Category Archives: photo paffoonies

Revenge, a Dish Best Served… Well Cooked

You may remember, (if you are goofy enough to actually follow this blog) that Walmart hates my car.  So, I figure the time has come to declare war.  It will be the great War on Walmart by Mickey.  And I am pretty sure they won’t even feel it.  You see, I went to their manager with a complaint about them trying to make my car fart itself to death with too much oil after they originally screwed up the oil change.  I mean, everything was entirely their fault.  They forgot to replace the cap on the engine when they first changed the oil.  They also forgot to drain the old oil out completely when they cleaned up their mistake and put in replacement oil (which they did for free and that apparently counts for more than I think it did).  They did remember, however, to hold on to the receipt so I would have no proof in court that they had even done this particular oil change.  And they were not going to reimburse me for the $140 I spent at the Ford garage to make sure their mistakes had not caused permanent expensive damage to my car.  They informed me that on the receipt I had signed my name to the fact that I brought the car in low on oil and that they were not responsible for any damage to my car that may have caused.  And besides, I couldn’t prove that they had done any damage to my car because the Ford dealer’s diagnostic results only proved that the car was NOT damaged.  So, they basically screwed me out of $140 dollars plus the original $30 for an oil change that had to be completely redone.  So, step one, never ever ever… and I mean completely never ever… get any automotive supplies or work done at Walmart ever again… never again!

The hated Walmart on Frankford and Marsh... scene of much Mickey's misery.

The hated Walmart on Frankford and Marsh… scene of much of Mickey’s misery.

Step two, find other ways to deprive Walmart of every Mickey dollar I possibly can of the huge chunk of my salary they soak up every month.  It is hard to make the money last as long shopping anywhere else, and Walmart has driven almost all of their competitors out of the area.  You can, for the most part, only buy the same things for more money at other area stores.  You are stuck shopping at Walmart because for the average American that is all you can afford.  But I found a place that actually sells groceries cheaper.  I followed all my Hispanic neighbors to Aldi’s.  Yes, Aldi’s has taken over for the Kroger’s and the Albertson’s in the hearts and minds of the local people.  (Walmart wiped out Kroger’s on Old Denton Avenue, and forced Albertson’s to raise their prices to stay open).  Aldi’s, however, saves money in every way imaginable in their little mom-and-pop-type stores.

My grocery cart at Aldi's.

My grocery cart at Aldi’s.

My cart at Aldi’s in the Paffooney above ended up costing me $41.32.  Now, I know for people as dinosaur-ancient as me this is a horrible price to pay for what once cost under $10, but it compares really well with the estimated $65 the same cart-full would’ve costs at the Walton family’s evil everything emporium.  And you can’t really see it in this view, but I have a good sized tub of Neopolitan ice cream in here that I bought for less than $4.  And there is a 24-bottle raft of drinking water in the cart for only $1.29.  (And yes, I also remember when you got water for free and the tap at home didn’t have only hot-and-cold running Texas frog-water in it… with all those delicious fracking fluids added in for flavor, but water now can only be safely had from Nestle bottle trees).  So, I can rebel against Walmart by not buying everything from them, and I still get to eat and feed my family.  I even save a few dollars.  And the best thing is… cookies!

You probably didn't spot these in my cart, but these are delicious Italian apple-cinnamon cookies for less than $2!!!

You probably didn’t spot these in my cart, but these are delicious Italian apple-cinnamon cookies for less than $2!!!

5 Comments

Filed under humor, photo paffoonies, Walmart

Band Battles and Ballgames

20151009_192153

It was “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” night last night, because the Princess’ middle school band was expected to attend the football game and participate in the Newman Smith Trojans’ halftime show experience.  This of course took me away from where my heart was really located, as the St. Louis Cardinals took on the Chicago Cubs in their first ever playoff game.  Seriously, the Cubbies have never taken on the Cards in the whole history of baseball playoffs because they are in the same division and the wild card format had never brought them into playoff conflict before now.  Okay, before my brain bursts in cardinal red flames, the redbirds won and I only missed a fantastic playoff performance by pitcher John Lackey.  The band thing simply had to take precedence.

