I hate selfies.  More specifically, I hate selfie takers.  If you are one of these people, I don’t apologize.  I hate you.  Not only are you narcissistic in the extreme, you also have reading comprehension problems.  Everything is not about you.  (Yes, this post is about you…but not specifically you, just the annoying, collective you).

Anyway, while these people clog up my Facebook page and corrupt the Internet, I plot their demise.  Well, not exactly plot.  It’s more like I curse them.  You know, like Voodoo or the Evil Eye or a plain old witches’ hex.  They post their selfies and I wish for their death and dismemberment.  And you know what?  My plan is working!  Pow Pow Pow – Eye of Newt and Bat’s wings Pow.  Already this year, seven people have died while taking selfies.  Seven!  We are on pace to beat last year’s record of twenty seven.  Yes.  You read that correctly.  Twenty-seven people met their demise while self- aggrandizing last year.  My curse is working.

It is especially working in India.  So many people have died in Mumbai that they now have six Selfie-Free zones.  While this sounds like fiction, it is absolutely true.  I am killing Indians like a 19th century Cavalryman.  I know, wrong Indians.  And poor taste.  I, like Coach Dale, apologize for nothing.  Because unlike those blood thirsty blue-eyed racist devils, I am on the side of decency.  And I have brown eyes.  Anyway, I think any sane person would agree that if somebody dies while taking a Selfie, they pretty much deserved their fate.  Except we know it’s not fate.  It is the Curse of Muffet’s Orange.

Of course, sometimes the curse only results in injury and not death.  It’s a curse, not a computer program.  The other day, five people were taking a selfie.  Next to a cliff.  You don’t have to be Nostradamus to know the end of this story.  They backed right off the cliff and were all badly injured.  If only we had the picture of all of them plummeting to their near doom.  There is a picture I would post one hundred times out of a hundred.  (You don’t know who Coach Dale is?  Is this a serious comment?  Because if it is, you look like a complete idiot.  “Cedar knob, they got no head-toppers.  Bunch of mites.  Run you off the boards…Watch that purgatory they call a gym.  No drive, twelve foot in.”)  That’ll do.

I hope the story of my curse is inspirational to you.  Because, in the end, that is what this blog is all about.  Inspiring others to do what they might have considered impossible.  You probably thought that stopping Selfies was a pipe dream.  But it isn’t.  I’m dropping these people like flies.  In traffic, over cliffs, off the boat.  The MO is an avenging angel, hell bent on reintroducing humility and reserve to an obnoxious world.  And that, my friends, is a message of hope and change that I think we can all get behind.

Except for you clowns that keep taking pictures of yourself in the mirror.  Real artsy.  414 million people have beaten you to this particular idea.  And, just so you know, a mirror can be dangerous.  Hex, hex, hex.

And a pin to the solar plexus.

 

The whole time I was thinking I had seen Trump somewhere.  I couldn’t remember where it was, however.  Surely, it wasn’t a personal experience.  Trump would never come to Wisconsin and I would never be allowed in a Country Club.  That would be outside of protocol.  I thought and thought, but finally it came to me.  Spaulding Smails, Judge Smails’  (played expertly by Ted Knight) grandson in Caddyshack.  You know, the kid with the long hair and the stupid expression on his face.  The one who the caddies were betting would pick his nose.  Yes, that kid.  See the resemblance now?  Anyway, if Judge Smails was still alive I can just imagine the conversation.

Spaulding/Trump (looking bewildered and angry at the same time):  “Grandpa, why do I have to go golfing today?”  (Spaulding/Trump stamps his foot)

“Spaullll-dinngggg.  Spaulding!  All winners play golf.  You want to be a winner, don’t you?”

Spaulding/Trump.  “I am a winner.  I have billions of dollars and an Eastern European trophy wife.  I don’t want to play golf, though.  I have a campaign to run.”

“Spaullll-dinnggggg!  Quit whining and grab my clubs.”

Spaulding/Trump stares down at his hands in dismay.  “I can’t grab your clubs, Grandpa.  My hands are too small.”

Judge Smails shakes his head.  “What?”  (he examines his grandson’s hands with obvious disapproval)  “You have the hands of your mother’s side.  It’s a genetic defect.  Just put them in your pockets.  I’ll call over some of the help.”  (Judge Smails motions towards the lingering caddies)  “Boy, come grab my bags.  Chop, chop.  Winners wait for no man.”

