• We all have our “bucket lists.” The list of things we’d like to do before we kick the bucket. As I get older I find my bucket list is getting shorter and shorter, but the list of things I never want to do or ever do again is growing by the day. Here are some of the things I never want to do before I finally bite the dust, buy the farm, cash in my chips, or go belly up.

    I’ll never …

            ever piss on an electric fence again

            deliver another Omaha World Herald at 5 a.m. in a snow storm

            watch Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: The Movie again

            get another tetanus shot

            read War and Peace, Vanity Fair, or Don Quixote

            wear a clip-on necktie again, no matter how cool I think I look

            watch or read anything about Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner ever again

            struggle with a “use other door” door

            fire another rocket at a moving tank with a 3.5-inch Rocket Launcher

            go through life with one testicle like Hitler and Napoleon

            earn another merit badge

            speak to anyone in India about anything

            add Mariah Carey to my friends list on Facebook

            have another wisdom tooth pulled

            waste any more time fantasizing how I’ll spend my Powerball winnings

            go to a Kanye West concert

            remember the names of Cinderella’s evil stepsisters (Anastasia and Drizella)

            do another 12 midnight to 4 a.m. guard-duty shift

            smell an egg-salad sandwich im my high school locker again

            test to see if something marked “Wet Paint” is dry yet

            go skinny-dipping in another irrigation ditch

            sit nervously in the principal’s office

            ask Donald Trump his opinion on anything

            put on another set of snow chains along the roadside ever again

            get another serious sunburn

            raise my hand when I have to pee

            fire a flame thrower into the wind again

            fret while waiting for test results to come back

            quit wondering what happened to my baseball card collection

            mess with chiggers, skunks, or poison ivy ever again

            listen to or watch another radio or TV evangelist

            carry a 6-inch slide rule in my pocket protector again

            or ever wear another pocket protector

            trim my lawn with a old squeeze-type, hand edger

            eat C-rations packed in 1943 again

            patch another bicycle tube with a hot patch

            apply for membership in the David Hasselhoff fan club (yep, he has one)

            solve another quadratic equation

            wait in line for tickets to see Wayne Newton

            snore through another Republican presidential debate

            smoke another Lucky Strike or Philip Morris ever again

            forget to take my “gym clothes” home to be washed again

            drink all that awful stuff in preparation for another colonoscopy

            burn my lips on an aluminum canteen cup again

            eat days-old oysters

            care what Dr. Phil thinks about anything

            use pomade to keep my ducktail slicked down

            answer the question – “Do these pants make my butt look big?”

            listen to another Barry Manilow song

            call a number scratched on a men’s room wall

            utter, “Hold my beer, and watch this,” to anyone ever again

            loose the key to my clamp-on roller skates again

            sit through another minute of the Ice Capades

            peel or lay rubber on purpose again

            board a small toiletless commuter plane after drinking five beers

            read another issue of The Watchtower

            wave a “Maggie’s drawers” on a rifle range ever again

            figure out how to tie a Killick Hitch

            remember why I ever wanted to be Keeping Up with the Kardashians

            catch my foreskin in a zipper ever again

  • We all say inappropriate things now and then and occasionally we say something that doesn’t make any sense at all. Remember when George W. said, “You teach a child to read, and he or her will be able to pass a literacy test.” Or when he said, “It’s clearly a budget. It’s got a lot of numbers in it.” Was he really that dumb or did he just speak without thinking? You judge for yourself, but I think he was really that dumb.

    Speaking of dumb, Dumb with a capital D. Who can forget Dan Quayle? Okay, so you’ve forgotten him already. Remember, he was our Vice President from 1989 to 1993 under George Bush (the old one not the dumb one). All the history books have to say about Dan Quayle is that he made official visits to 47 countries and was appointed chairman of the National Space Council. That’s it. Not that he accomplished anything in any of those 47 countries, just that he was there. Although we remember him as a hollow-suit, pea brain, he did leave us a treasury of truly dumb quotations. Maybe the finest collection of stupid comments ever recorded. Take a gander at the following and remember he was our vice president, and he represented you and me around the world. I couldn’t make these up. These are actual quotes attributed to Dan Quayle, honest.