20151009_210335

So, we went to Standridge Stadium to watch the football team from the high school where number one son did his four years.  They were doomed from the outset.  The one and four Trojans were facing the Woodrow Wilson Wildcats who had reversed the Trojans’ record, winning four and losing only one.  The opening drive for a touchdown by the Wildcats let me know immediately that there would be no hope.  And then the Trojan kick returner fumbled the kickoff that followed.  It was going to be a long night in Trojan town.  And yet, it wasn’t.  The boys in green were able to intercept a pass and run their way back down the field to tie the game up.  It proved that the real way to win the game was for one side to be bright enough to never throw the dang ball.  What happened next was a horrible mishmash of long runs and end-arounds punctuated by pass interceptions and penalties.  At the half, the Trojans were behind 14 to 7.

20151009_203728

That brought us to the real event, the band performing at halftime.  Number one son had always adored the band program at Newman Smith.  Their marching band was award-winning and top-rated super-spiffy.  Dorin, my number one son, worked hard for four years to help them stay a number one rated band while he was in high school.  My daughter is seriously considering following in his footsteps.  But the band competition between Woodrow and Newman Smith was far more lopsided than the football game.  Only in our direction.

You can kinda see in the picture how pitifully small and powerless their band really was.  Of course, it didn’t help that they were facing away toward the visitor’s side, only showing us their little band butts during the entirety of their show.  And you see how their little red ants on either side of the marching band outnumber them?  Those little midget girls (apparently you made the girls’ dance team based on not being over four feet tall in high school) numbered about a hundred.  And all they did was turn around in circles and wave little sticks with blue and silver Christmas-tree tinsel on the ends.  The band performed their UIL competition routine entitled “Elvis on Mars”, or “Sram no Sivle” as their signs read from our point of view.  Their routine even included a boogie dance where the band put their horns and stuff down to wiggle their behinds at us.  How is that marching?  They weren’t even playing music at that point.

So, we came to the performance of the Mighty Trojan Band, and the performances of “Main Street America” and “Maestro” seemed to be marching band times twelve by comparison.  They actually marched in formation and impressed with a loud, bold, and highly musical sound.  Their lines were crisp and their corners sharp and my wife and I really appreciated that they haven’t lost their edge even a little bit since Dorin played the mellophone among them.

The marching band performance made the effort and expense worth it for the evening.  We thoroughly enjoyed it.  And then, like good band parents, we proceeded to go home after halftime.  Football game?  What about it?  That’s not why we went there.  Yet, the team had other ideas.  They ran the second half kickoff three quarters of the way to the goal line.  And they put on an unstoppable running game that took them down into the red zone.  And as we were exiting, they scored the tying touchdown.

“Do you want to stay and watch the game?” my wife asked with eyes that told me the answer had to be “no.”  And I did not feel particularly well from sitting in the cold wind on metal stadium benches.  So I let the aches and pains over-rule the game watching mania that nearly claimed me.  We went home.  I later learned that the Trojans lost in double overtime.  Dang!  But we won the battle of the bands hands down.

4 Comments

Filed under autobiography, humor, marching band, photo paffoonies

Why Does Walmart Hate My Car? Episode Two

I wrote a thousand words yesterday about terrible things Walmart did to my car.  I intend to follow that up with an even more harrowing tale of Walmart car-maintenance malevolence.  They really do seem to be out to destroy my car.  This attack was on an innocent little Ford Fiesta that I bought in 2011.  Prepare for a journey into the bizarre and horrible world of Walmart oil changes and attempted autocide with malice of forethought.

20150929_103033Episode Two;  Murder by Massive Car Farts

Now, I know that there is no posted policy anywhere in the Walmart automotive section where they do oil changes, tire mounting, and random acts of evil, but I really believe they all work under the same directive to stick it to Mickey anytime and every time they can.

