SORRY, I’M A TOAD OF A MAN

 

    Like an enlightened Tibetan monk, I have witnessed and learned much in my many years of shuffling around on this dirt clod we call earth. I have stood and viewed the wondrous creations of man, in the many countries I have been fortunate enough to visit. I have learned much about the mysteries of the soul from the written works of great and ancient philosophers and I have stood in awe to the mysteries of both life and death. But, my greatest nirvana, is that I have discovered how to apologize to a woman and get away with it!

    I am home-schooled in the fine art of feministic apologintus, as I have paid a potentate’s ransom in grief, shame, chastisement and emotional flagellation. Women, as Darwin failed to observe, have not evolved to the level of man when it comes to forgiveness and “let bygones be”. Women can be very primitive in both their emotional response and initial recourse to a man’s failure to always tell the truth.

    Throughout time, men have always had to lie. Cro-Magnons lied to the Neanderthals about where the tar pits were and where the saber tooth’s were hiding. Men have always been the best spies because of the skill. There is no such thing as a color blind male as we only pretend to be when it comes to appreciating the wife’s new hair color. We also do our tax returns based on carefully crafted lies passed down from father to son, (from rumors I’ve heard). Great men have lied….Peter the Apostle….Henry the Eighth did it six times….Benedict Arnold….Richard Nixon….Billy Clinton….Bernie Madoff and every politician since Julius Caesar.

    Well, it does seem that the number one affliction of Manly Sapiens, is our violation of the spoken truth, regardless of the ‘statue of limitations’. We often use untruths as a simplified method of maintaining peace and tranquility in our relationships. I believe it’s a lot like Yin and Yang. Two contrary forces, (truth and little fibs), are interconnected and necessary for there to be balance and a sense of harmony. Women don’t believe this. Seems like little fibs violate their harmonic cycles.

    Now….to the fine art of the apology. Start by realizing that no matter what the woman is blaming you for, admit your complicity to it and take any and all blame, even if she holds you responsible for the weather. Next….with your head bowed, tell her you are a sniveling toad of a man and how fortunate you are that she puts up with your shortcomings. Now tell her you never meant to hurt her overly hormone saturated feelings and that once again you feel like a toad of a man. Lastly….if all else fails, take advantage of her matriarchal side by pleading for her motherly mercy. This last resort will usually require you being on your knees and I have found that having a Josh Groban CD playing helps.

    One last comment. The giving of gifts, in lieu of a choreographed apology, is acceptable to most women, as long as you enclose a mushy card with at least one line that refers to you as a sniveling toad of a man. One lie should be enough.

                                                                                                  Charlie

 

 

 

 

 

 

    I looked below at the stirring migration of small human figures, running along the sidewalk in pursuit of their own lost dreams and senseless lives. Even from the fourth floor, I could smell and retch from the city’s exhaust and my mind began to numb from the din of the angry traffic below me and the empty rhetoric of urban music booming from blocks away. I closed my eyes and thought of my lost youth. The serene and almost mystical purity of it all. I remembered the warmth of Mom’s singing and the joy of Dad’s laughter. Even thought of my dog, now twenty years dead. I continued to daydream and thought of my best buddies, long ago, and of the sunshine and adventures of those days. Then, finally, I felt at peace and I began to smile as I opened my eyes….to see the pavement rushing towards me.

    The air was dusty with snow flakes as the handful of chilly mourners quickly scurried away from my gravesite. The guys from AA had chipped in what they could, and gave me a budget funeral. The epitaph was a dollar a letter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   Most times it’s diffircult nuff bein a gooder parant. Here is sum letters ta scool afta the parants had a hard day of parantin.         

 

 

MY SON IS UNDER A DOCTOR’S CARE AND SHOULD NOT TAKE PE TODAY. PLEASE EXECUT HIM.

PLEASE EXKUCE LISA FOR BEING ABSENT SHE WAS SICK AND DOCTER HAD HER SHOT.

DEAR SCHOOL: PLEASE ECSC’s JOHN BEING ABSENT ON JAN. 28, 29, 30, 31, 32 AND ALSO 33.

PLEASE EXCUSE GLORIA FROM JIM TODAY. SHE IS ADMINISTRATING.

PLEASE EXCUSE ROLAND FROM THE P.E. FOR A FEW DAYS. YESTERDAY HE FELL OUT OF A TREE AND MISPLACED HIS HIP.

JOHN HAS BEEN ABSENT BECAUSE HE HAD TWO TEETH TAKEN OUT OF HIS FACE.