Suddenly, from the side, a winded and flushed Marco Rubio enters the scene.  “I want to play golf, too.”

Judge Smails shakes his head.  “No, no.  You aren’t a winner.  And you’re not big enough.”

Marco stands on his tiptoes.  “Am too.”  (He points at Spaulding/Trump’s hands)  “My hands are bigger than his.”

Judge Smails shakes his head and pushes Marco aside while Spaulding/Trump smirks.

“Too bad, Little Marco,” Spaulding/Trump says.  (he looks around, frowning)  “Where’s your egghead pal, Cruz?”

Marco rolls his eyes.  “He can’t come out in the daylight, remember?”

Spaulding/Trump nods.  “Or he will be fired?”  he says and he and Marco dissolve into laughter.

Over at the bar, Jeb Bush looks on longingly.  He likes golf.

They started it.

It is leap day today, the day when calendars the world over remedy their screw-ups.  Stupid Romans.  Anyway, February 29 is also the day when women can ask a man to marry them and the man cannot refuse.  Provided the man is single.  What do you think we are, some sort of barbaric people whose actions are dictated by mythological nonsense?

Well, we don’t do polygamy.  That’s the Mormons, no matter what they say.  I read Under the Banner of Heaven.  Far be it for me to point out a downside to polygamy, but if one guy has eight wives doesn’t that leave seven guys with no wives?  I’m just doing the math here.  It doesn’t seem to be a good long term solution as a social construct.  Just trying to help out my smiling, super white brothers.  As a sidebar, did you know that Utah leads the nation in porn downloads?

Anyway, do you also know what you call a person who is born on February 29?  A Leapling!  Leapling.  This is a name straight out of Tolkien.

“And Bilbo traveled West of the shire to the land of the Leaplings.  They were a strange people, always smiling, though Bilbo noticed that only a few of the men had wives.  Those that did had many wives and smiled the most.  They drank no mead nor fatty food and worked at their manual labors like demons.  Bilbo thought this work fervor due to some sort of repression, though he couldn’t be sure as he wasn’t a psychologist and Gandalf insisted they keep moving lest they be found by the Rock Orcs who hated the Leaplings, mostly for their marital indiscretions.  And the fact that Rock Orcs couldn’t stand anybody who pretended to be so happy all the time when they clearly could not be.”

There are not many famous people who were born on Leap Day.  The former CEO at Woolworth’s.  Henri (The Pocket Rocket) Richard who played NHL hockey for the Montreal Canadiens.  Leaplings, both.  To be honest, I had expected more from Leap Day.  To whit, I was born on December 30.  Do you know who was born on December 30 (besides myself, of course)?  Tracy Ullman, Laila Ali, Tiger Woods, Lebron James, Sandy Koufax, Patty Smith, Bo Diddley.  Meredith Veira from The View.  Rudyard Kipling.  Both Davy Jones and Michael Nesmith from the Monkees.  And, for you Mormons out there, Heidi Fleiss, the Hollywood Madam.  Pow.  That is a birthday.  You suck, Leap Day and you not-very-interesting Leaplings.

Of course, you still have hope.  Even as I write this, babies are popping from their mother’s vaginal canals and into the world.  Pop pop pop.  Most of these babies are in Africa or Asia, both they are nonetheless being birthed.  And any one of them could be super famous.  At least they might run a successful prostitution business.  That is at least something.  Better than running a failed retail store anyway.

So, I raise a toast to you, newly minted Leaplings.  May you live long and prosper!

It would be really cool now if Leonard Nimoy was a Leapling.  Alas, he was born on March 26 – which is coming up Trekkies!  The anniversary of his death was only two days ago, however.

Now I made myself sad because there will be no more Spock.  I know the guy from American Horror Story did an alright job.  But it wasn’t the same. The pointy ears just made him look too much like a Leapling.

Not everybody can pull off being a Vulcan.

 

“And there will be dark beings about and lo be it to the unrighteous man who crosseth their path.  Be wary and live as the FSG would have you live.  All else is folly.  Eth.”- as told to the Prophet MO during a commercial for Duluth Trading Post- not that one, the one with the moose licking the guy’s armpit

Time for that most favorite of games.  Vampire?  Or Not?