I have been cheated by them before.  One time I took the car in, waited for two hours, and even though I was watching through the window as they did the oil change, I had no visible evidence that they actually took any old oil out or put any new oil in.  When I asked them for the empty oil bottles, they said they pump oil from an overhead reservoir (which I did not see anyone physically do).  So, I paid them and went home.  But before I made a trip to Iowa, I had the Ford dealer do a more expensive oil change.  They said the oil looked okay but it really didn’t look like it was only a week old.  So, I’m deducing Sherlockian-style that Walmart charged me twenty dollars just hold my car for two hours and look at the oil.

That brings me to last Wednesday.  I knew better.  I knew I should take the extra time and pay the extra money to take it to the Ford dealer, but Walmart is temptingly close and convenient.  So, I took the thing in.  The amount of oil in the engine was a little low, so they did the oil change (I actually saw oil go in this time) and made me sign a waiver that said that Walmart was not responsible for any damage that might’ve been caused by having too little oil in the engine.  On Friday, while picking up kids from school, the engine overheated in traffic.  While sitting at one foul-tempered stoplight with fifty or sixty… thousand other cars, and running the heater on a ninety degree day to keep my engine from flaming out, the check engine light came on.  “Oh, no!” I thought.  “Walmart was prescient about damage from too little oil.”

At home I checked the ridiculously hot engine and found the cap from the top of the engine (where a Walmart technician puts in new oil) was missing.  So I take it back on Saturday afternoon to show them the problem.  “Oh, yes, we’ll clean this mess up and put in new oil for free.  Don’t you worry about this.”  (He miraculously found the cap in the precise spot by the radiator where he had left it three days before.)

I waited it out, and, sure enough, the engine light was no longer warning of imminent car death.  So I failed to notice that he had kept my receipt from the previous visit.  We chugged happily out of the Walmart parking lot and down Marsh Lane to a spot where we were closer to home than to Walmart.  The car started making choking sounds and blinking multiple warning lights at me.  Number two son pointed to smoke coming up from the corners of the hood.  And a massive blue-white cloud of car fart exploded out of the tail pipe, obscuring the traffic behind me for miles.  My Sherlockian brain immediately deduced that something was wrong.  An oil change is NOT supposed to have an effect like that on your car.  So we limped the rest of the way home and called Triple A.

Fixing the problem was no bowl of Jello pudding.  I called Triple A and they recommended a tow so that no further damage would be done to the engine.  The tow truck came and I asked him to take it to 5-Star Ford whom I had previously called and explained my dilemma.  This he did.  And there are at least three 5-Star Fords in the North Dallas area.  He took it to the wrong one.  So, I arranged to have them keep my little Ford pony for the rest of the weekend and fix the potentially expensive problem on Monday.  I was depressed all weekend.  The evil Walmart goblin hordes had apparently destroyed my car.  I ate a lot of ice cream… probably more than was good for an aging diabetic.

Finally, the day came when I could find out the bad news and possibly get my car back.  I learned Monday that it was not a completely fatal blow.  The technician at Walmart had put new oil in without draining out enough of what was in there.  So there was far too much oil in the system when I tried to drive it home.  Too much oil and too high an oil pressure apparently gives a car massive amounts of intestinal gas.  That led to the nearly fatal car fart.  I ended up paying six times as much for the corrected oil change as Walmart had initially cheated me out of.  At least I didn’t have to sell one of my kids into slavery in order to get the money to fix it.  And I learned a valuable lesson from this whole experience.  Walmart hates me!

5 Comments

Filed under autobiography, humor, photo paffoonies

Why Does Walmart Hate My Car?

I have been having a lousy automotive time for the past few days thanks to Walmart.  And the kicker is, it is not the first dent in my soul put there by the Walmart corporate boot.  They are out to get me.  Specifically me.  Well, maybe paranoia and depression from chronic illness are not only good friends, but cousins.  But it does seem that Walmart is trying to destroy me.

20150929_102117

Episode One : Evil Decorative Parking-Lot Rocks

About five years ago I had a run-in with one of the corporation’s most seemingly innocuous assassins, namely a decorative parking-lot rock.

Look carefully at the expression on this rock's face.  Do you see the vicious smirk?  No?  Then he has you precisely where he wants you.

Look carefully at the expression on this rock’s face. Do you see the vicious smirk? No? Then he has you precisely where he wants you.