CARLOS WAS ABSENT YESTERDAY BECAUSE HE WAS PLAYING FOOTBALL. HE WAS HURT IN THE GROWING PART.

MEGAN COULD NOT COME TO SCHOOL TODAY BECAUSE SHE HAS BEEN BOTHERED BY VERYCLOSE VEINS.

CHRIS WILL NOT BE IN SCHOOL CUS HE HAS AN ACRE IN HIS SIDE.

PLEASE EXCUSE RAY FRIDAY FROM SCHOOL. HE HAS VERY LOOSE VOWELS.

PLEASE EXCUSE PETE FROM BEING ABSENT YESTERDAY. HE ATE BAD HAM AND HAD THE DIREATHE AND CANT WALK FAR.

IRV WAS ABSENT YESTERDAY CAUSE HE MISSED HIS BUST.

PLEASE EXCUSE JIMMY FOR NOT BEING. IT WAS HIS DADDY’S FAULT.

I KEPT BILLIE HOME BECAUSE SHE HAD TO GO CHRISTMAS SHOPPING BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW WHAT SIZE SHE WEAR.

PLEASE EXCUSE JENNIFER FOR MISSING SCHOOL YESTERDAY. WE FORGOT TO GET THE SUNDAY PAPER OFF THE PORCH, AND WHEN WE FOUND IT MONDAY. WE THOUGHT IT WAS SUNDAY.

SAL WON’T BE IN SCHOOL A WEEK FROM FRIDAY. SHE HAS HER FUNERAL.

MY DAUGHTER WAS ABSENT YSTERDAY CAUSE SHE WAS TIRED CAUSE SHE SPENT ALL WEEKEND WITH BAD MARINES.

PLEASE EXCUSE JASON FOR BEING ABSENT YESTERDAY. HE HAD A COLD AND COULD NOT BREED WELL.

PLEASE EXCUSE MARY FOR BEING ABSENT YESTERDAY. SHE WAS IN BED WITH GRAMPS.

GLORIA WAS ABSENT YESTERDAY CAUSE ALLNIGHT SHE WAS HAVEING A GANGOVER.

PLEASE EXCUSE BRENDA. SHE HAS BEEN SICK AGIN AND UNDER THE DOCTOR.

 

(Alabama School district, 2004…..exact wordings)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                   MONA

 

 

     In every family there are a few genetic flaws. As to my gene pool, superheroes and NFL quarterbacks are extracted As to my wife’s murky pool, there appears to be a few weak timbers. Speaking of our youngest son, a few years ago, when he was 25, he had a girlfriend named Mona. This was a strange name for a women nowadays, but so is Godzilla, which was just as apropos in this case. Anyway….my son and Mona were living together in sin. Not the kind of sin that is an affront to God, but the sin of keeping an endangered species in a domestic environment. Mona was this species, but I felt my son was the endangered one. You see, Mona was….large. Not fat. Same way rhinoceros are not fat….just large. Not saying she looked like a rhino, cause I don’t want to offend anybody out there who owns a small zoo. She was the kind of large that made you fear her in confined places.

    My wife and I did a lot of smiling during their visits and Mom went out of her way to be friendly and to entertain, even as her bowels knotted up. I just drank beer. My son appeared to be happy, but his eyes were those of a tortured soul. Our Sunday dinners were popular with Mona and they often came early in the event there had been a time change which would have caused them to be late. Mona always brought a dessert, fresh from the local 7-11 frozen food case. Mom always fixed wonderful Sunday dinners and everybody got their fill. Mona always prompted our son to do the doggy bag thing with the leftover’s. My wife would always fill her nice Tupperware containers with whatever was left over and then pour extra gravy over all of it for Mona. The Tupperware would then go out the front door and disappear forever into the container triangle.

    We had them over for Christmas Eve that year, just long enough to swap gifts and have a drink which was just a continuation of the other 6 drinks Mom had belted down before they got there. Mona had a colorful Christmas sweater on, adorned with an abominable snowmen chasing a rabid reindeer, and she also had jeans on that made her butt look like a set of truck tires ready to burst. Mona was looking her best and had even been to the beauty shop that day and had her hair overhauled. It did look nice, according to Viking standards. For Christmas, our son had given her a fancy new cell phone, and later, Wifey said she guessed Mona could now keep track of when the next aircraft carrier was docking and unloading it’s crew. He also gave her a silver necklace, which I thought harmed werewolves. Mona gave him something brown from Big Lots, I think.

