So that's what "waste not, want not" means?

     At the grocery store I patronize, they have a big box set up just as you leave for a local food bank.  I think food banks are wonderful and encourage one and all to donate, but I have this strange feeling they're not getting all the food they could be getting.

     The sign on the food box at my grocery store says something to the effect of "Donate all your unwanted food here for the local food bank."  So, I stopped, looked down in my cart, and damn if I hadn't purchased only things I wanted.  Surely, there had to be something in there I didn't want, but I couldn't find it.  I looked at my list, maybe one of the kids had written something down they didn't really want.  Nope, no luck.  There was some food in the box, which only made me feel worse for not buying stuff I didn't want.  On top of all this, I really thought I had this shopping thing down, seeing as how I'm here every day, but clearly, I have so much more to learn.  I went straight home and looked at our grocery list.  Nothing but stuff we wanted.  We are one selfish household.  We had a family meeting that night to address this unwanted food thing.  Nobody seemed to understand what I was talking about and I was of little help because I had no idea either.  I'll have to do some research.  There must be a trick to buying unwanted food when you go to the store.  Maybe the food bank people can help.  Wish me luck.

Starting My Day With Your Cup of Coffee

      I saw where a friend of mine posted on Facebook the other day the explicit and infinitesimal details of his morning bowel movement. It was graphic, so much so that the Motion Picture Association would never have allowed it anywhere near a theater screen.  He has a gift. If the written word is capable of making making an experience 4-D to the reader, this would be your guy.

       Repulsive? Yeah, I'd say so. Did I really need to know his bout with constipation ended with him birthing a grain silo? Not now, not ever. But tell me this.

       Was it more interesting than knowing you and your morning coffee were there to greet another day? Without a doubt. Would I rather have him tell me that he feared the Green movement would be protesting at his house, such was the raping of the rain forest in order for his paperwork to be complete, or have you reassure me, yet again, that you still hate Mondays?

       In closing, I admit I'm still fond, at nearly fifty years old, of having my teenage boys tell me "goodnight" before they turn in for the evening. You? Not so much.

      Oh, I almost forgot. It's hump day.

Really?

I'm on the Internet the other day, scanning the headlines on AOL or Yahoo, when I see something to the effect of "You won't believe what Paula Deen was eating!"  Sometimes it's so hard to be a proud American.  Is this where we're at right now?  From the day my momma's egg was fertilized until the day they close the casket, I will never give a damn about what somebody was eating.  Yes, there are exceptions (see "Dahmer, Jeffrey) but this ain't one of 'em.  If Paula Deen wants to off herself one stick of butter at a time, it's her right...and her business.  The world will not implode if we allow a "slow news day" to be a "no news day."  For God's sake, let the woman eat her hamburger in peace, or the next time you bite into something hard, it might be a web cam.

Fat? I Say We Are Not Fat Enough!

I just read today that "Hostess," the company that makes "Twinkies," is near bankruptcy.  Fighting off immediate and crushing depression, I promptly blew through a box and a half of comfort food, which just so happened to be "Twinkies."  All I ever read about is how fat America has become, but clearly, we are not fat enough if "Twinkies" are in danger.  You'd think they have some type of protection in the constitution, but I can't find anything.  The foundation of the country is at stake here, folks. What good is the right to bear arms if you can't wolf down a couple of Twinkies during a break in the action?  And you can forget the pursuit of happiness.  If there ain't no "Twinkies," there ain't no use pursuing happiness 'cause you ain't gonna find it. Get off the treadmill, people, and pursue your skinny asses on down to 7-11 before it's too late!

Firm or Soft?



I don't want anyone to think I'm picking on our good friends in North Korea, but, uh, why the pillow?  The old boy's got a lot more issues than a crick in his neck at this point, and let's face it, he ain't gonna be complaining about it.