A more insidious lurking evil I have never encountered.  Why is it even there?  Does it make the parking lot more beautiful?  Does it make you want to buy hand lotion, bananas, and school supplies from Walmart?  Does it make you want to buy car tires?  It may make you need to buy car tires.  But this particular decorative rock nearly destroyed my car.  You see, Walmart parking lot drivers are some of the best drivers in Texas.  You can tell by the kill stickers on their driver’s doors.  The one that was coming for me that late October afternoon was an Ace.  I swear, I’m sure I saw a little stick man, a stick woman, three stick kids, and five stick cats on her car.  It only takes five kills to officially become an Ace.  She even had one of those stickers in her back window of cartoon Calvin peeing on a Ford logo… and my cars are all Fords.  I was trying to turn out of the adjacent parking area in front of her.  She was at least thirty yards away and going at a snail’s pace when I turned in front of her.  Suddenly she floored the thing and was zooming straight for the driver’s door.  I swerved up onto the curb to avoid a grinding death of shattered glass and broken metal (or possibly plastic… it is an American car after all).  And guess who was waiting for my car at that precise spot.  The front passenger-side tire went up over the rock and the car came down hard on top of it, impaling itself, making a huge dent in the floor of the car right underneath number one son’s passenger seat.  We were stuck there.  The car still ran at that point, but there was no way to get the car off the rock.  The Ace driver sped off down Marsh Lane satisfied with the kill.

So I called Triple A to get a tow truck to come and lift the poor impaled car off the rock.  The rock would not let go.  A passing guy who had been previously t-boned on that corner stopped to help my son and I get the car off the rock.  No matter how we all pushed or pulled, forward or reverse, the car was not going anywhere.  So I called the tow truck, thinking surely it could lift the car off the rock and I could still drive away from this.  But then we were blessed with the help of a family of portly Mexicans (honestly, the license plate on their car was from Mexico, and they spoke only Castillian Spanish from the central part of that country, so I am not being racist here.)  The jolly little man told me in Spanish that I could only partly understand that he had tow cables in his car and could pull me off the rock.  I tried to tell him in Pidgeon Spanish (yes, my Spanish is apparently for the birds) that, “no, no… I want to wait for the tow truck I called.”  Apparently my no, gracias meant something like “yes, please, and make it snappy,” in his version of Spanish.  So, the guy who took pity on us because he had also been a victim at that spot, and the happy Mexican guy hooked the back axle of my car up to the back bumper of his little Mexican car and then he had me put the car in reverse and try to drive backwards while he tugged away with his little chugger of a car that contained his plump little wife and three plump and excessively happy little kids.  He assured me in Spanish that he would rescue my car.  So… we got the car off the rock.  But we left a chunk of the oil pan from the bottom of the engine on the tallest of the three knobs on the top of that evil, evil rock.  There was a long trail of oozing black car blood on the rock and on the parking lot.  I could envision Walmart handing me a bill for cleaning up the mess in their parking lot and on their evil rock.

The happy smile on the face of the Mexican guy disappeared.  He quickly retrieved his tow cable and they chugged happlily off down Marsh Lane too.  The man who first tried to help us helped us move the now fatally wounded car in neutral over to an unused parking space to wait for the tow truck.  Of course, by the time he got there, the garage where I wanted to take the car was closed, so we had to hitch a ride home, and we arranged for the car-corpse to be towed in the morning.  The evil decorative rock had won.  There was now a gaping hole in my car, and an even bigger hole in my heart.  One would think that fate and evil corporations would be satisfied with such an outcome.  But no, there is more to come in Episode Two, which I will have to tell you about tomorrow.

6 Comments

Filed under autobiography, humor, photo paffoonies

Toys

A new doll bought to combat depression.  Part of a collection of Tinkerbell fairy dolls.

A new doll bought to combat depression. Part of a collection of Tinkerbell fairy dolls.

I have basically written an awful awful lot about my toys.  (The awful is repeated on purpose because I have been having a really awful time this week for reasons I will post about if I survive them).  And there is a reason a retired old man who seems to be rotting away into a second childhood is so obsessed with toys.  Playing is my primary goal for every day right now because darkness is closing in and, while play for children is practice for life in the future, play for an old man can be the reanimation of all the good things in life.

