this kind of funky regular double bed with a twin bed on top. I got it at Couch Potatoes. I was going to haul it up to Oregon in my big old Dodge Durango. Finally, that polluting, gas-guzzling sumbitch was going to pay off.
The only little problem arose the day after I bought the beds. I sold the Durango. Pretty good planning, huh? (The White House has called me to help them screen their cabinet nominees. I kid Obama.) Just so you don’t think I’m completely nutso, I only sold the Durango because it wouldn’t start. I got stranded four times. It wouldn’t even start after I cursed at it and kicked it silly.
I got a neat used car that I really like, except it is not made to haul funky large bunk beds. It did, however, have a roof rack, and that’s where I made a really bad decision.
I was able to stuff all the wooden bed parts in the car. Yes, it was not completely safe. I had planks and springs and boxes going from the folded-down back-seat area up to the passenger side in the front. Just jammed in there. I could barely get in the driver’s seat, but I could see the right side rearview mirror, so I thought it would be relatively safe. My son, Casey, helped me get everything in there, but he made me sign a release form so he could show people at the funeral.
So far, so dumb. Then I decided to put the double-bed mattress on the roof and drive 830 miles. So far, so dumber. Being a conservative type, I wrapped the mattress in a special plastic tarp cover, and then I tied it down to the roof. And I knew the wind would be brutal, so I got six tie-down straps and cinched those suckers down tight. And I bought a bunch of bungee cords. And — I hate to say it — it looked pretty damn secure.
So I kissed Marge goodbye, and she said those 10 special words that I love, “Honey, you got the life insurance premiums paid, haven’t you?”
So off I went. I’m tooling along the 210 Freeway, everything is smoother than Nicole Kidman’s butt, and I merge onto Interstate 5, heading for hovelville. I am smoking a stogie I bought on the Internet so I didn’t have to pay California taxes; I am listening to Waylon say he is “too dumb for New York City and too ugly for L.A.,” and then I look out my left-hand window (the only window I can see out of) and I see a shadow. And the shadow is flapping around. Flapping shadows are not good. Then I hear the flapping shadow. Audible flapping shadows are even worse.
I pull off the freeway at Gorman. I stop at a gas station and I get out and look at the roof. It was like looking at Rosie O’Donell — it wasn’t pretty. The plastic was all ripped up; the straps were loose; the bungee cords were laughing.
So I go into this hokey AM-PM store and I look around for roof rack help and end up with some electrical tape, some duct tape and two coils of cheap rope. I spend 45 minutes in 60-mile an hour winds tying up that mattress, and I use up all the rope and the tape and the sanity I have left.
I go on down the road. It’s my life. I do not get far. I just make it over the Grapevine and the flapping is now so loud it’s making Big Bird horny. I get out and look up and I shudder. There is a loose, flapping, bleeding mattress, with ripped strands of tape and frayed rope everywhere.
Luckily, I have stopped at a Mobil station that has some pretty heavyweight tie-down materials. I buy four more cinch straps, wider ones. I get some better rope that doesn’t come apart as soon as you pay for it. And I get industrial-strength tape with fiberglass threads embedded in it. I spend another hour tying down that mess.
I head up the road again. I’m not having quite as much fun as earlier. I had to tell Waylon to put a lid on it. (You’re too ugly for Nashville!) Somehow I made it another couple hundred miles to a rest stop south of Stockton. I get out to go to the bathroom. Even bad roof-rack movers have to pee, dammit.
And, as I’m walking to the restroom, this guy next to me looks at the roof of my car, looks back at me, and then says, “Hey Tom, I loved you in ‘The Grapes of Wrath.”
I’m not going to tell you if I made it up to Oregon or not. However, if you’re driving northbound on Interstate 5 between Stockton and Sacramento, you might dial it down a few notches.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Rest in Peace, Big Guy (Cigar Smoke 4-23-09)
Last month Marge and I had to put our Airedale, Hadley, down. It was very sad. I can’t quite believe he’s really gone. I can still hear his dog tags jingling.
He had been on a steady decline for over a year. His back legs had been failing him and he had lost control of his bowels. He was going blind and looked dazed and confused a lot of the time. We knew he was in pain, but he had always been a stoic dog. He would not complain. He would not whimper. He never cried.
