I keep seeing ads about how to beef up my credit score. I know how to beef it up: add more beef.
Archive for December, 2010
Things learned at my grandsons’ house: Don’t poke strange bugs. They probably won’t bite you but they’ll scare you half to death. Write that down.
We’ll be spending New Year’s Eve with an elite and sophisticated crowd, at a small dinner party. Discussing matters of Worldly import, no doubt. Me, as usual—I’ll be trying so hard not to say the wrong thing, that I’ll probably say the wrong thing. But I might say one or two right things, too. So that might help.
Since no one’s drinking, both the cider and conversation should be sparkling. Since no one’s drinking, we’ll have to come up with some things to laugh at that are actually funny. Then again, you’d be surprised how much easier that is when you’re still on Planet Earth.
The evening will be long if we don’t arrange something amusing to do. Even if you’re elite and sophisticated, you can’t just eat and chat forever, can you? Last year I brought Trivial Pursuit, but got all the answers wrong, even though I’d taken out all the cards that had questions on them I didn’t know. I’ll leave that home.
Instead, I’ve been putting together a box of surefire crowd-pleasers, guaranteed to fill the evening with laughter and mirth. Let’s see, okay…so far I’ve got this travel-size Monopoly game, an ocarina, Mr. Potato Head, and a bunch of those metal-ring puzzles where things are all hooked up like coat hangers. Batting clean up up is an old set of lawn darts that’s mostly complete.
We’re all set.
I’m glad the Jeopardy College championship ended this week, and we’re back to normal. Now I can watch regular people who are smarter than me, instead of College people who are smarter than me.
I never watch the Teen Tournament. I’m not that stupid.
Unemployment figures are out again, but I don’t read them. It doesn’t matter what the unemployment rate is. If you’re unemployed, it’s 100%.
My life-long friend, Steve Jones, owns the Radiator Doctor, down on Park. He’s remained profitable, even in these hard times, because he’s knowledgeable, personable, and honest. It’s a good recipe for success.
So he goes down to Vegas for a little vacation, and stays in a big Strip hotel. And just for a hoot, he decides to register as Dr. Steven Jones. Then he goes off to see a show, try the tables, whatever.
Pretty soon he’s bushed, been a long day, and he goes up to his room for a little shut eye. About an hour later…BANG!…BANG!…BANG!… there’s a security guy at his door.
“You the doctor?” he asks.
“Well, not exactly. I’m not a med—”
“You the doctor or not? There’s a guy downstairs who collapsed. Manager says could’a had a heart attack. Tells me to bring the doctor.”
“RD…” Steven says, “not MD… I’m a radia—”
“Look, pal. I don’t care if you’re Dr. Seuss. Manager says bring the doctor, I bring the doctor—or it’s my [mild expletive]“.
It takes a while to get everything straightened out and find a real doctor, but eventually, Steven gets back to bed.
He says he learned a very important lesson from this experience.
Next time, stay at a different hotel.
Stopping by a friend’s house, I noticed she still had lots of Christmas goodies around, which I was kind enough to mention were probably going stale. She said, “Why don’t you help yourself.”.
Wait a minute…isn’t that what Republicans always say? Maybe she’s a Republican.
I mean, she didn’t say, “Here, let me help you with that.”.
Then she’d be a Democrat.
Because there’s so many trees in our neighborhood, the streets are often root-cracked and irregularly patched. That’s true of the sidewalks too, so I have to watch that I don’t stumble over the uneven parts. Of course, that leaves my head open to the nonexistent mercies of low hanging branches; and there’s a lot of those. Even in daylight, I have to pay attention.
When foster dog Bob and I took our evening walk, I made the unfortunate mistake of wearing my computer glasses—which focus at about 30″—instead of switching to my regular ones, as I usually do. So the whole way it was pretty much…stumble, conk…stumble, conk… Four blocks around. …stumble, conk… I think Bob thought it was funny. We’ll discuss that at dinnertime.
Meanwhile, I’m home and Bob’s fed and I’m left nursing a bruised toe and a half-cracked cranium. It’s my own fault I know, and I’ll chalk it up to experience and all that. Besides, just because I spent half-an-hour conkin’ my noggin’, that’s no excuse for being a sorehead.
During the Holidays I’m always an instant celebrity wherever I go in my traditional Christmas cap—bright red, with snow-white fur—and a tail so long the little ball hangs to my knees. Everybody asks where I got it.
I tell children it’s a magical hat given to me by Santa himself. I tell their parents that I mugged an elf.
Kathy’s got this big old bone she claims came from the ham we had on Christmas. She says she’s going to make soup out of it. She’s not fooling me.
Everybody knows there are no bones in ham. Hams come in oval cans you open with a twisty key. Just like there’s no bones in bacon. No bones in sausage. No bones in pulled pork, Sweet ‘n’ Sour Pork, Pork ‘n’ Beans or Spam. …And no bones in ham.
Pigs don’t have bones. That’s why they look like big blobs. They are big blobs.