No Need for a Halloween Costume This Year

 I don't know why my mind works like this, and it's really not fair to Matthew Moy, shown above, an actor in the CBS sitcom "Two Broke Girls," but if you want to tell me at least a couple of leaves are not identical in his family tree and the one belonging to Kim Jong-il's son, new leader Kim Jong-un, shown below, I will be forced to call you a liar.  Matthew looks like someone who would enjoy a good joke.  Kim looks like his interpreter just told him the joke was about him.

Audubon is Not Going to be Happy

I kind of had a Clark Griswald-Christmas Vacation moment when we went shopping for the tree this year.  They had a nice big one there for a decent price.  The wife starts right in with the parrot routine ("It's too big.  It's too big."), but of course the boys were all for it.  We get it home and get it set up and it clears the vaulted ceiling by a good two inches, earning the wife a look a disdain from the husband and the classic zinger, "Told you!"  I did not have an answer when she asked if she should decorate the top half or the bottom half since neither we nor Wal-Mart had enough ornaments to decorate it.  She can be a party-killer that way.  It looks great.  If you come to our house, you're kind of drawn to it right away, but the trail of tree sap from the front door really doesn't leave you much of a choice.  And it was kind of bear to run a sprinkler line into the living room so it wouldn't die, but all in all, I like it.

Can Times Be Any Tougher?

I'm at my softball game this week and one of the guys on the team brought his little girl to the game.  She's cute as a button, probably 4-5 years old and she spends the game playing in the dirt just outside the dugout.  About halfway through the game, I get up to go out in the field and notice she's playing with a cup.  If only this were a Dixie cup or a Solo cup, I would not be writing right now.  It was her father's protective cup.  For those seeking further clarity, let's just say it's the safe for the family jewels.  I didn't know whether to call HRS or Toys for Tots.  I'd like to think it was clean, but it's not really something you run through the permanent-press cycle.  Pity the Santa who has this little girl on his lap when she whispers in his ear, "All I really want this year is a jockstrap."  Isn't this why we have "Happy Meals"?

Treat Others...

     So I'm watching this pro football game last Sunday between the San Diego Chargers and the Denver Broncos.  It's late in the game, the score is tied and San Diego is about to try to kick a field goal to win the game, they've just got to get a little bit closer. 

     Of all the proprietors of the "Y" chromosome, who amongst us has, at one time or another, not found himself in a situation where we had to go to the bathroom really, really bad and a facility for our faculties was not forthcoming?  Some of the world's truly great improvisational thinking has emerged from just such scenarios, not that what I'm about to tell you should necessarily be classified as such. 

     Just as San Diego is driving the football, the TV screen shows a shot of the San Diego kicker kneeling on the sidelines behind a box, with his back to the camera.  A sideline staff member is holding up a towel while he reflects back on his job interview to try and recall this part of the job description, surely questioning his pay grade at this particular moment. 

     I yell at the TV, "Get the camera off of him!" knowing what I know, by virtue of my "Y" chromosome, exactly what the guy is doing.  The cameraman, whom I'm willing to bet was indeed a man and not a woman, should have his man card shredded for selling out a compadre caught in a predicament of which we have all, as they say, been there, done that.  I would also recommend further sanctions including his being made to pee with the ladies and wait in the accompanying line and a two-year ban on all urinal privledges.  When it comes to these situations, all men, and Chasity Bono, have to stick together. 

How Long Have You Had the Problem?

So I write a column about McDonald's screwing up my fish sandwich order.  I didn't expect it to catch the eye of the folks down at the Pulitzer, but it had a few chuckles sprinkled in with the adverbs and nouns.  In it, I mentioned that I had planned to write that week about the "Barbie" doll and the people who are bent out of shape about her shape being totally unrealistic, but then the McDonald's thing happened and I succumbed to my venting outlet, Life is Heald.  I check the e-mail account and one "Misti Burns" writes me that not only was it the worst column she's ever read, but that she would've rather read about me "molesting Barbie."  Classy girl, this Misti Burns.  I never asked her if that was her real name or just what she says when the gynecologist asks the reason for her visit today.