You know how, sometimes, you want to succinctly express your feelings to someone in such a way as to let them know exactly what you think of them? And you want to do it without using any really bad words? And you can’t think of any way to do it without using any of the really bad words you really want to use but would feel really badly about it if you did? And so you just don’t say anything at all?

You Stifle yourself for the sake of propriety. 

On the one hand, this is a very good thing to do – it shows maturity and self control when, in many cases, you may be justified in letting the other guy verbally have it; but because you are a really nice person, you just bite your tongue and keep your thoughts to yourself. 

Is that not just about the most frustrating thing in the world?

Well take heart, my good person, because I have stumbled upon a way to inform anyone who irritates you exactly what you think of them without the use of any really bad words at all! 

Yes, that’s right! You can exercise your right to insult the _____ing _____y ______e who has just proven him/herself to be exactly what you don’t want to say and do it in such a way that you can say it without any self recrimination or fear of getting your mouth washed out with Lifebuoy. 

Imagine a situation where someone has just demonstrated themselves to be exactly what you don’t want to say, but you are able to say something even better.

For example, instead of calling them a _____ing _____y ______e, you can say,

“Thou gorebellied pottle-deep canker-blossom!”

or

“Thou clouted milk-livered malt-worm!”.

You can even go as far as saying

“Thou beslubbering tardy-gated skainsmate!”

without having to go to confession because of the really bad words that you didn’t use! And, at the same time, you can demonstrate that you actually are quite the cultured individual because you can sound “Shakespeare”-ish.

“So how do I do this,” you ask? It’s easy! Simply look at the chart below and follow the instructions and in no time at all you’ll be insulting everyone from your boss to your doctor; from your spouse to your daughter’s boyfriend; from your used car salesman to your grocery clerk, all while impressing them with your knowledge of  The Barb!

No need to thank me. I didn’t come up with this, but I really wish that I had.

shakespear-insult-kit

I have a cold. A pretty bad one, at that. And I have had it for almost a couple of weeks – since Christmas Eve night, actually. I was fine all day Christmas Eve and then later that night – BOOM! It hit like Santa getting stuck halfway down the chimney.

It gets better and then it doesn’t. I am currently in a “doesn’t” phase, and it is manifesting itself, as colds do, in lots of sneezing, coughing, clogged sinuses and mucous. (My intent is not to gross you out, here, I’m just being honest.)

Probably the most bothersome thing about this particular cold is the sinus congestion. I hate not being able to breathe through my nose because it forces me to breathe through my mouth. That wouldn’t bother me too much except that breathing through my mouth makes it more difficult to chew, swallow and inhale at the same time. Yes, I realize that you cannot swallow and breathe through your nose at the same time, either, but there’s something special about not being able to do it through your mouth. At least, to me.

Additionally, I sound funny when I speak – like I have a clothespin on my nose. People who know what I really sound like have noticed. People who know how I sing say that I should always have my sinuses clogged. One person suggested permanently filling them with concrete and then try out for “The Voice”. 

This, astoundingly, is not an option.

I have been using a couple of nighttime and daytime concoctions to help me get through, and, I think, they have been helpful. To a point. 

The issue with these particular snake oils is that they have not really helped with the clogged sinuses so I continue to be a “mouth breather”.

And then, just about ninety minutes ago, I had a thought.

Neti Pot… I have a Neti Pot! Two of them, in fact! That’s one for each nostril! 

Now, I haven’t seen either of my Neti Pots since we moved into our new home. And, in fact, I haven’t used one in several years. And I have have never used one while I have had a cold. 

I got excited. 

I went hunting for them.

I found them in the laundry room, in a cabinet, in the back of a shelf, hidden in the middle of several aerosol cans and spray bottles. Specifically, I found them sitting next to a can of pet odor spray (for getting rid of pet odors, not causing them), a jar of disinfectant wipes and a spray bottle of a cleaning product named after my dog.

I got more excited. 

I brought them to the master bathroom.

I filled one of them with water and added a packet of the special saline powder to the warm water in the pot.

I put the lid on. 

I brought it up to my right nostril, just to the right of my left nostril.

I leaned my head over the sink.