A Lego steam engine and a 1000-piece puzzle that my wife bought me to cheer me up.

A Lego steam engine and a 1000-piece puzzle that my wife bought me to cheer me up.

I have been a toy-maker and a toy-restorer as a part of my over-all quest to be an artist.  I even made some money with an online e-Bay store where I sold collectibles and restored toys.  I bought toys from Goodwill and re-sale stores, repaired them and cleaned them, and sold them for twice the sum I bought them for.  I also made a few porcelain dolls in a kiln I bought in the 1990’s when my mother and I became porcelain doll-makers.  I would show you some of my babies, but the real live children have managed to break all the dolls except for a couple my mother made.  (Well, toys are made to be played with, right?)  But I do still have many of the repaired and cleaned toys that I either didn’t sell or couldn’t bring myself to part with.

Toys in every corner of the house, dang it!

Toys in every corner of the house, dang it!

I have also been a model railroader since childhood, spending countless hours building tunnels and repainting rolling stock, and making buildings and scenery from kits and plaster.  I haven’t rebuilt my layout since moving north away from South Texas, but maybe I will get to that too in my retirement and second childhood.

I do still have some trolley street scenes on the tops of book cases.

20150928_143543

20150928_143708

And toys serve as memory objects.  They can do magic with time and space.  I have saved many of my toys from childhood.  Toys were precious and mostly Christmas and birthday gifts.  I learned to save and salvage them because they treated me well, and… well, I owed them the same in return.  My own children were not like that.  They loved toys to pieces and even sometimes ate them, to a point where many of them were un-fixable junk.  But toys bring things back to life from the long-gone past.  Take for instance the toy in this next picture;

20150928_144034

No, I don’t mean the baby doll.  He grew up and joined the Marine Corps.  I mean the stuffed white tiger in the background. That was the first toy I ever bought for baby Dorin.  And it is still with us, though not as fluffy and pretty as it was in the picture.  My daughter, the Princess, inherited it and christened it “Baby Tiger”.  That is, of course, still its name to this very day.  I look at it and see all three of them… my super-destructo toy-flinging and clockwork-wrecking children.  And it is the toys that we have all played with that still link us all together even though they are almost grown.

20150831_165425

20150928_143818

20150928_144004

6 Comments

Filed under humor, photo paffoonies, playing with toys

Burning Issues

20150908_072438

As the sun rises over the baked and burning land of Too-Hot Carrollton, Texas, the clouds have decided to finally give us a break.  It rained today.  And that is significant in the land where Texas Republican government flatly states that climate change is a hoax, and fracking and drilling for oil and natural gas are the best thing in the world for all.  I can’t breathe because the drought out west, caused by this hoax, has led to the world being on fire in more literal ways than Texas Senator Ted Cruz ever thought to scare toddlers with.  Smoke from California makes the air difficult for someone like me to breathe.  I have lung problems from a long ago encounter with farm chemicals.  Texas officially recommends that instead of complaining, I should just try to conserve air, and only breathe every other day.  I am doing my best, but turning a little blue.

Matthew 5:44&45 says; “However, I say to you: continue to love your enemies and pray for those persecuting you; that you may prove yourselves sons of your Father who is in the heavens, since he makes his sun rise upon wicked people and the good and makes it rain upon righteous people and unrighteous.”

So, I take note of that, and appreciate that the unrighteous are sharing the cooling rain… whether I believe in the words of the Bible or not.  The Bible says many things that are very true, in spite of the fact that there are many people praying for the destruction of me and my kind (people who actually think for themselves) and basing those curses and ill wishes on what the Bible says.  Of, course, they call it “cherry-picking the Bible” when they pick out isolated verses and use them to justify not doing their clerky jobs or condemning immigrants and people of the wrong color.  I often think of it as being more of the “rancid lemon-picking of the Bible” myself.  There is a lot of cow poop in that wondrous old book if you look for it.  And I have personally read the entire Bible twice with numerous re-reads of many of the good parts.  Where, then, does a heathen like me look for salvation?  Buckminster Fuller, of course.