    The future will be better tomorrow.

    I have made good judgments in the Past. I have made good judgments in the Future.

    Republicans understand the importance of bondage between a mother and child.

    We have a firm commitment to NATO, we are a “part” of NATO. We have a firm commitment to Europe. We are a “part” of Europe.

    What a waste it is to lose one’s mind. Or not to have a mind is being very wasteful. How true that is.

    When I have been asked during these last weeks who caused the riots and the killing in L.A., my answer has been direct and simple: Who is to blame for the riots? The rioters are to blame. Who is to blame for the killings? The killers are to blame.

    It’s time for the human race to enter the solar system.

    One word sums up probably the responsibility of any vice president, and that one word is ‘to be prepared’.

    Mars is essentially in the same orbit… Mars is somewhat the same distance from the Sun, which is very important. We have seen pictures where there are canals, we believe, and water. If there is water, that means there is oxygen. If oxygen, that means we can breathe.

    The Holocaust was an obscene period in our nation’s history. I mean in this century’s history. But we all lived in this century. I didn’t live in this century.

    Republicans have been accused of abandoning the poor. It’s the other way around. They never vote for us.

    Hawaii has always been a very pivotal role in the Pacific. It is in the Pacific. It is a part of the United States that is an island that is right here.

    Tobacco exports should be expanded aggressively because Americans are smoking less.

    The thing is, if you control the Senate meetings, you control the gavel. And the gavel is a very important instrument… an instrument of power. An instrument that establishes the agenda.

    We should develop anti-satellite weapons because we could not have prevailed without them in ‘Red Storm Rising’.

    Bank failures are caused by depositors who don’t deposit enough money to cover losses due to mismanagement.

    Unfortunately, the people of Louisiana are not racists.

    This election is about who’s going to be the next President of the United States!

    Space is almost infinite. As a matter of fact, we think it is infinite.

    My friends, no matter how rough the road may be, we can and we will, never, never surrender to what is right.

    If we don’t succeed we run the risk of failure.

    What do you think? Was he as dumb as he sounds? Probably so. We now know why President Bush sent him to those 47 countries. Bush was keeping him as far away from Washington as possible. I’m almost embarrassed to say that I voted for Bush/Quayle their first time around. It was either them or Dukakis/Bentsen. So there!

    I stand by all the misstatements that I’ve made. Dan Quayle

  • I don’t know about you, but I like eccentric or kooky people. People slightly out of step with the rest of society. That’s not to say I’m into freaks or weirdoes. I admire people who march to different drummers, and not those with Alice Cooper blasting away inside their heads. I also like really wacky animals like: aye-ayes, gerenuks, dugongs, and Gobi jerboas. These animals, like many others, are considered strange because of their unusual appearances. But my absolute favorite kooky animal is a creature that looks sort of ordinary (like a big chubby ground hog) but has some really unique and wacky characteristics. The wombat. THE WOMBAT, you scream. Yep, wombats. They’re one of the kookiest creatures on earth. For starters, they are members of the Vombatidae family. Say what? you yell. Vombatidae is sub category of marsupials, and as best as I can tell wombats are the only creatures in that category. How’s that for being different, they are in their own category of mammals. Enough of this. Let’s talk about why they are the strangest of all of nature’s really strange creatures. First off, wombats burrow extensive tunnel systems with their two prominent front teeth and front legs. You heard me right, their teeth. I don’t know how big their tunnel systems are, but a single wombat will occupy and protect up to 57 acres of land. Secondly, mama wombat has a backward pouch so baby wombat doesn’t get buried in dirt while mama’s digging, which is most of the time. Imagine that, a pouch with the opening in the back rather that the front. Is that strange enough for you? WombatHow about the fact that wombats have an extraordinarily slow metabolism. It takes a wombat between 8 to 14 days to complete the digestion of their herbivore diet. Can you believe that? They take two weeks to digest a blade of grass, a chunk of bark, or a root. As you’d expect with that metabolism, they are generally very slow. But threaten a wombat and he or she can reach up to 25 mph for 90 seconds or so. That’s equal to the top speed of a charging elephant I’m sure you’ve all heard the expression “hard-ass.” (I used to work for one, but that’s another story.) Well, wombats have the hardest asses in the animal kingdom. Their hard asses and lack of tails are their primary defenses against dingos and Tasmanian devils. When a predator follows a wombat into its tunnel the predator can’t bite or get a hold of the harden cartilage rear-end of the wombat. Wombats actually use their butts to block their tunnels from attackers. That’s their total defense, a very hard ass..