We tried to help him as much as we could. We’d lift his back legs to help him up. We’d hold his collar and guide him through doorways so he wouldn’t hit his head. Somehow, though, we knew we were probably doing all this for ourselves as much as we were for Hadley. We couldn’t bear to lose him. I guess we were selfish.
At the end, he was not able to get up at all. He had fallen on the driveway and was stranded there. He could not lift himself up, even to his back legs. Because he was so heavy, we couldn’t lift him. So we got his bed and managed to put him in there, and then we gently pulled the bed from the driveway into our bedroom. We wanted one last night with our furry friend. And we hoped he might be better in the morning.
And, amazingly, he was — for a while. Then he got worse. So I decided to go down to talk to the vet. She had taken care of him for almost 13 years, so she knew him well. She told us that he had had a good life and she couldn’t do much for him now. She thought it was time for us to let him go.
We brought him in later that afternoon. It was the longest 15-minute ride I’ve ever had. We arrived at the clinic and one of the attendants was able to carry him into the vet’s office and put him on the table. He looked so fragile, and scared. I put my hand on his head. He was shaking.
I had never put a dog down before. I asked the vet how it would all work. She said she would give him a shot to relax him. And then she would give him the final shot. She said it would be fast and painless.
We said OK. She gave him the first shot, and the process had started. Marge and I both broke down. We were crying and trying to comfort Hadley. But he didn’t seem to be relaxing much. So the vet gave him a second shot and then he did become more relaxed. He became very calm and quiet and stopped shaking.
Before she gave him the final shot, she told us it would take about 15 seconds to reach his heart, and then that would be it. We nodded. She gave him the shot. We looked at our Good Boy through our tears and then we saw his big, fuzzy head gently drop and cover his right paw. Hadley was gone. Marge and I both cried and said our good-byes.
It was the saddest thing I have ever seen. It broke my heart.
The last two weeks have been hard. We miss our guy, and we both expect to see him every day. Marge will automatically look outside to see if Hadley wants to come in. I will start to get up to fix his dinner at 5:30 every night and then remember. I’ll come home and expect him to meet me at the door. I’ll get a cigar out of my cigar box, and I’ll look for Hadley to ask him, “You wanna go have a cigar with me, you long-headed weasel?”
And the other day I snuck a box of Cheez-Its into the living room. You know, that big red-and-orange box. I actually had the box on my right hip, trying to hide it from Hadley. Hadley used to love Cheez-Its, and when he’d see me with that box, he’d jump up and come over and, well, hound me, for some handouts. He loved those damn things. I mean, really loved ’em. I’d take a couple for myself, and then give him one, and he’d gobble it down, sometimes with a side order of my fingers, and then he’d want another Cheez-It. When I’d put the box down, he would sit in front of me and paw my knee until I caved in and gave him a few more. Now he’s not there. It’s just not the same eating all the Cheez-Its myself. They’re too dry.
I miss so many things about that crazy dog. I miss how he used to scatter-ass the ducks at the Santa Fe Dam; I miss how he did a double take the first time he drank some seawater at the beach; I miss having him sit upright in the passenger seat of my old Explorer; I miss him nose-poking my butt to suggest we go for a walk; I miss bringing him two pieces of a cinnamon roll or a donut every morning. Whenever I’d go to Starbucks or some donut shop, I’d always have to save two pieces for him. Once I brought back only one piece of donut to the car, and gave it to him. He was pissed. I never did that again.
And I miss lying down with him on the rug. I used to lie down with him on the bed for a nap, but lately he couldn’t jump up there, so we had our naptime on the rug. Usually, he’d be lying there, and I would interrupt his sleep, and get down next to him, and put my human head right near his long horse head, and he would thump his tail a few times on the rug and then he would lick my face. I think he got a little doggie high on my cologne. And sometimes that wouldn’t be enough and he would slobber-lick the hairspray off my hair, too. And finally, he would calm down, and I would sleep next to him with my arm resting on his shoulder.
Rest in peace, my friend.
He had been on a steady decline for over a year. His back legs had been failing him and he had lost control of his bowels. He was going blind and looked dazed and confused a lot of the time. We knew he was in pain, but he had always been a stoic dog. He would not complain. He would not whimper. He never cried.