Ted Cruz– Seriously, if he were any more obvious, he’d be wearing a black cape and trying to get the UN to recognize Transylvania as an independent country.  Plus, his wife’s hair is always suspiciously made up.  Clearly, she is the blonde vampire wife.  The red-haired and brunette vampire wives are at home.  Unless he goes to Utah.

Hillary Clinton– Yes.  Succubi are definitely a kind of vampire.

Donald Trump– At first blush one would say no.  Too fat.  Plus, vampires do not have comb-overs.  On the other hand, he has a wife from the former Eastern Bloc and he employs a gaggle of Romanians.  Or is it a “coffin of Romanians?”  Someone will need to throw some holy water at him to make a definitive statement.  Though, if he is some sort of demonic creature, this may result in a false positive.

Marco Rubio– You can’t be an android and a vampire.  Androids drink electricity, not blood.

Bernie Sanders– There is no such thing as a Jewish vampire.  Though I could insert a banking joke here if I was into stereotypes.  Which I am not.  Unless it comes to vampires.

Antonin Scalia– If he is really dead, I guarantee he has a stake in his chest and his decapitated head is in a river someplace.

Ben Carson– Vampires are never that lethargic.  He could be a ghoul, however.

Marv Albert– He bit a woman while wearing women’s clothing.  And he works primarily at night.

Mike Tyson– Bit off part of an ear on national television.  Also has a funny accent.  Maybe that is how people in some parts of the Ukraine talk.  I’ve never been there.

The Kardashians– Too stupid.  Vampires have a little higher standards than that.  Maybe ghouls.

Rush Limbaugh– Way too fat.  Also see directly above.

John Kasich– Nobody cares.  Probably a vampire.

Peyton Manning– Unlikely.  Though his next door neighbor growing up was Anne Rice.  Nope.  Not a vampire.  They can regenerate without HGH.

Bill Clinton– Definitely not.  He keeps as much distance between Hillary and himself as possible.

Dick Cheney– Head Vampire of the Republican party.

George W. Bush– Human vampire bitch.  Hoping to become a ghoul, but he can’t get Cheney to bite him.  Looking to his father for help.

List subject to change depending on  future biting, staking, etc.

 

 

“And lo there will be tragedies, from the earth and from the sky and from the field, and nothing made by man will stop them.  Not even a fence.”- as told to the Prophet MO by the FSM.

Did you ever wonder what happened to the cellist (Mike Edwards) from the Electric Light Orchestra?  Wonder no more, my friend.  After hours of painstaking research, the Prophet MO has found the answer for you.  He’s dead.  Sorry to disappoint you.  But I have something that might cheer you up a bit.  He was killed by a round bale.  This is a true story.  I am nothing if not a teller of the truth.

Anyway, he was driving down a road in rural Minnesota.  I don’t know why.  One can safely assume he was headed elsewhere.  So, he’s driving down the road when a round bale comes rolling down a hill, crashes through a barbed wire fence and smashes him flat.  His last words were “I can’t get it off of my head.”  Not really.  Though I would have respected him a great deal if those had been his last words.  I mean, all of us have it coming one way or another.  You might as well retain your sense of humor on your way out.  I’ll try to remember that if I am ever lying on my deathbed.  Or being suffocated by a 1300 pound round bale.

I suppose you are thinking that death by round bale is an unlikely way to go.  Well, in the state of Minnesota at least seven people were eliminated by round bale in the years 1994-96.  That is way more than were killed by grizzly bears in the whole country during that span of time.  Yet, what are people more afraid of?  Grizzly bears.  This tells you the power of propaganda.  If I was a grizzly bear I would start an anti-round bale campaign on Facebook in order to set the record straight.  And this grizzly should send a link to my wife.

My wife is very fearful of grizzly bears.  Ironically, we don’t live within 1000 miles of the nearest grizzly bear.  Anyway, I suppose this is all moot as grizzly bears do not possess the manual dexterity to use Facebook.  Their exceptionally long claws are meant for digging and tearing, not checking up on what their old high school boyfriend is up to.