     

    If that’s not strange enough. Wombats are the only creature I know that walk across rivers and streams. Walk across? you scream. No, they can’t walk on water; they walk all the way across on the bottom. On the river bottom. Wombat poop Wombats poop is cube shaped. Yep, cubes. Their long digestive process takes all of the moisture out of their food, leaving a compact and smelly cube of scat. And the lack of muscle contractions in the wombat’s rectum fails to shape this cubic poop into the usual cylindrical shape. Cubic poop? There you have it. If you’re into out-of-the-ordinary things, you can join me as a fellow wombataphile. Postscript – Oh yeah, if you can’t get to Australia anytime soon, you can see wombats at the San Diego Zoo. You won’t see a wombat blocking a tunnel with his hard ass, or crossing a stream on the bottom, but will see a lot of cubic poop. Oh well.

  • Hooray, hooray, Bob’s new book, A Slightly Better World, is finally here. I know you’ve been wondering when you could get your hands on Bob’s new book. Now! Right now, the wait is over. Hurry, you don’t want to be the only klutz in your social circle who hasn’t read this gripping and delightful new novel. What will you talk about at your next birthday, cocktail, tea, dinner, pool, costume, card, slumber, toga, after, keg, pajama, lingerie, or Tupperware party if you haven’t read A Slightly Better World? The intriguing characters Bob wove into his extremely clever plot will fuel hours and hours of witty conversation. You absolutely must read A Slightly Better World.

    Cover v

    A Slightly Better World


    A Slightly Better World is a novel about two detectives who become partners in North Philadelphia’s tough 25th district. Enoch (Buck) Rogers, a young rookie from a privileged life in Philly’s prestigious Main Line, and Luciano (Luca) Borrelli, a seasoned, cigar-chomping goombah a la The Sopranos form this unlikely partnership. Buck’s life is less than ideal. He’s recently divorced, the relationship with his parents is, at best, strained, and his new lieutenant is always on his back. The two joys in his life are his job and his former partner-in-uniform and current lover, La-Teesha, a black policewoman who takes not only her job seriously, but also gourmet food and bedroom antics! As for Luca, he befriends and delights everyone he meets. His cell phone rings seemingly nonstop, and Buck can’t help but believe his new colleague knows virtually everyone in Philadelphia. I hope you enjoy the story and how these two “partners-in-crime” bond, and pledge to make this a slightly better world. Hurry, La-Teesha just opened a bottle of 2009 Chateau Malartic Lagraviere Bordeaux.

    Available for $14.98 at Lulu.com, Amazon.com, the Deming Art Center, Readers’ Cove Books in Deming and from the author and on loan from Deming’s Marshall Memorial Library.

  • It’s been eight years since I wrote I Am an Asshole, a humorous look into some of my many, oh-so-many shortcomings. I naively thought that simply identifying and admitting to those character flaws would be the first step in becoming less of an asshole (un-asshole-ness). Nope, not a lot has changed, I’m still an asshole. Just as big as or maybe even bigger (if you listen to my wife) than I used to be.