    Mona said she was going to be a X-ray tech as soon as she finished her courses….I guess welding school didn’t work out. They said they had plans for New Years to go to a nice club in Tampa. Most likely I’d see them on “Cops” that Wednesday night. Anyway…..we wished them a happy holiday and luck in the coming year and as they left I could hear all the dogs in the neighborhood start barking. I really feel bad saying all these things about Mona, but, it’s such a pain in the ass to delete a blog and then start over again, so I’m just going to make myself live with it and go to confession right after “Cops” this Wednesday night…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

               Wisdom is a wise thing….

 

    On occasion, after my morning medications, my mind tends to take flight and after being MIA for a while, it will often return with assorted cerebral epiphanies. Below are a number of, what Wifey calls, Charlie-isms. These are a number of reflections and observations, that I have regurgitated through the years to enlighten my kids and grandkids about the pitfalls and dilemmas of life.

 

LIFE….

The only idiot bigger than the idiot who knows it all is the idiot who argues with him.

A guy’s mind is like his zipped up fly. It’s only serves a purpose if he opens it on occasion.

A woman’s hair has only been two colors….the color it is today and the color that’s lost to living memory.

When it comes to friends….life is like a Porta Potty….they’re always glad to see you when they’re desperate, but then after they dump on you, they just leave.

Sometimes I think God wrote life to be a comedy….the problem is, most of the key actors suck at it.

I tend to ask Wifey’s advice when I already know the answer, but wish I didn’t.

Bad taste is stating the truth before most people are ready for it.

Teens relish the opportunity to rebel and ignore….that’s what parents were created for.

By being righteous and doing what’s proper, it will satisfy some people and often astonish the hell out of the rest.

Women have different standards than guys, like they don’t fart, they have vaporous expulsions….my standards smells the same as their’s, but what do I know?

There’s only one thing worst than a nagging wife….having your testicles ran through a Vegematic and then exposing them to rats….yea, that’s about right.

 

SEX….

I have always been careful about my sex drive….but my steering wheel still gets in the way.

Flirting is a lot like fishing….you always need good bait, but don’t always expect to mount every catch.

I think prostitution should be legalized one day a year….Super Bowl Sunday….then Wifey will be glad I’m home watching football.

In my wasted youth, I found that the difference between a cheap motel and a resort….was usually the price of the hookers.

A one night stand after a really long night of drinking, is like having a huge banquet….nobody feels like leftovers later.

 

   I have a lot more, but most of them refer to politicians and require crude references to animals and body parts. As it is, Wifey feels this is more than enough Charlie-isms, as too much wisdom can often cause a constipation of thoughts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

GET STONED ON LIFE…..or whatever.

 

    

    Sometimes, as I sit out on my veranda watching my sheep graze, I suddenly realize that I’m high! Fact is, I don’t have a veranda or own sheep. Now, before any of you solicit efforts to put me into an ‘old fart’ rehab….hear me out. I’m high on life!! That’s right, high on the joys of family, friends and health. Still….I must really be high, as most of my extended family remind me of a pack of starving baboons foraging for small gazelles and dung beetles. My friends are either wandering lost down some strange street with a loaded pair of ‘Depends’ on or else they just died from the shingles. My health?….I’ve seen Egyptian mummies in better shape!

    So, why am I so contradictory? I’m high, that’s why!! Not from smoking Guatemalan Inca weed or from eating dried Yucatan dream mushrooms, (which Medicare refuses to cover), I’m high on the joy of being alive. Waking in the morning to birds singing outside on that veranda I told you about, and the smell of pistachio pancakes and bacon coming from Wifey’s kitchen. I gaze out from my window at my beautiful green lawn and admire my incredible rose garden with multi fluorescent dragon flies flittering from one blossom to another. My high is even more the mellow from the wondrous sight of my beautiful lawn being mowed by none other, than Justin Bieber so everything will look perfect for when President Ron Paul comes to dinner tonight with his lover Rush Limbaugh. Yes, I’m high on life like a wart hog in fresh elephant shit. Life is too good. My new depression meds are really good too!!

 

 

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AND THEN THERE WERE GRANDDADS

 

     Well..……I’m getting old. I see it every day in the mirror now. I feel it every moment of everyday. I try to stay in shape, but the only jogging I do is out to the mailbox and even then I have to be careful not to spill my coffee. I don’t regret losing my youth and all the arrogant confusion I had back then, but I do miss the drive and ambition. The desire to take on a challenge, whether it be in sports or in the back seat of my 1958 ford. I miss the wonderment of new and exciting discoveries as with books and music and, likewise, in the back seat of my 1958 Ford. Those years came and then vanished in a puff of falling hair.