We tried to help him as much as we could. We’d lift his back legs to help him up. We’d hold his collar and guide him through doorways so he wouldn’t hit his head. Somehow, though, we knew we were probably doing all this for ourselves as much as we were for Hadley. We couldn’t bear to lose him. I guess we were selfish.
At the end, he was not able to get up at all. He had fallen on the driveway and was stranded there. He could not lift himself up, even to his back legs. Because he was so heavy, we couldn’t lift him. So we got his bed and managed to put him in there, and then we gently pulled the bed from the driveway into our bedroom. We wanted one last night with our furry friend. And we hoped he might be better in the morning.
And, amazingly, he was — for a while. Then he got worse. So I decided to go down to talk to the vet. She had taken care of him for almost 13 years, so she knew him well. She told us that he had had a good life and she couldn’t do much for him now. She thought it was time for us to let him go.
We brought him in later that afternoon. It was the longest 15-minute ride I’ve ever had. We arrived at the clinic and one of the attendants was able to carry him into the vet’s office and put him on the table. He looked so fragile, and scared. I put my hand on his head. He was shaking.
I had never put a dog down before. I asked the vet how it would all work. She said she would give him a shot to relax him. And then she would give him the final shot. She said it would be fast and painless.
We said OK. She gave him the first shot, and the process had started. Marge and I both broke down. We were crying and trying to comfort Hadley. But he didn’t seem to be relaxing much. So the vet gave him a second shot and then he did become more relaxed. He became very calm and quiet and stopped shaking.
Before she gave him the final shot, she told us it would take about 15 seconds to reach his heart, and then that would be it. We nodded. She gave him the shot. We looked at our Good Boy through our tears and then we saw his big, fuzzy head gently drop and cover his right paw. Hadley was gone. Marge and I both cried and said our good-byes.
It was the saddest thing I have ever seen. It broke my heart.
The last two weeks have been hard. We miss our guy, and we both expect to see him every day. Marge will automatically look outside to see if Hadley wants to come in. I will start to get up to fix his dinner at 5:30 every night and then remember. I’ll come home and expect him to meet me at the door. I’ll get a cigar out of my cigar box, and I’ll look for Hadley to ask him, “You wanna go have a cigar with me, you long-headed weasel?”
And the other day I snuck a box of Cheez-Its into the living room. You know, that big red-and-orange box. I actually had the box on my right hip, trying to hide it from Hadley. Hadley used to love Cheez-Its, and when he’d see me with that box, he’d jump up and come over and, well, hound me, for some handouts. He loved those damn things. I mean, really loved ’em. I’d take a couple for myself, and then give him one, and he’d gobble it down, sometimes with a side order of my fingers, and then he’d want another Cheez-It. When I’d put the box down, he would sit in front of me and paw my knee until I caved in and gave him a few more. Now he’s not there. It’s just not the same eating all the Cheez-Its myself. They’re too dry.
I miss so many things about that crazy dog. I miss how he used to scatter-ass the ducks at the Santa Fe Dam; I miss how he did a double take the first time he drank some seawater at the beach; I miss having him sit upright in the passenger seat of my old Explorer; I miss him nose-poking my butt to suggest we go for a walk; I miss bringing him two pieces of a cinnamon roll or a donut every morning. Whenever I’d go to Starbucks or some donut shop, I’d always have to save two pieces for him. Once I brought back only one piece of donut to the car, and gave it to him. He was pissed. I never did that again.
And I miss lying down with him on the rug. I used to lie down with him on the bed for a nap, but lately he couldn’t jump up there, so we had our naptime on the rug. Usually, he’d be lying there, and I would interrupt his sleep, and get down next to him, and put my human head right near his long horse head, and he would thump his tail a few times on the rug and then he would lick my face. I think he got a little doggie high on my cologne. And sometimes that wouldn’t be enough and he would slobber-lick the hairspray off my hair, too. And finally, he would calm down, and I would sleep next to him with my arm resting on his shoulder.
Rest in peace, my friend.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Off at the Races (Cigar Smoke 4-9-09)
I am not a big horse-racing fan. I’ve only been to maybe six or seven tracks in my lifetime. So I average about one race every decade. But I should go more often because, well, I am pretty damn good at betting the ponies.