I wonder if Mike Edwards ever wondered how he would die.  Assuming he did, I’d bet a large sum of money that he never would have picked “Crushed to death by out of control round bale.”  It is much more likely that he would have chosen “Eaten by grizzly.”

Which just goes to show you the difference between perception and reality.  As a sidebar, Leonardo DiCaprio could make a sequel to the Revenant.  It could be called the Haymaker.  In this movie, an Amish man is run over by a round bale and left for dead by his Amish extended family.  Miraculously, this man survives his smushing and begins the long trek back to Pennsylvania to get his revenge.

The movie could also be called Revenant 2: The Retribution of Habbakuk.

Speaking of perception, Habbabuk isn’t even on the list of the top ten Amish names.  They are named Samuel and John and Leroy.  And occasionally Iddo.

 

 

Perhaps you recall my query relative to the whereabouts of the Michelin man.  You don’t?  Perhaps you need to work on your reading comprehension.  Certainly, your recall could use a little work.  Speaking of spruce, did you know that the Spruce Goose was actually made almost exclusively of birch?  Had it been a submarine it could have been the Birch Perch.  But the vicissitudes of history would not allow it.  The birch came from Mellen, Wisconsin.  This is a little trivia tidbit that you can use if you really want to impress someone.  Someone in this case being a total and unrepentant geek.  (Are there unrepentant geeks?  I wouldn’t think so.  I mean, some of them act like their geekiness is a badge of honor.  But really they don’t mean it.  Kind of like short guys who make jokes about being short all the time.)

Anyway, the Michelin man has a name.  It is Bibendum.  The French.  Who else would give a name to their company’s symbol?  They should have rolled a line of Bibendums into Belgium before the Germans came.  Certainly, they would have proved no less effective than the Maginot line.  Nous avons baisé vers le haut.  (Note: I don’t really know other languages.  But I don’t have to.  Technology has made me polyphonic.  The Internet is my god.)

I am reading a book where the protagonist is a woman who has visceral, almost allergic, reactions to certain marketing symbols.  The one she is most frightened of happens to be Bibendum.  Personally, I find this a ridiculous premise.  I’ve always found Bibendum to be a whimsical character, full of cheerfulness and European charms.  Anyway, I’d also cut off the head of any vampire I met.  So, my thoughts and those of fictional characters often diverge.  Anyway, I found this allusion to Bibendum rather interesting as I had just raised the question as to the whereabouts of the Michelin Man in an earlier blog.  Eerie.

When these things happen, I can’t help but imagine that I possess some sort of prescient abilities.  I refer to Bibendum and he appears in the pages of a book that I randomly choose to read.  Perhaps, I, like the Internet, am some sort of god.  At the very least, I might be an important prophet.  Maybe I am the first true prophet of the church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.  Wait, I am getting a revelation……..

I think I’ll write that one down, oh powerful FSG.

And, in the time of the waning of the Bibendum, a message came to the prophet Muffet’s Orange, sent to him by the FSG to giveth to the true believers.

“MO is the light and beacon, my earthly proxy, who speaketh for me to man.  He is the conduit of the eternal, the vehicle through which I giveth my commandments to all of mankind.  Thus, ye should giveth all of your temporal goods to the prophet MO- so sayeth I lest ye be cast down into the Pit of Ravioli to be burneth alive for all eternity with hot sauces that drip down from the ladle of the Chefboyardee.

Also, MO shouldn’t payeth any taxes.  Thus sayeth the Flying Spaghetti Monster.”

There you have it.  I’m just telling you what my god says, you know.  Don’t blame the messenger.

Infidel.

My wife was on Facebook the other day when she sees a funny, little piece comparing Donald Trump to an orange.  Thieving Bastards!  That is my idea.  Look back a few posts you filchers of literary genius.  I should sue.  Except I am far too lazy to pursue a lawsuit.  Perhaps I will one day meet the perpetrator and punch him in the bean.  That is more my style and takes up a lot less time.  For time, my friend, is all that counts in the end.  Or so old people say.  Young people say “I have time to burn” and “dude.”  Did I ever mention how much I hate the word “dude?”  It is the kind of word you use if you steal other people’s material.  The next thing you know there will be an online satire comparing the German language to the sounds of flatulence.  Some people have no shame.