    I look at myself in the mirror now, bald, mega stout, gray hair and more lines than “Map Quest”! I often wonder at what point in my life I best resembled God. The Bible tells us man was created in his image. Not that I would ever be mistaken for God, except, maybe, by some mid western extremist cult. Most likely, at this point in my life, I may very well be showing some of the sacred imagery that he passed on to mankind. I have an understanding and kind face that bestows love and acceptance, but at the same time with the proper measure of wisdom and respectful judgment. A face that displays an abundance of joy and hair triggered laughter. I guess God’s a “Grand Dad.” All the traits are similar and a few pounds ago I think I may have resembled the guy painted on that ceiling in Rome. As a necessary disclaimer to that spiritual crowd of respected individuals on this site …..no, I do not think I am God or that God and I are cosmic clones, but, I am a Grand Dad and on more than one occasion, all my grand kids have experienced my out-worldly bellow of a voice during a football game or surely have bore witness to my glaring laser stare as they approached my candy dish. Last of all, my grand kids recognize my out stretched finger (as depicted on that Roman ceiling) and my invitation to pull it with gaseous results. Truly God resembles all Grand Dads.

     My wife and I enjoy our evenings together more and more these days. We talk politics, grand kids, bowel movements and NETFLIX selections. Our love and devotion for each other has increased as our sight as decreased. The joy and comfort of holding each others hand as we stroll down the pharmacy isle at Walgreen’s is a pure delight!

     I will someday finish my last chores in this life and as I wait for the last chapter of my life to close, I think my eulogy will most likely be that God was kind enough to share a lot with me and in return I was blessed with the joy of sharing a lot with others. Nice final thoughts I think. My final wish, is to pass away in my sleep..…hopefully at the steering wheel of my car with my lawyer seated next to me!

 

      

© Michelangelo  (Just being careful) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LOVE IS TRUELY BLIND…..THANK GOODNESS

 

 

 

    Life can gouge you with a lot of emotional enemas and heartaches. But, it does give, as well as take away. One of the many blessings of a long and comforting marriage is the fact we still see each other with bias vision. That is to say….we never change in each other’s eyes. No wrinkles, liver spots, gray hair or fat thighs. Wifey is still that wonderful smiling chick I first met many years ago and likewise I’m still her good looking and studly Greek god that overwhelmed her with my animalistic musk and desire…….she was sexy too.

    It just seems strange, after all this time, that we still talk and act like horny bar singles. Our grown kids groan at our behavior, but the grandkids love it! I’m not going to even try and describe or define what love is, because I have found that no two loves are the same, and yes, it does change through the years. There’s been times when our love was tired and a little worn out and then again there’s been times that just a simple caring look would cause both of us to tear up. A little advice to some of you youngsters; a marriage is like a garden….it can take a certain amount of manure and even survive periods of neglect, but kept watered with tears of compassion and tended with loving care….it will bloom throughout the leanest of seasons.

                                                                Charlie

 

 

 

                                 

                                      She Waits   

 

    They were but two, of many, who had traveled west seeking a new life and the rewards that would profit from their hard work. They migrated as part of a great wagon train that trailed across the prairie like some great roaming caterpillar. Four months, they had endured the hardships of travel, the chill of winter and the oppressive torment of the summer heat. Food shortages, savages, and the cholera. There were as many graves as there were young men to dig them.

    It was during the first weeks of spring, when the wagon train finally entered the Utah territory. Here, Jacob and Sarah left this protective group and followed their own course with a hand scripted map. They traveled on unmarked trails for the next two weeks, until they finally found their “place.” There was a small flowing stream, good prairie grass and soil that smelled of future harvest. This would be home.
        Jacob took one of their wagon mules and rode out a ways to cut down what few trees were available and then drug them back to help construct their small cabin. Sarah made a mud mortar from the clay bank of the stream and mixed it with dry grass for support. In time, the simple one room shelter was complete and the nights were comforted with a warming hearth, a few glowing candles and a simmering pot of Sarah’s rabbit stew.

    The cabin sat under the shade of a grand cottonwood tree. During the midday of summer, Jacob would come in from his plowing and share lunch with Sarah under the cool shadows of the tree. It seemed that the greatest treasures of their life were the simplest of comforts.

    Sarah had bartered for six chickens before they left the wagon train and finally, after almost of a month, they were laying again. She stitched together a mattress from the canvas canopy of their wagon and stuffed it with clean straw. She also put in a small herb and onion garden next to the cabin and then filled up a small salt pork barrel with soil and planted it with wild flowers. This she put next to the front door and knew it would always make Jacob smile when he came in from working.