12004819_10153094406712011_8038677753547240247_n

Who the hell is Buckminster Fuller, you say?  Well, he is hero of mine from high school where I learned about him from a beloved Math teacher who told me about his efficient use of construction theory mathmetics in things like Bucky balls and geodesic domes .  Yes, it is in fact a nerd thing.  Bucky is a demigod to me, almost as much as Jesus of Nazareth.  Here is a website you can read about him at, and hopefully learn to love him as much as I do; https://bfi.org/!!!

The truth is, I believe science will do as much to ultimately save our souls as religion does.  But the point here is clear.  We must learn to love and value 100% of our fellow human beings.  Even the ones who hate us and insist that their right to make huge profits outweighs my right to breathe fresh air.

20150831_194504

As the sun sets, reddened by the smoke from western fires, this suffering cowboy wishes to acknowledge that a fellow blogger, Angie Trafford, wrote this blog It Had To Be Said and made me twist the lemon-juicers of my brain about how to make people appreciate others more.  So appreciate her and the people she passionately defends.  I know Bucky would.

4 Comments

Filed under humor, photo paffoonies, religion

H.P. Lovecraft, The Master of Madness

20150904_141036

When I was but a young teacher, unmarried, and using what free time I had to play role-playing games like Dungeons & Dragons and Traveller with students and former students and fatherless boys, I came across a game that really creeped me out.  And it was quite popular with the kids who relied on me to fill their Saturday afternoons with adventure.  It led me on a journey through the darkness to find a fascination with the gruesome, the macabre, and the monstrous.  The Call of Cthulhu game brought me to the doorsteps of Miskatonic University and the perilous portals of the infected fishing village of Innsmouth.  It introduced me to the nightmare world of Howard Phillips Lovecraft.

“H. P. Lovecraft, June 1934” by Lucius B. Truesdell

20150904_135636

Old H.P. is as fascinating a character as any of the people who inhabit his deeply disturbing horror tales.  He was a loner and a “nightbird” but with little social contact in the real world.  He lived a reclusive life that included a rather unsuccessful “contract” marriage to an older woman and supporting himself mostly by burning through his modest inheritance.  As a writer, he got his start by so irritating pulp fiction publishers with his letters-page rants that he was challenged to write something for a contest article, and won a job as a regular contributor to “Weird Tales” pulp magazine.  He was so good that he was offered the editorship of the magazine, but true to form, he turned it down.  He resembled most the dreamer characters who accessed the Dreamlands in various ways, but let their mortal lives wither as they explored unknown continents in the Dreamlands and the Mountains of the Moon.  He created a detailed mythos in his stories about Cthulhu and Deep Ones and the Elder Gods.  He died a pauper, well before his stories received the acclaim they have today.

I have to say that I was so enamored of his stories that I had to read them as fast as I could acquire them from bookstores and libraries all over Texas.  My favorites include, The Shadow Over Innsmouth, The Dunwich Horror, and At the Mountains of Madness.  But reading these stories lost me hour upon hour of sleep, and developed in me a habit of sleeping with the lights on.  In Lovecraft’s fiction, sins of your ancestors hang like thunderheads over your life, and we are punished for original sin.  A man’s fate can be determined before he is born, and events hurl him along towards his appointed doom.  H.P. makes you feel guilty about being alive, and he shakes you to the core with unease about the greater universe we live in, a cold, unfeeling universe that has no love for mankind, and offers no shelter from the horrors of what really goes on beyond the knowing of mortal men.

Loving the stories of H.P. Lovecraft is about deeper things than just loving a good scare.  If you are looking for that in a book, read something by Stephen King.  H.P. will twist the corners of your soul, and make you think deep thoughts to keep your head above water in deep pools of insanity.  I know some of his books belong in yesterday’s post, but we are not talking about happy craziness today.  This is the insanity of catharsis and redemption.

Leave a comment

Filed under book review, humor, photo paffoonies

Cooking More Futzbatter

minions6“What’s this with the made up words thing?  You can’t just make up words!”