I also hate the words “conflated” and “patriotism.”  My second most hated sentence would be “the Industrial/Military complex conflates patriotism with national loyalty in order to dupe the masses into offering up the lives of their children for the advancement of a shadowy elite.”  My most hated sentence is “now we return to the Real Housewives of Orange County.”

Speaking of plagiarism, isn’t it about time for Hollywood to make another body switch movie?  You know the movie of which I speak.  After a freak event (such as a lightning strike or strange meeting with a gypsy) an adult finds themselves in the body of a child and the child finds themselves in the body of the adult.  Mayhem ensues.  And both of them learn a valuable lesson about the problems that both of them face. A terrible variation of this theme – which is saying something- is the movie the Hot Chick where a teenage girl switches bodies with a 30 something criminal played by Rob Schneider.  I shuddered as I wrote those words.  I also realize I was incorrect relative to my most hated sentence.  Nothing could be worse than “tonight’s movie is the Hot Chick featuring SNL’s own Rob Schneider.”  Everything is relative I suppose.

In other interesting news, scientists have actually verified gravity waves.  I’m sure this probably means nothing to you.  But keep using all the technology made possible by these same scientists.  Ungrateful primitive.  Your phone is not a tiny, magic box.  Somebody actually employed the laws of physics to enable you to sext your old high school girlfriend.  She’s married, you know.  Plus, nobody looks good in Crocs.  Which, by the way, are made of plastic that was created by scientists from the corpses of tiny, primordial sea creatures.

Something to think about.  Unless you are the one who stole my Trump-as-Orange idea.

Somebody did it again.  The toilet at work was stuffed full of toilet paper and paper towels.  Stuffed to the brim.  This is not only disgusting but most certainly unhygienic for the perpetrator.  Not to be a pedant, but E. Coli is nothing to mess with.  Ask the Third World.

Anyway, did you ever notice that many German words and phrases mimic bathroom sounds.  Guttentag!!!!  If that is not the sound of flatulence, I don’t know what is.

“Guttentag, Austria.  We are here to emancipate you.”  Blatz.  Schlitz.  Schwarzenegger.  You see where I am going with this.

I wonder about the psychology of someone who would intentionally stopper up a toilet.  Do they do this because they were ignored as a child?  Perhaps the only way for them to get attention was to back up the plumbing.  I can see their pathetic face as they gave the news to their disinterested father.

“Father, I fear that I have once again stoppered the loo.”

The father scowls and shakes his paper.  “What the hell do you want me to do about it?  Get the plunger from the closet and take care of it.”  The father shakes his head and returns to the Sports Section.  Then he looks back at his attention-starved child.  “And quit talking in that British accent.  If you’re going to learn a language, why don’t you learn German.”

“Ich wird dich im Schlaf toten,” whispers the disappointed moppet as he slinks toward his janitorial duties.  (Note: I am not translating that for you.  Do some work yourself.  Your laziness is what is wrong with America.)

Forty years later this same child is now a bearded, balding, obese man.  Yet, he continues to stopper the toilet, his development arrested by the disturbing circumstances of his youth.  Of course, I could care less about his problems.  Putting paper toweling in the john is not therapy.  It is just hugely annoying to those of us who must witness the tangible wreck of your inner being.  And, as mentioned earlier, the cleaning lady has to take care of your mess.  She has other things to do, you know.  The truth is that you are simply an Arschloch.

Arschloch.  Now there’s a word that just says constipation.  In this case, a little more constipation would be nice.

Yin and yang, my friend.

Powshraufnagel.

I’m sure you have noticed this, but I will point it out anyway.  Donald Trump is orange.  And I am not just talking tinted orange.  He is the same color of an overripe orange, like the kind you forget is in the cupboard for about a week too long.  Then you peel it and realize that it is all dry and disgusting on the inside.  So, you throw it away.  But you don’t feel good about it because there are a lot of people in the world who could use an orange.  Sailors on the open sea, for example.  I hear scurvy is a bitch.

“Arrrrr, scurvy is a bitch,” said Blackbeard as he examined the bowed legs of his crew.