And I’m going to share my system with you so you can take out what’s left of your 401(k) and finally make a little money. Here’s what I do. I get a copy of the Racing Form and look over the odds. Some horses will be 2 to 1, others will be 34 to 1. Whatever.
First of all, I never bet either the favorites or the long shots. If the favorite wins, I don’t make much money, and if the long shot wins, I just swear a lot. So I always pick a horse with medium odds, say, 8 to 1 up to 15 to 1. These horses usually will not be glue in the near future. And if they happen to win, you can make some nice money.
Armed with this fail-safe strategy, I went to Santa Anita Park last Sunday with the Altadena Soroptomist Club. My wife, Marge, is a member, and I like all the gals in the club. In fact, I’ve hung around with them for years now. One day I asked longtime member Shirley Manning why they let me, a man, run with their all-women club. And she said, “Because occasionally we need heavy objects lifted by someone not quite as smart as we are.” You can probably guess that I have warm feelings for them.
Anyway, they invited me to join them for A Day at the Races last Sunday, and I lifted a heavy object (myself) and accepted the invitation. We had great seats right near the center of the track. Had a super lunch of a corned beef on rye with crusty fries and a piece of cheesecake that took a couple years off your life. Oh, that’s another reason I like these people. They eat pretty well … for women.
For some reason (cheesecake withdrawal) I miss the first race. I bet 20 bucks to win on the No. 4 horse, High Note, in the second race. He goes off at 8 or 9 to 1. He starts off in last place. But I am screaming for him. I mean screaming. Soroptomist members are clutching their purses and their mint juleps to their bosoms like sick children.
But my screaming pays off. High Note wins the race. By a nose in a photo finish. I win $216. My system is a killer. My throat and nearby Soroptomist eardrums are broken.
So I kind of strut off to the window to collect my winnings and I come back waving two one-hundred dollar bills and I puff my chest out a little and ask if maybe any of the women are getting just a tad tired of their current husbands and might want a change. Marge supports me in this. She yells, “Take the bastard!”
In the third race, I find another horse that fits my system. I put another 20 bucks to win on the No. 3 horse, Patriotic Soldier. I think he went off at about 10 to 1. Well, this turns out to be an incredible race. It doesn’t get more exciting than this. My horse and the No. 5 horse were neck and neck. Coming down the stretch I was screaming, “Go 3! 3! 3! 3!” And the announcer says, “Down the stretch they come.” And me and my throat are raw. I’m yelling “3.” A guy next to me, a commie, is yelling “5.” I yell a louder “3!” He yells a pissy “5!”
It ends up in another photo finish. We have to wait over five minutes for them to figure out who won. I am weak. I would cry but there are too many Soroptomists around. Finally, the winning number flashes on the tote board. It’s No. 5. Not No. 3. I lost by a damn nose. No, by a damn nostril. No, by a damn booger. Yes, I lost another sure $220 by a booger.
I was devastated. My throat was wiped out. My chest was unpuffed. I felt weak and vulnerable. My wallet was lighter. Then another Soroptomist, JoAnn Formia, came up to me and said “You couldn’t carry my husband’s shoes, you loser.”
I lost another $20 on Bad Boy in the fourth. So then I gave up on that system and I went to my surefire backup system: picking horses by their funny names. I almost picked Cardinal Zin, but finally decided on Grylls because how could a horse without any vowels lose. I yelled Grylls as often as I could. I even yelled it with a German accent once and put an “a” on the end of it — Gryllsa.
Go Gryllsa! Go you vowel-less piece of dog food. Grylls did not win. Grylls did not finish. Grylls is still out on the track. Grylls is trying to buy a vowel from Vanna White.
So now that my system of medium odds wasn’t working, and my funny names system had mysteriously failed, I had to turn to my last great scientific strategy — always picking a gray horse. Somehow this had worked for me in the past. And I could always see my gray horse easily. It just stood out. And it made my screaming easier. “Go gray horse. Beat the brown and black horses.” Well, I yelled, “Go gray horse” in the final four races and lost all four. I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe gray horses are hard of hearing.
But just send me your retirement money, anyway. I hear there’s a sure thing running at Hollywood Park next week — 12 to 1. A Hawaiian gray horse. No consonants in his name.
