A Taste is Safe Enough

Pepto-Bismol is a wonderful product.  I took it as a kid, I still take it today.  Literally, I just took it today, but a childproof cap?  Seriously?  You could mix Pepto-Bismol with the nectar of the Gods, and it would still taste like somebody melted down a crayon, stirred it up with piece of chalk and then washed their socks in it.  And the new cherry formula?  Yeah, nice try.  And yet, the childproof cap.  In the history of mankind, has anyone ever caught their precocious  little child off in a corner doing shots of Pepto?  You could tell Charles Manson it was liquid acid, excuse me, new cherry formula liquid acid, and he still wouldn't be able to choke down a second helping of this stuff.  Dear Pepto, you make a great product.  Childproof cap?  Sooooo not necessary.

My Ass Cannot Win

Many times in my life, many more than I can remember, I have been called either a "dumbass" or a "smartass." I don't recall a single instance in which the specific salutation was issued fondly or as a term of endearment.   I make no argument that any of the labels were misapplied at the time, but I would like to point out that logic, or at the very least, semantics, would seem to dictate that one of these be complimentary in nature.  If you disdainfully call me a "dumbass," aren't you hoping I'd be a "smartass"?  And if my being a "smartass" offends you so, shouldn't my being a "dumbass" come as some type of relief to you?  My ass is confused.  Should it drop out or apply to grad school?  If you are perhaps feeling guilty because you have previously classified my ass as either "dumb" or "smart," rest easy, for my ass assures me that all if forgiven with a simple kiss.

It's Saturday? Must Be Time to Take a Bath

After much consideration and deep thought, the Healds have decided not to enter either the rowing or kayaking events in the upcoming Olympics and will instead focus their efforts on walking and chewing gum simultaneously.

This Must Be Our Stop

This is the sign of a quality river guide...the whole Heald family going through the rinse cycle while he sits high and dry.  A zoom lens would probably show a grin beneath that helmet.  Those are Riley's feet attempting to walk on air.  Mrs. Heald is completely submerged and Riley's twin brother Keegan is taking soil samples from the bottom of the river. Those are my feet just touching the raft and that's Tyler saving his paddle, but not much else, in the back.  Believe it or not, this was the best rafting trip we've ever been on.  I know it doesn't look like it here, but it was.

Going to the chapel...

(In my column this week, I wrote about renewing our vows for our 25th wedding anniversary in Las Vegas.)  I wore the green shirt in honor of the green that gave its life so that the wife's finger could only go so far up her nose.  This picture was taken right before the wife was knocked unconscious by my triple x melon.  Not my fault, as the photographer said to put our heads together.  I said, "That might not be a good idea."  Fortunately, the limo driver had some smelling salts, as people have been known to pass out at The Little White Wedding Chapel.  From nerves, I'm sure, and not the swimming pool of booze that preceded their arrival.

The Devil Went Down to Georgia...

...to beome a chigger.  Chiggers are nasty insects.  If Rasputin or Judas were an insect, they would both be chiggers.  We were just up in Georgia for a vacation.  They have chiggers in Georgia.  Now I have them in my crotch.  I am not alone.

     Chiggers don't fight fair.  I mean, we have mosquitoes down here, but they're slow and you can see them.  I don't know what a chigger looks like.  They don't even have the decency to be big enough to see them.  When a mosquito bites you, that generally is last call for the mosquito because even the most feeble amongst us has the accuracy of a sniper when it comes to slapping a mosquito that just tried to make off with a quart of our finest sangria.  A chigger bites you, but it starts to burn and itch the next day and stops when you have scratched down to your bone marrow or amputated the body part with a steak knife. 

     I'm not done.   Chiggers like thinner, delicate skin.  Do I have to tell you where most of us keep our supply of thinner, delicate skin?  I don't have to tell the chiggers.  Three of us got bit on our bell towers.  This is not an item to which one can aggressively attack with a fingernail.  It's a lose/lose situation.  Jock itch is a toothless gnat compared to a chigger bite.  The wife was not immune.  That's all I can say about that.  She is looking over my shoulder with a gun.  The safety is off. 

     There are no remedies for chigger itches.  Old wives tales do not do anything other than spike fingernail polish sales and make mountain people look at you funny.  When you are staying in the same neck of the woods that "Deliverance" was filmed in, this is not a good thing. 

     "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" was a great hit for the Charlie Daniels Band.  I just wish he would have told us the real reason.

My Fill of Phil

     I write for my own enjoyment and if I occasionally make others laugh, that is a great bonus.  But then there are people like "Phil," who wrote me at LIFEisHEALD@yahoo.com with the complaint you'll see below.  Everyone serves a purpose in life, whether they know it or not.  When you think you are having a bad day, and you're feeling down, I want you to think of Phil.  Then, when you realize you are not Phil, you will feel better.  It's impossible not to.  I waited quite a while to write Phil back because I sometimes get a bit caustic if I write back too quickly.  I've instituted a 24 hour rule to those I find inciting.  I was so fond of my response, I thought I'd share it with you.  I may even put it it a column, but my psychologist keeps telling me I have to ignore these people.  Then I go and think of something funny to say, and I just feel awful if I don't share.  What can I say?  I'm a giver.