This is when I learned the following lessons: 

  1. Always check for stuff that might be inside the Neti Pot before you fill it with warm water.
  2. Use warm water.
  3. Not hot water.
  4. Have some sort of paper facial tissue (snot rag) immediately available.
    1. Be prepared to keep your head held over the sink for a really long time if you forget the facial tissue. 
  5. If possible, have the water running in the sink while performing the Neti Pot procedure. 
  6. Don’t sneeze while performing the Neti Pot procedure. 
  7. If you sneeze, don’t be looking at the mirror.
  8. Or your wife.
  9. Especially your wife.
  10. Don’t use a Neti Pot if you have a bushy mustache.
    1. If you have a mustache, it may be more pleasant to stick one end of a drinking straw up your nose and the other end into your mouth and just suck real hard. 
    2. Or not, depending on just how bushy your mustache is.
  11. If you sneeze, don’t be looking at your wife.
  12. Especially your wife. 

How To Live Our Lives

January 5, 2017

I firmly believe that we should live our lives in such a way that when we die we leave the world a better place for Keith Richards.

Things With Six Strings

It was dark. In fact, it was really dark. And hot. And humid. And it smelled bad.

And I found myself lying between sweat soaked sheets that reeked of chlorine bleach and calamine lotion and were stretched across a bed frame so full of splinters that you could use them to hang the ‘resort’ supplied bath towel that’s so thin you could read the newspaper through it in the pitch black darkness of  a hotel room that was so run down that even the rats, mice, termites and spiders had abandoned it nearly a decade ago.

Well, at least the chances of catching Hantavirus were low, what with the conspicuous absence of vermin, and all. 

As I lay there in the dark, I rehashed the events of the previous eight hours, trying to figure out why this trip seemed like such a good idea at the time.

Was it the promise of the the resort restaurant – “Voted the best…

View original post 414 more words

A friend posted the following meme on Facebook… 

fluent-in-silence

…and it got me to thinking:

I am completely fluent in silence. I hardly ever talk. About anything. Well, some things I talk about, I guess, but only a little bit. Except when I think I have something really important to say. Which isn’t very often at all. Only when I run out of things to think – that’s when I feel like I have to say something. But that’s not an event that comes up very frequently. Only when I’m awake. Or asleep. I don’t talk much in my sleep, though, that would irritate Judy. So if I ever do talk, it’s mostly when I’m awake. And I run out of things to think. For example, I ran out of something to think last March, and I actually said something out loud. That surprised everybody in the room. Actually, it was in the bathroom and I was the only one there, so maybe that doesn’t count. Then there was that time in 1978 when we moved to Oregon. That was actually kinda cool, what with the 4th of July rodeo being snowed out and all. But other than that, oh yeah – there was the time when I was in the first grade and I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of class and I raised my hand and asked the teacher if I could go to the bathroom and she said “yes”. I went there and sat there and ran out of things to think, so I talked then, too. Hmmm… I think I do most of my best talking sitting on the pot. At least – oh yeah, and there was the time when I was driving to the store to get milk and carnation instant breakfast for dinner when Judy was out of town and I had to cook for myself. I ran out of things to think about and started to repeat my shopping list (which I had forgotten to write because I was in the middle of thinking of something when I decided to go to the store) so I wouldn’t forget why I was going there in the first place. When I ran out of something to think about, I just repeated over and over, “Milk. Carnation Instant Breakfast. milk. carnation instant breakfast. milk. carnation instant breakfast. milk. carnation instant breakfast…” Then I realized that I had been talking without using any capital letters so I had to start over again. “Milk. Carnation Instant Breakfast. Milk. Carnation Instant Breakfast. Milk. Carnation Instant Breakfast…” I got it right that time, so I could stop talking and start to think of something again. And there was the time that I was thinking about something – I don’t rememebr exactly what it was – but I know it must have been something important because I was thinking it – and I realized that I had been thinking about it for five minutes after I had stopped thinking about it and it made me talk. I said, “crap, what was I thinking about?” I never did rememebr, but I had fun talking about it anyway. After all, it was one of the few times I talked outloud, so it’s hard to forget that I did it. I guess the whole point is that I rarely speak or write out loud and that makes me fluent in silence. Oh – wait! There was the time when I was running to catch a fly ball in center field and …

The End.