“Why not?  I’m an English teacher.  Who better to make up words?”

“But you are making up nonsense words, and using them to make fun of Iowegians!  That’s, like, racist or something!”

“Iowegians is a made up word.  It is a play on Norway, Ioway, and Norwegian… and because a lot of white people in Iowa are of Scandahoovian descent.”

“See what I mean?  Racist!  Scandahoovian makes fun of people of Norse descent.  That is totally unacceptable!”

“I don’t see it that way.  I think we Iowegians should own it.   You know, like the way Texas rednecks are proud to be called rednecks.  I think that’s far more racist than saying Iowegian or Scandahoovian.”

“Why are we even talking about this?  Why couldn’t you have just posted more about your goofy flowers?  You have a lot more flower pictures you could use.”

“Yesterday was just a scrapbook sort of entry.  I wanted to post a variety of different things to fill space and waste time.  My writing goals were already completed for the day yesterday.  My novel is at 39,565 words right now.”

“But why did you have to make up gibberish words?  Don’t you know enough real words?”

“My Uncle Everett used to use Foobah when he was around the womenfolk so he didn’t say the word he was really thinking and offend Grandma Beyer.  That kinda makes it a real word.  And you’ve heard me say Futzbatter before.  It is a word like Paffooney… something I have used enough that you know what it means without even asking.”

“But what gives you the right to make up words?”

“What gave William Shakespeare the right?  Or Lewis Carroll?  Remember Jabberwocky?”

“But they were famous writers.  They probably earned that right.”

“I’m a writer too.  Are you saying I shouldn’t do what great writers do?”

“But your not a great…  Republican… yes, I meant to say Republican.”

“I’m not a Republican at all.  I’m an independent liberal.  I’m a progressive.  I believe we need to change things to make the world a better place for all of us.  Using new words and changing the language can’t be that bad a thing, can it?”

“We aren’t talking about politics!  We’re talking about you making up weird-sounding goofus-doofus words and using them like they actually mean something!  You can’t love the language and change it at the same time!”

“Why not?  You just did.”

“I did?  How?”

“What does goofus-doofus mean?”

“OH!  Darn it!  Don’t you see what you are doing to me with all your nonsense?  You’re making me talk funny too!”

“Speaking of funny talking, do you want to see the new Minions movie with me this afternoon?  It is playing at 3:25 at the Webb-Chapel Cinemark 17.  There’s a lot of funny talking in that.”

“Dang it!  You just posted the time and place you are planning to be.  What if that lunatic Winchuk boy decides he wants to use the information to get even with you for his entire seventh-grade year?”

“No chance of that.  He can’t read… or tell time.  He had me for a teacher.”

At that point the logical left side of my brain doubled up both of his fists and belted the creative right side of my brain in the chin as hard as he could.  Of course, that didn’t hurt at all, because both of his fists are metaphorical.  What a futzing foobah!

2 Comments

Filed under humor, photo paffoonies, wordplay

Stooges

borrowed from Wikipedia

borrowed from Wikipedia

Life is like a Three Stooges movie where I get to be Moe.  Yes, you heard me right.  I am the “smartest Stooge”.  And although a lot of the wacky plans my family carries out are my plans originally, I get more than my share of eye-pokes and head-slaps.

Financially I get more than my fair share of head-slaps.  My income has now been frozen in retirement mode for the remainder of my life.  I have to live three more years to get back all the money I paid into the pension plan for Texas teachers.  It is a better pension than teachers can earn now, but it is set up with standards from over two decades ago.  And, well, it is rather a difficult budget to manage when income is frozen and expenses are free to rise at will.  I just paid $45 for groceries at Walmart and got four sacks of edibles.  Seven cans of cheap-meal servings of chili and pork-n-beans (creating an alarming natural gas potential at our house), two cans of Pringles, 24 sodas in cans, two gallons of milk, Oscar Mayer salami, and some shampoo (hopefully we don’t have to eat the shampoo to avoid starving to death.  I remember a time when a similar stash for the pantry cost a mere $10.) The point is, Walmart is treating us like Stooges, in the same way Mr. Dimsell treats his Stooges while working in Dimsell’s Drug Store in the movie, The Three Stooges Meet Hercules.