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Phil's e-mail to me...

Sir: I read your recent contribution about your son's ineptitude as a golfer and other things. In it I was shocked--shocked!--to read your use of a pronoun in the nominative case as the object of a verb ("The two quail followed . . . I").  Of much lesser consequence, you might have used the proper name for the bird, which is  Bobwhite or Common Bobwhite."Quail" is large family of birds of which Peterson says there are 165 members worldwide, of which the Bobwhite is the only one in Florida. So you're not wrong, but not specific.  It's as if you wrote, "My grandmother drove her General Motors SUV to the liquor store." Better would be, "My grandmother drove her Cadillac Escalade to the liquor store." Worse would be "My grandmother drove I to the liquor store."

No charge.

Phil

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Now, you have to know that, in the heading, Phil's full name was listed, which I'm not sharing, except to say that his full first name was "Phillips," with a "s" on the end.  This is relative to my reply, which was....

Phil,

Philly, Philly, Philly, where do we begin?  I'd like to suggest you get a life, but based on the content of your e-mail, I don't think you've ever had one, so I doubt you'd know where to look. 

First of all, you must have quite a cardio workout schedule, because if you were shocked, to the point that you felt "shocked" needed italics, and I'm assuming you were yelling at me with that little exclamation point you tucked on the end there, then that little ticker of yours must get worked up at the drop of a hat.  Let me give you a little insight.  First of all, I had the paper put "humor" by my byline just for folks like you who are wound way too tight.  Second, the column was not written for some bird-watching cult nor was it a grammar test for people such as yourself.  As such, I went with the term that the greatest number of people would be familiar with, that being "quail."  It is not capitalized, I knew full well there are different types of quail, again, so not the point.  Everyone I know always hated grammar studies, perhaps you're the exception, though I'd hardly take that as a compliment.  The column suffers not one bit the way I used the word "quail."  You seem to be the only one suffering such afflictions.  Judging by what you wrote and how you interpreted the column, I doubt you got very much out of the column, other than heart palpitations, and I would recommend that you not read any further efforts by myself.  I don't want the blood of your open heart surgery on my hands.  I was curious, though, with the multiple references to the liquor store, if perhaps you had been drinking when you wrote me.

I close with a concern of my own.  I see your full first name is "Phillips."  Are you sure someone didn't make a mistake there?  I mean after all, you're just one "Phillip," and with the "s" on the end, it seems as if someone wrongly used the plural form of the singular "Phillip" on your birth certificate.  Wait for it....wait....I'm shocked.  Might explain your issues with grammar, though.  Oh, look at that, we're even.  No charge.

Kevin (just one)

At Least He Signaled

     The wife and I are driving down a six-lane divided highway when I notice all the cars up in front of me are slowing and moving to the side.  Of course, my first thought is some type of emergency vehicle is about to drive over the top of me, but upon looking in the rearview mirror, no such scenario approaches.  As I get closer, there in the middle lane, on our side of the road, is a minivan, driving AT us.  While those of us who have been forced to share our side of the road sang a chorus of "WTF?" the van slowed, and eventually stopped.  Had he been a salmon, his efforts to swim upstream would've been commendable, and there was no shortage of bears chewing him a new one.  Alas, he was not a salmon.  Then, as if to tell the world he had paid attention during Driver's Ed, he put on his turn signal, and that made it all better.  And yet another reason is added to the list justifying the three-day waiting period to purchase a gun.

Does This Rice Taste Funny to You?

     Last Sunday, the wife and I went out for breakfast to this real popular place.  It was jam-packed as usual, with parking hard to find.  Right in front is this pick-up truck straddling two parking spaces.  No, it wasn't some classic pick-up truck, it was just a pick-up truck.  On the bumper was a sticker that read "PROUD MEMBER OF THE VIETNAM CHOPPER PILOTS ASSOCIATION," or something to that effect.  If he flew the chopper the way he drives his truck, there's probably more than one rice paddy with a rusty Huey helicopter tainting the water.  No wonder we could't win that war.  (I took a picture with my wife's phone, but in my haste to avoid detection by the impending arrival of the chopper pilot, I failed to save it correctly.  It would've been funnier with the picture, but I had to hurry.  For all I knew, the dude might have showered in Agent Orange one too many times, if you get my drift.  I'll try harder next time.)

All Hands on Board, But Watch Your Step

In this week's column, I mention a bout with food poisoning I had as a kid.  In an effort to help those whose imagination may need a kick-start, the image shown here is basically what I looked like for my three days in porcelain purgatory.