We are in the process of moving into a new home and I was just feeding our new fish in our new pond just off our new front porch. We have been able to count eleven adult fish in the pond. We figure that they must be adult fish because we have just discovered two actual new fish in there with them. I was having a fun and relaxing time watching them swim to the surface and grabbing the fish food flakes sprinkled there for them.  

We had asked the previous owners of the house if the fish had names. They responded that, yes, they had named them. Not only had they named them, they could actually tell them apart! I can’t tell one from another (except for the two babies because the coloring is lighter at this stage).

So, instead of giving them new individual names (I can’t remember the originals), I have decided to name the group. They are now collectively known as FPF’s (Front Porch Fishes). I know that it probably ought be be something like Front Pond Fishes, but I like Front Porch Fishes. 

At some point we may be able to tell them apart, and then will can give them individual names, but they will always be FPS’s to me. 

Murphy is also quite curious and went sniffing around the pond while the FPF’s were at the surface feeding. Afterall, he was raised as a hunting dog. This triggered a thought in my mind:

Hmmm… Maybe it’s time for me to go get a new fishing pole… I don’t think you need a license to fish in your own pond…

This may sound a bit off, but it’s more sporting than shooting them with a gun, don’t you think?

BK 🙂

Wow… Haven’t done that in about 30 years. Just played a game of one-on-one with Steve. Hoops. It was pretty grueling. Intense. Game seemed to go on for hours, though it was only about 20 minutes. Maybe a hundred shots each. I finally emerged victorious.

6 – 4.

I’m guessing Judy has had about enough…

As most of you know, I am involved in the production of a motion picture. In the movie, I am required to speak with a British accent. Because I have never spoken English English before, have to practice, which is fine, except that it is driving Judy nuts.

I have found a way to make her even more crazy with the ‘practice’ sessions – I have begun narrating my life. In a British accent. Yes, I walk around describing my every move, everything I notice, my every thought. In a British accent (sort of). 

As I said, it’s making Judy go bonkers. 

This is fun.

It’s not very good, but I think mine’s better than Kevin Costner’s. Closer to John Lithgow in Cliffhanger. 

But it is getting better. Really.

Here are three samples for your perusal…

Test One

Test Two

Test Three

A few months ago, we were testing some functionality on the D3300 camera. There was a guitar in the room (seven, actually, but I only have two hands, afterall). Steve and Judy decided to play along (Judy playing the part of the beatnik** in the coffee house, totally enthralled with my performance. Note the look of complete contemplation of the lyrics and the keeping of time with her foot). 

In the video, we are not actually Dixie Fried (especially me). And Judy is not a shape in a drape in this case, but she is certainly everything plus. 

And while this may have you interviewing your brains, and you think the performance is slated for Crashville, if you know your groceries, you will see I actually threw babies out of the balcony. Just be sure to focus your audio.

And yes, this is off the cob.

The whole thing is actually quite disturbing…

 

** beat·nik
ˈbētnik/
noun
 
  1. a young person in the 1950s and early 1960s belonging to a subculture associated with the beat generation.

It was dark. In fact, it was really dark. And hot. And humid. And it smelled bad.

And I found myself lying between sweat soaked sheets that reeked of chlorine bleach and calamine lotion and were stretched across a bed frame so full of splinters that you could use them to hang the ‘resort’ supplied bath towel that’s so thin you could read the newspaper through it in the pitch black darkness of  a hotel room that was so run down that even the rats, mice, termites and spiders had abandoned it nearly a decade ago.

Well, at least the chances of catching Hantavirus were low, what with the conspicuous absence of vermin, and all. 

As I lay there in the dark, I rehashed the events of the previous eight hours, trying to figure out why this trip seemed like such a good idea at the time.

Was it the promise of the the resort restaurant – “Voted the best escargot in Lake Misery County!”? “Wow!”, I thought. “The best escargot! I don’t know what that is, but it sounds great!”

Well, I found out what it is at breakfast that morning… I ordered up a big plate of the stuff at 6:00 AM, thinking that I would start out my day with what they were the best at. They asked me how I would like them cooked and I said “extremely rare, please.” 

Two minutes later the waitress placed a plate full of their best dish in front of me. 

