Posts

Good Health and a Bad Memory

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  Some folks, man, they’re like human time capsules for grudges. They get hung up on every little snub, every perceived insult, real or imagined. Nursing the slightest slight like fine wine. Just waiting for the perfect moment to unleash a torrent of pent-up vengeance and exact payback, like a shaken soda can aimed at the unsuspecting world. But let me tell you, this kind of grudge-hoarding is about as healthy as a diet of deep-fried Twinkies. It’s like a toxic sludge that slowly corrodes your soul. You might not see it, but trust me, folks can smell it a mile away. All that stewing and plotting can leave you etched with a permanent scowl or hunched over like Quasimodo from carrying the weight of the world’s injustices on your shoulders. Either way, it ain’t pretty. A memory like a steel trap ain’t a blessing, it’s a curse. Seriously, what’s the point of dwelling on some petty slight from years ago? It’s like trying to remember the name of every mosquito that ever bit you. It’s a waste
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Feng Shui Before It Was Cool

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  A rare night, the whole family was sitting down for dinner, swapping stories about our wacky ancestors. The conversation turned to our opinionated Great-Grandma, and everyone was laughing so hard they were crying. That lady was a pistol. She could roast you to a crisp, but it was so funny you couldn't help but laugh along. Granny wasn't just the family comedian; she was a living, breathing history book. She could spin yarns that were passed down through generations for hours, and we were all amazed by her almost total recall. Her memory was sharper than a Ginsu knife, she could remember the smallest, most insignificant details. One day, my cousin got the bright idea to write down some of Granny's stories. Turns out, a lot of them check out! We had an uncle who knew the Wright Brothers, a cousin who served as a messenger under General Pershing in WWI, and even a relative who caught one of Buddy Holly's last gigs. But the one story that always stuck with me was one that
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How Long Have You Been A Martyr?

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The Messy Art of Embracing Imperfection We used to be tougher. Folks get their panties twisted over nothing these days. People are quicker to take offense than a cheetah on Red Bull, turning molehills into Mount Everest-sized mountains of outrage. A slight inconvenience, a minor slip-up, and suddenly it's DEFCON One. We knew how to roll with the punches. Mistakes happen because nobody’s perfect.  But now, thanks to our fancy technology and need for instant gratification, we want everything to work flawlessly, right here, right now. And when we don't get it? Look out, buddy, you're gonna hear about it. It's like we've forgotten how to deal with even the tiniest bumps in the road. Take customer service, for instance. Remember when you could call up a company and a real, live human being would answer the phone? Now you gotta navigate through a maze of automated menus that seem designed by evil geniuses. And even if you do manage to talk to a person, half the time they
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A Uniquely American Solution

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It is irrefutable that within the borders of our great country, we face complex and ongoing problems in need of a uniquely innovative solution. These issues have persisted for decades, reaching a stalemate whenever they fall under the purview of our domestic federal leadership. The individual states may have their own proposed answers, but they cannot seem to find any common ground. Each one has its own agenda, resulting in a disorganized and ineffective approach towards solving these pressing matters. At the forefront of national discussion are two highly contentious topics. What to do with a fetus and how to regulate gun ownership. At first glance, these seem as related as pineapples and plaid shirts. However, to effectively address them, we must adopt a new perspective and step outside the conventional lines of thinking. There is a belief among some individuals that a fetus is a person deserving of all the rights and protections granted by our United States Constitution. Similarly,
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Sweatageddon: The Scorching

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  Where the Birds Need Chapstick Hotter Than A Habanero’s Armpit The sun bore down, turning the asphalt into a griddle, the wind a blistering wave and deserted streets into a convection oven set to broil. The air shimmered with heat, as if the entire atmosphere was auditioning for a part in a sci-fi movie about a planet made of lava. Venturing outside was like stepping into a blast furnace; sweat didn’t just drip, it cascaded, stinging eyes and soaking clothes faster than you could say “heatstroke”. It’s so hot outside that even the lizards are wearing oven mitts. Birds panting in the shade of the trees, casting envious glances towards house cats lounging behind cool windows, smugly licking their paws as if to say, “Sucks to be you”. Even the bees, usually buzzing around like tiny drunk pilots, had gone silent, replaced by an eerie stillness that made you think of that creepy moment in a horror movie right before a jump scare. This wasn’t just summer anymore; this was a scene straight
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Day of the Lawn Lepus

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  The icy stare of cold indifference …Photo by  Wei Fukuyama  on  Unsplash   Thursday is a lawn mowing day around these parts. It’s the day before trash pickup, and I wanted to get the fresh cut grass taken care of, so that I won’t have to smell hot clippings in the can all week. The sun was out amid patchy clouds and a cool breeze is ruffling the palm leaves. That morning was perfect for landscaping. It felt like a scene from a Hollywood production about the best attributes of owning a lawnmower . That’s when it happened. I was just getting the weed wacker battery out of the charger; it was now up to full power and awaiting the assault on the wild and unruly grass. Trimming the yard was the first step. Once I finished trimming the yard, I got the abdominal punishing push mower out of the garage to finish the job. It meticulously caps off the blades, resulting in an even trim that appears good until I get in the pool and look at it from ground level. Then I see all the spots I’ve misse
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Good Mourning!

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  You can’t spell funeral without fun! A friend of mine suggested a side gig after a roommate came up short on rent. I had an idea to get something fun to do instead of the usual soul crushing low-pay bore fest that permeates the current want ads. Something where I could be entertained as well as compensated. The previously stated friend had watched the fine movie Wedding Crashers . After looking into if there were such jobs as a professional wedding crasher (there weren’t), he noticed a posting for paid funeral attendees. When a funeral service has little to no attendance, a service can provide paid mourners to go to a funeral, speak well of the deceased to friends or family and to be respectful at the service. Going to funerals wasn’t something that I ever did. If someone that I knew died, I’d usually say I was going, but then back out just before. When a pet died, I wouldn’t even go to that. I’d usually just get buzzed and avoid the whole thing. But the allure of getting paid change
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