The biggest point I am trying to make, I guess, is that I am at the bottom of Poop Mountain when it comes to the matter of finance and wealth.  (And poop not only rolls down hill, it avalanches down mountainsides.)  Right now the games that rich people and the Mr. Dimsells of the world play with money give us all sorts of head-slaps and eye-pokes.  Being able to own the whole drugstore is an unfair advantage.  Now that Dimsell is the only drugstore operator in the area, he can set prices as high as he pleases without worrying about losing Stooge business to other stores.  And he doesn’t have to treat his Stooges well, either.  He can be mean.  He can cut salaries and pensions in the secure knowledge that his Stooges will still have to come to him to spend their money no matter what.  More and more of the wealth goes into Dimsell’s pocket, and none comes out.  He is not compelled to share.  He doesn’t pay anything to fix the potholes in the streets outside his store.  He is, in fact given tax incentives just to be there and take our money.  So when my car needs repair because the pothole wheel-kicked my car to the point of needing repair, I will be forced to pay Dimsell to fix a problem that he allowed to poke me in the eye financially.  It is a real dumb deal, Porcupine.  (And yes, I know that drugstores don’t normally sell or repair tires, but Dimsell is a metaphor for Walmart, if you hadn’t figured it out by now.)

So, the only answer is to accidentally send myself back to the days of Hercules with a homemade time machine invented in the basement under the drugstore.  It will bring Dimsell to his knees and give him his just comeuppance.  And it will thoroughly prove I can carry metaphors and analogies way too far.

Minions are another form of Stooge... and I now have Kevin, Bob, and Stuart.

Minions are another form of Stooge… and I now have Kevin, Bob, and Stuart.

8 Comments

Filed under humor, photo paffoonies, Three Stooges

The Magic of Pez

In 1927 in the mythical land of Austria, where they seem to know how to make candy… a condensed form of peppermint was created in a lozenge form and then placed into a plastic toy dispenser.  The spells that were cast to make this magical item probably had nothing to do with toad warts and bat wings and eye of newt.  It has more to do with Mickey Mouse, then Katzenjammer Kids, and Marvel Super Heroes.  I have been caught under the spells of a PEZ fixation since childhood.  I remember begging for a Bugs Bunny dispenser in Merle Hay Mall in Des Moines when I was probably six years old.  My parents wisely said no hundreds of times when I was a kid.  Who wanted to spend a nickel on a penny’s worth of candy?  Just for a Pez dispenser.  If they ever caved to my begging, even once, I don’t still have the dispenser.  But now I am supposedly a responsible adult.  I have money.  Well, I used to have money before I spent it on collecting PEZ dispensers.  I can’t even eat the the stupid candy.  I have diabetes.  So I feed the candy to my kids and risk giving them diabetes.

20150720_105005

Here, my minion Stuart is showing off my Avengers collection.  It took him nearly thirty minutes to line these six dispensers up so that they were all standing at once.  The Hulk kept falling on him repeatedly.

20150720_105147

I am proud of my Toy Story collection.  I had to go to some lengths to find some of these (particularly Slinky Dog and Rex).

20150720_105405

Disney Princesses were easy.  Both at Walmart and Toys R Us they were all grouped together on the Disney hooks.

20150720_110931

The Muppets were also grouped together with the Disney Pez.

20150720_111038

Winnie the Pooh is Disney, too.  I got some of these on discount at Toys R Us.  I still need Piglet and Owl… and Christopher Robin.  I don’t have an unbroken Minnie Mouse either.  I had small children when I first started collecting these, and now I have fat children and a lot of empty Pez dispensers.

20150720_111403

My Star Wars collection seems to be evil Pez dispensers and Yoda.

20150720_140635

And poor Stuart is getting tired of standing up Pez dispensers, so I will end here without having shown you all of my PEZ dispensers.  Besides, I have reason to keep the newest dispensers a secret from my minion.

20150720_145719

7 Comments

Filed under collecting, humor, photo paffoonies