I looked at the plate. I kept looking at the plate.

It took me a minute for my mind to process what my eyes were trying to tell it, but the message finally began to register. It looked like… like… like… snails… Snails! Snails sitting right there on my breakfast plate!

It was the only time in my life that I ever saw a snail run – and I’m not talking about the ‘moving rapidly from point A to point B’ kind of running. I’m talking about a ‘nose stuck to the face of a guy with bushy mustache and a really bad head cold’ kind of running.

Finally, the waitress asked if she could bring me anything else. I stared at the pile sitting before me for another minute in an attempt to decide whether to ask for ketchup or Snare-All. I opted for a “to go” box… and the check.

She said, “certainly, sir!” and left me to my imagination, returning thirty-seven seconds later with the check and an empty Energizer Battery box along with a roll of duct tape to keep it shut after she dumped the ‘best escargot in Misery County’ into its gaping maw, being careful not to spill any onto the old bedsheet that passed for a ‘table cloth’. I couldn’t help wondering what all of those stains on the tablecloth were.

At least they have good taste in batteries.

And I now have, yet, another use for duct tape I had not previously thought of. 

I got up, walked to the cash register, paid the check, walked out.

After walking about fifty feet, I happened upon what appeared to be a serviceable garbage can and, looking around to make sure that no-one was watching, deposited the collection of deceased, slimy Mollusca  Gastropoda as I passed by.

Breakfast was finished before it ever started. I think I know where all of the missing vermin went.

I will never look at snails the same again.

Or tablecloths. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Murphy loves to go for rides in the car (truck, in this case). He especially likes it if there is some good music playing. In this case, we were waiting in a parking lot for my son, Steven, listening to some Rod Stewart. 

Love my doggie… 

 

I don’t think I want Judy to see this. She may get ideas, and those guitars are expensive…

13095806_10206137337100684_5251341453398008448_n

 

 

Hello, again, Gentle Reader(s – being optimistic here),

It’s time to launch yet another category in the seemingly unending launch of new categories on this blog site. Today, I am introducing the newly conceived Domestic Poetry category, based on the fact that I couldn’t think of anything else to call it. 

It may change in the future when I choose to expend the energy required to come up with a decent title, but for now, it’s Domestic Poetry.

So, with that, let us be off…

As, probably, all of you don’t know, I love cashews. I think that the cashew is the absolute best nut ever devised by God. Sure! There are other nuts – Peanuts, Walnuts, Almonds, Pistachios, Politicians (I don’t want to play favorites, here), Hazel, Macadamia, Pecan, Hex, Wing, Cap, Flange, Coco, Brazil, and Pine to name a few. But Cashews really stand out, in my book.

This being the case, I have decided to formalize my taste for cashews in the same way that I have formalized my feelings for my dogs. With a poem.

So without any further explanation, I shall begin now…

Ode To Cashews

By

William H. Kammerer, Jr, Esq. (Not)

“I think that no-one ever knew,

A tree yummy as a cashew”

.

.

I love Cashews, yes,

It’s cashews that I love,

I love them when they’re from below,

And when their from above. 

.

Cashews to the left of me, 

Cashews to the right,

Cashews there for me to eat,

All through the day and night.

 .

Cashews to the North of me,

Cashews to the south,

Cashews to the East and West,

Just waiting for my mouth.

.

Cashews in the kitchen,

Cashews in the den,

Cashews found inside my house,

Located end to end.

.

Cashews in the cupboard,

Cashews in a drawer,

I love cashews so darned much,

I’d eat them off the floor.

.

Cashews lightly salted,

Or not salted at all,

Or even lots of salt on top,

You know I’ll eat them all.

.

Cashews with my breakfast,

Cashews with my lunch, 

Cashews for my dinner, too,

Yes, I eat them by the bunch.

.

Cashews for my mid-day snack,

And for eating in between,

Chances I may forget them,

Are really pretty lean.

.

No matter what the time of day,

No matter time of year, 

The cashew is the nut I crave,

With them, I have no fear.

.

So if you wonder what I’d like,

For Christmas time this year,

Just think of this and and when you shop,

The answer’s pretty clear.

.

Cashew.

Gazuntite.