    Now here’s the scary part. Everybody knows that most, if not all, men become even bigger assholes as they age. The older the man, the bigger the asshole. That’s why they call us codgers, coots, old goats, old farts, old duffers, geezers, limp-dicks, dirty old men, and if you’re into texting: BOOFs (text lingo for Burned Out Old Farts). Well, I’m getting on in years and don’t want to become an even bigger asshole. I’ve got to do something, and fast!

    Maybe I tried to do too much in the past? If I only focused on one or two things I might have more success. Okay, here goes. These are the bad habits or undesirable behavior characteristics I need to fix and fix fast. I’m running out of time.

    I’m still a drunk, Yeah yeah, less of one than I used to be, but a drunk just the same. Not a slobber-in-my-beer, stumble-and-fall, pick-a-fight, piss-my-pants, goose-the-barmaid, shopping-cart-pushing, or a mad-at-the-world kind of drunk, but more of a dominate-the-conversation-with-slurred-speech kind of drunk. I’ve given up on drinking a whole lot less, but I am committed to being less of an asshole after I’ve had a few drinks.

    Like every other geezer I’ve met I don’t really converse with people, I have this need to show the other person how smart and worldly I am by reciting esoteric trivia, or recounting one of my numerous adventures, or bragging about my travels to exotic places. That sort of stuff. It’s somehow important to me that the other person know that he or she is talking (listening is more like it) to an educated man, a man of the world, a hip and cool guy, an author, a retired business executive, a world traveler. If the other person is a talker—and they generally are—I interrupt their endless I, I, me, me centric dialog to interject my own superior knowledge and richer sets of experiences.

    We all loathe the self-centered Hollywood types whose only topics of conversation are: I this, I that, I, I, I, me, me, me. Look how wonderful/beautiful/ wealthy/exciting/sexy/blah/blah/blah I am. I. I. I. Me. Me. Me. Well, I hope the hell we’re not all like this, but I fear older folks might have a dose of this I/me malady.

    I have a theory on why older, retired people suffer from terminal doses of this I/me disorder. Back when we were working we had all of the symbols of who we were and how successful we’d become. We had the size and cost of our homes, our snooty neighborhoods, the brands and quantity of our cars, our style and manner of dress, where we shopped, where we dined, where we went to school, who we married, where we sent our kids to school, the initials after our names, etc., etc. to show who we were or who we wanted you to think we were. Once we retire, especially in adult, retirement communities, all of those status symbols go away. We all look alike, dress alike, have similar homes, shop and eat at the same places. How do we deal with all of this anonymity, all of this sameness, all of this just-like-everybody elseness? We develop elaborate verbal resumes and inject them into every and all conversations. It’s an older person’s way to telling you who we were. Why we’re different. Why we’re important.

    We’ve all learned to deal with this I/me thing, but let me warn you, never … never … never, inquire into an older person’s health or medical status. Ask a geezer how he or she feels and be prepared for an endless rambling down their long list of ailments, afflictions, diseases, pains, injuries, discomforts, and abnormal bowel functions. You’ll get elaborate descriptions of their symptoms, lengthily dissertations on their ineffective treatments, and critiques of their totally incompetent or really great doctors. They all seem to be one or the other. You’ll also learn about all of their medications and the effectiveness of each drug, and what the doctor should have prescribed had he know better. And, are you ready for this: a personal viewing of their afflicted areas. All of this is true unless … unless they’ve recently had surgery. Surgery of any kind is the stimulus for many more hours of additional I/me blather. Oh my god, meet a geezer after his or her _______ (fill in the blank) surgery and be prepared to hear about every real and imagined detail of their ordeal. “The nurse put this mask on me as the anesthesiologist—the same one Martha had when she had her hysterectomy—a doctor somebody, I forget his name. Anyway, he told me count down from ten. I only got to eight when I …”

    Is it because older people are so obsessed with their health that they can’t think about or talk about anything else? Maybe so, but I’ve made a pact with myself. I’m not going to talk about my enlarged prostate, all my cardiovascular procedures, my six stents, my arthritic knees, or the skin cancer I recently had removed, nor the long list of meds I take, or the quality of, or lack thereof, of the care I get at the VA. Don’t get me started on my VA dermatologist. He couldn’t cure a …