See?  I wouldn’t lie to you.  Not about scurvy, anyway.  I would lie about fishing, however.  If you think I’m going to spend all that time walking through mud, afflicted by poison ivy and plagues of mosquitoes only to give you the inside scoop, then you don’t know me very well.  I will never do that.  Find your own damn fish.  This is America, not some bullshit nanny state.  No trout bailouts.  Don’t tread on me.  You will get my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.  I mean a literal gun.  Not the figurative gun.  That gun has nothing to do with cold hands- dead or otherwise.

Anyway, Trump is an orange (if you’re wondering where the segue is, the key word is “dick.”)  A talking orange, to be sure, but nevertheless an orange.  If you think about it, this truth explains a lot.  At the very least, it explains Trump’s adamant stance against illegal immigrants.  After all, who is the enemy of the orange?  It is he who picks the orange.  And who does all the orange picking in this country?  Correct.  It is the illegal aliens.  Trump does not want to picked.  He wants to grow overripe to the point where he begins to become brown and wrinkled.  In fact, he wants all Americans with aspirations to become oranges to have the opportunity to over-ripen.  American can be great again.

As for Ted Cruz, his head resembles a watermelon.  A watermelon filled with evil.  His name is also not Ted.  It is really Rafael.  Not to pick on him, but who in the hell changes their name from Rafael to Ted?  Ted is a good name for a talking stuffed animal.  Though, in fairness, the Teddy bear was named after Theodore Roosevelt.  So, maybe Cruz has something there.

Probably not, though.  After all, he is a Canadian.  And they are a bunch of dirty socialists.  Eh?

I once had a conversation with a guy who played rec league basketball against me.  At one time, this guy had been a pretty good player.  But now, he was in his mid-fifties.  Age and attrition had relegated him to the position of fading role player.  This is a position hard enough to swallow if one is a pro athlete.  If one is playing at the YMCA with a bunch of fat guys, it is infinitely harder.  Anyway, we were having a couple of beers and this guy said to me that “there is nothing good about getting older.”

As I was getting older myself, I found this comment a little disturbing.  Unfortunately, as I have continued to age (Jason Long is no longer young?  What??!!!) I have found his remark deeply unsettling.  For, all evidence pointed to the truth of it.  This was certainly indisputable from a physical standpoint.  My hair was graying and receding, I couldn’t jump as high nor run as fast nor keep from getting hurt.  Disaster.  And despair.  Was middle age merely the beginning of a slow and steady slide of deterioration?  What about those 8o year olds who run marathons?  Couldn’t I be one of them at least?  Like I say, this was all very dispiriting.

But I was looking at aging all wrong.  With age, comes a kind of freedom not available to the youthful.  I can easily go to the grocery store in my flannel shirt, hair askew, shoes untied, and no one bats an eye.  Why would they?  I’m heading toward fifty and I don’t own a luxury car.  I even threw away my comb.  Pow.  Pow.

More importantly, I am free to express opinions as I see fit.  Not that I didn’t do so before.  But when you are 25, nobody wants to hear it.  You are a smartass or a “radical.”  When you are 45, you are irascible or hardened.  Plus, you are beyond the age – for the most part- where a young person can justifiably accost you.  For example, say some college age guys have been drinking and are being obnoxious.  I can just tell them to “shut the hell up” and “show some respect.”  Or I can always scowl and use the old “there are kids here for Chrissakes.”

Hahahaha.  The funny thing is I don’t care about the kids at all.  I’m old enough to know they are going to learn to swear.  In fact, I encourage them to do so.  It is one of the things you can enjoy at any age.  I also don’t care if they show anybody any respect.  Watch the people running for President.  Respect is passe.  Screw you.  See what I mean?  Anyway, I yell at young people just because it is hilarious.  They don’t know what to do.  I can see they want to make some witty retort, but I have them off balance.  So they just stalk angrily away, muttering under their breath.  Pow!  Flummoxed Millenials.

The best thing is that I will only get older.  This fact will only further embolden me.  In retirement, I plan on attending every meeting I can.  School board, PTA, Chamber of Commerce, Elks Club, Young Republicans.  It doesn’t matter.  And when I go to these meetings, I plan to always speak up in a negative fashion.  The best thing is that since I won’t have any skin in the game, I can always be negative.  Screw your school referendum.  I hate small business.  Children should be put to work in the mines instead of learning all sorts of useless information from their teachers.

Don’t look at me that way.  In my day, young people had respect for their elders.