And I’m going to share my system with you so you can take out what’s left of your 401(k) and finally make a little money. Here’s what I do. I get a copy of the Racing Form and look over the odds. Some horses will be 2 to 1, others will be 34 to 1. Whatever.
First of all, I never bet either the favorites or the long shots. If the favorite wins, I don’t make much money, and if the long shot wins, I just swear a lot. So I always pick a horse with medium odds, say, 8 to 1 up to 15 to 1. These horses usually will not be glue in the near future. And if they happen to win, you can make some nice money.
Armed with this fail-safe strategy, I went to Santa Anita Park last Sunday with the Altadena Soroptomist Club. My wife, Marge, is a member, and I like all the gals in the club. In fact, I’ve hung around with them for years now. One day I asked longtime member Shirley Manning why they let me, a man, run with their all-women club. And she said, “Because occasionally we need heavy objects lifted by someone not quite as smart as we are.” You can probably guess that I have warm feelings for them.
Anyway, they invited me to join them for A Day at the Races last Sunday, and I lifted a heavy object (myself) and accepted the invitation. We had great seats right near the center of the track. Had a super lunch of a corned beef on rye with crusty fries and a piece of cheesecake that took a couple years off your life. Oh, that’s another reason I like these people. They eat pretty well … for women.
For some reason (cheesecake withdrawal) I miss the first race. I bet 20 bucks to win on the No. 4 horse, High Note, in the second race. He goes off at 8 or 9 to 1. He starts off in last place. But I am screaming for him. I mean screaming. Soroptomist members are clutching their purses and their mint juleps to their bosoms like sick children.
But my screaming pays off. High Note wins the race. By a nose in a photo finish. I win $216. My system is a killer. My throat and nearby Soroptomist eardrums are broken.
So I kind of strut off to the window to collect my winnings and I come back waving two one-hundred dollar bills and I puff my chest out a little and ask if maybe any of the women are getting just a tad tired of their current husbands and might want a change. Marge supports me in this. She yells, “Take the bastard!”
In the third race, I find another horse that fits my system. I put another 20 bucks to win on the No. 3 horse, Patriotic Soldier. I think he went off at about 10 to 1. Well, this turns out to be an incredible race. It doesn’t get more exciting than this. My horse and the No. 5 horse were neck and neck. Coming down the stretch I was screaming, “Go 3! 3! 3! 3!” And the announcer says, “Down the stretch they come.” And me and my throat are raw. I’m yelling “3.” A guy next to me, a commie, is yelling “5.” I yell a louder “3!” He yells a pissy “5!”
It ends up in another photo finish. We have to wait over five minutes for them to figure out who won. I am weak. I would cry but there are too many Soroptomists around. Finally, the winning number flashes on the tote board. It’s No. 5. Not No. 3. I lost by a damn nose. No, by a damn nostril. No, by a damn booger. Yes, I lost another sure $220 by a booger.
I was devastated. My throat was wiped out. My chest was unpuffed. I felt weak and vulnerable. My wallet was lighter. Then another Soroptomist, JoAnn Formia, came up to me and said “You couldn’t carry my husband’s shoes, you loser.”
I lost another $20 on Bad Boy in the fourth. So then I gave up on that system and I went to my surefire backup system: picking horses by their funny names. I almost picked Cardinal Zin, but finally decided on Grylls because how could a horse without any vowels lose. I yelled Grylls as often as I could. I even yelled it with a German accent once and put an “a” on the end of it — Gryllsa.
Go Gryllsa! Go you vowel-less piece of dog food. Grylls did not win. Grylls did not finish. Grylls is still out on the track. Grylls is trying to buy a vowel from Vanna White.
So now that my system of medium odds wasn’t working, and my funny names system had mysteriously failed, I had to turn to my last great scientific strategy — always picking a gray horse. Somehow this had worked for me in the past. And I could always see my gray horse easily. It just stood out. And it made my screaming easier. “Go gray horse. Beat the brown and black horses.” Well, I yelled, “Go gray horse” in the final four races and lost all four. I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe gray horses are hard of hearing.
But just send me your retirement money, anyway. I hear there’s a sure thing running at Hollywood Park next week — 12 to 1. A Hawaiian gray horse. No consonants in his name.
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