    Years ago I took a course in Strategic Planning with the expert at the time, Arnaldo Hax of MIT’s Sloan School. (There I go, bragging again.) Anyway, Arnaldo taught me that the first step in strategic planning is to perform an objective current-state analysis. My current state is pretty simple, I’m an asshole. I’m an asshole because I interrupt people, boast and brag, and engage in an almost constant I/me dialog, openly discuss my medical conditions and problems, and will gladly show my circumcision scars to total strangers at the drop of a hat. Oh yeah … I almost forgot … and I drink too much. And when I’ve had a bit too much booze I have to be the life of the party and dominate all conversations even if don’t I know a thing about the topic at hand.

    Step two, according to Arnaldo, is to define the desired state you want to be in at some time in the future. My desired state is to be less of an asshole. That’s simple enough.

    Now, your strategic plan is the detailed plan of how you get from your current state to your desired state. Simple huh? We ought to be able to do this, even at our age.

    My plan is to be more interested in others and to listen to them without interrupting. I understand that acting interested in the I/me ramblings of other windbags will take an enormous effort. And, I’ll resist talking about myself and do my best to limit my boasting and bragging. I won’t volunteer information about my glorious days in the Marine Corps, working my way through college, the wonderful girl I married, rising from electronic technician to Executive Vice President in the computer industry, working at NASA Houston on the Apollo program, my three exceptional children, or my even brighter grandchildren, attending the Harvard Business School, traveling the world, running a division for Intel, taking a company public and making millions, living in and traveling throughout Europe, retiring on a golf course in Paradise Valley, or authoring nine books because that’s the sort of stuff assholes brag about. I’ll never discuss my medical conditions with anyone other than my physicians ever again. I’ll try to drink a little less. And, I’ll try really hard to be less of an asshole at cocktail parties. I’ll even listen to what others are saying rather than dominating the conversations.

    Somewhere along the line someone told me the key making good impressions is to “be interested not interesting.” I’ve always assumed that this is shorthand for being interested in the other person rather than trying to make yourself seem interesting. Makes sense, huh? This “be interested not interesting” idea just might be the plan for becoming less of an asshole. Simple, huh? We should all try it. I’m up for it, how about you?

    Before I go, did I ever tell you about the time I shot a hole-in-one on The Coeur d’Alene’s challenging, elevated tee, 5th hole? I gripped my nine iron lightly with my slightly strong grip as I took a soft, easy backswing turning the club face a classic 90 degrees. I came through the ball with a near perfect hips-leading turn making ideal contact. My picture-perfect swing sent the ball on a high arc straight towards the pin. I watched as my ball bounced on the green two yards past the flag. For a second I thought I might be too long, but my ball bounced once and with perfect backspin rolled directly back into the cup. I was flabbergasted. I had made a perfect shot on a perfect hole on a perfect course on a perfect day. My caddy, down near the green, started yelling and I … I … I … me … me … me …

  • My grandson, Bobby, is approaching his thirteenth birthday. His mother and father decided it’s high time he got the The Birds and the Bees talk. After a lengthy discussion and more flimsy excuses than you can count, they conclude that I should have this very important talk with my grandson. My wife, Bobby’s grandmother, laughs at this suggestion. She jokingly (I’m almost sure she was joking) states, “He never learned a damn thing in all the years we’ve been married. Any twelve-year-old could probably teach him a thing or two.” In spite of grandma’s jest I got the job.

    I pictured my grandson and me having our talk in some masculine setting: along a hiking trail, at the summit of some peak, in a duck blind, or maybe on a rocky sea shore. It finally dawned on me that the setting would be easy, but how about the topic itself. My wife was just kidding when she said I didn’t know anything about sex and reproduction. Wasn’t she? I’m sure she was. Well maybe…

    I’d better do some research, outline my discussion, design some visual aids, and work out a host of Q & As. I’ll prepare this talk as I would any important lecture. Let’s see, where to begin.