    The summer passed and then a short fall before the reality of winter. It was difficult; the early snow was something they had not anticipated, but they were safe and secure. Jacob’s harvest of corn had been next to nothing, but it did help to feed the two remaining mules. The few acres of wheat had been good but the beans and squash had been limited. Come mid winter, almost all the food was gone. Jacob had butchered one of the mules and then buried what they didn’t use under the snow, but the varmints had gotten to it during the next two nights.

    What worried Sarah, was that Jacob was awfully sick. Coughing, sweats and chills. She was also in a dilemma…..she was eight months pregnant. One night, she woke in severe pain and she was covered in blood. She was terrified and Jacob was having a difficult time not panicking. It was decided, he would ride to Fort Delk, about two days away to get help. It was the closest place. He quickly dressed against the cold and then harnessed his mule. There was almost a foot of snow outside, but the sky looked clear. Jacob embraced Sarah and then laid her down and covered her with extra blankets. Finally he kissed her and then said, “Please don’t move. Stay there until I return, and I promise, I will return.” Then he was gone.

    Sarah laid there, weak and in pain. She prayed all that day. The second day she prayed and wept. The third day she quietly wept. Then….she peacefully laid there for the rest of the winter and into the following spring. The wild flowers bloomed and the shade of the cottonwood tree once again covered the ground. Now, forever….she waits.

 

                  

                           ”Heavy on the whipped cream!”

 

   My Saturday routine, when I was thirteen, was to go to the matinee at the Madison theater. Then, after the movie, I would head down the street to Stowers drug store and soda fountain. I can remember one fall afternoon, after seeing The Leech Woman at the matinee, I headed to Stowers for a cherry coke as I was still dealing with popcorn dehydration. Mary Ellen Spranger was usually there on Saturdays with her sister looking at the new issue of 16 Magazine, playing the latest tunes on the jukebox or analyzing Mr. Stower’s small cosmetic section. Actually, she was really there so guys could buy her sodas’, put the nickels in the jute box and maybe buy her a tube of lipstick. She was the most popular girl in the eighth grade….not because she was cute, as I have no recollection of what her face looked like, but, because she was the only girl in the seventh grade that was swinging a nice set of double A’s! She could arouse tribal hormones quicker than the lingerie section of the Sears and Roebuck catalog.

I digress………

   The soda fountain was a wonderment! The counter was topped by a 15 foot marble top that shined like the surface of a still lake. The stools were shinny chrome pillars topped with seats that were covered in the fineness available Naugahyde. Facing the counter was a magnificent mirror that covered the entire back wall and on this mirror were glass shelves stacked with assorted crystalline receptacles and shinny metal boats used for splendid creations of ice cream, topped with spectacular adornments. Behind the counter was a roll of magnificently shinning dispensers that drew beverages from some secret underground source and delivered up said beverages in a state of chilled splendor. Mysteries untold. There were canisters, jars, covered bowls and bottles of every elixir, topping, relish and condiment you could ever imagine. Among these garnishments was an overflowing abundance of bright red, luscious maraschino cherries.

   The soda fountain was a treasure trove of delegacies. Of course there was the nonsense of chicken salad and club sandwiches and even hotdogs……but, it was the marvelous creations of Gary, the “soda jerk” that drew us all there as if he were the Pied Piper of Sodaville. This 18 year old fountain technician was my career inspiration.

   Now, as to the dairy treats……35 cents for either a banana split or a ten inch high sundae. There were also root beer floats, and delicious egg creams! An egg cream was a fountain delight consisting of chocolate syrup, milk, and soda water. It contained neither eggs, cream, nor ice cream….don’t ask…..it just tasted great! Milkshakes and malts came in a dozen different flavors and you could get three or four all mixed together if you wanted.

   Coke, (no Pepsi) was served in four flavors. Vanilla, cherry, chocolate and straight up. Lemonade was popular with the old folks, (35-50) as was the good coffee they served. During the summer I used to get a large lime sour. A large lime squeezed fresh into a tall glass of ice and soda water….NO SUGAR! The “true” soda fountains of my youth are long gone now and replaced by corporate franchised operations with a cute logo, drive thru window and uniformed counter attendants. Banana splits on special for $3.89!

   How I miss those Saturday afternoons at the matinee and then later spinning around on the counter stool at Stowers, while I drank my egg cream and stared at Mary Ellen’s double A’s.