    I’ll look into the origin of the The Birds and the Bees expression. It must have made some sense or stood for something way back when. Wrong! The birds and the bees is an idiomatic expression and euphemism referring to courtship and sexual intercourse. Okay, I can use that once I figure out what an idiomatic expression is, and how come they only refer to sexual intercourse. I have to explain it to a twelve-year-old.

    Read on, there’s more: The phrase is evocative of the metaphors and euphemisms often used to avoid speaking openly and technically about the subject. Huh?

    So much for The Birds and the Bees expression. How about birds? There must be some reason the authors of this archaic phrase chose birds rather than one of the more obvious barnyard animals. Let’s see…birds…hmm…

    Most birds do not have the same reproductive body parts as mammals. Instead, both male and female birds have a cloaca – one opening that serves as the bodily exit for their digestive, urinary and reproductive systems. Let’s see if we got this right. There is no physical difference between boy birds and girl birds, and they both use their one body thingy for everything? Everything!

    I think I got it. So how do they do it with their common doohickeys? Let’s read more: During the breeding season, the cloaca swells and protrudes slightly outside the body. Okay, protruding whatchmacallits. Now we’re getting somewhere. Are you ready for the X rated part?

    The positions and postures birds assume to mate can vary somewhat, but the most common is for the male bird to balance on top of the female. Okay, I got it. He mounts her from behind and…and…

    The female may hunch or bow to give the male easier balance. She will then move her tail aside to expose her cloaca to his reach, and he will arch his body so his cloaca can touch hers. The brief rubbing of cloacas may last less than a second, but the sperm is transferred quickly during this “cloacal kiss” and the mating is complete. THAT’S IT? A KISS? Less than a second of touching and it’s over. OVER, ALL OVER. Psst—don’t tell anyone but it sounds a lot like my first time.

    How do I explain this to my grandson? I can tell him to avoid rubbing body parts, especially those kind of body parts with anyone. Nah, I’ll figure something out.

    Maybe there’s something we can learn from how bees do it. There must be a reason they chose bees as a model for these discussions. Think about it. There are over eight million different creatures on earth and they chose bees—not dogs, cats, or chimpanzees—but bees.

    Here, let’s see what it says: The virgin queen bee will fly out on a sunny, warm day to a “drone congregation area” where she will mate with 12-15 drones. If the weather holds, she may return to the drone congregation area for several days until she is fully mated. Mating occurs in flight. The young queen stores up to 6 million sperm from multiple drones in her spermatheca. She will selectively release sperm for the remaining years of her life. That’s it? Our girl bee has one big gangbang over a long weekend with a whole swarm of boy bees. The slut. When she’s satisfied or the weather turns ugly, she goes home and lays eggs for the rest of her life. One big orgy and that’s it. And, how about those references to the weather. You’ve heard of a fair-weather friend, she’s a fair-weather floozy.

    I’m not sure what the message is here for our young boys. Find an willing virgin flying around on a sunny day and bang the hell out of her until it rains or she… Nah.
    With my research complete and my grandson in tow we head off to the high school baseball field. I figure a dugout is as macho as you can get. We sit on the players’ bench chomp bubblegum and spit sunflower seeds just like a couple of big leaguers when my grandson says, “So what’s up, Pop-Pop?”

    “Well you see…er…hmm…your mom and dad thought we should have this…mm …little talk,” I say nervously. “And…and…you see…”

    He interrupts my stammering, “Okay, let’s talk.”

    “Well you see…birds…birds make nests…and… and bees build hives…to ahh…”
    “We gonna have the birds and the bees talk?” He says with a bashful smirk.
    “And the boy bird gets on the back of the girl bird but…but…the boy bee has to fly fast to catch the girl bee…”

    “Pop-Pop I already know all of that sex stuff. Have you seen what they post on the internet these days? Let’s go get our mitts and play some ball.”

  • The sun is bright, too bright. I squint to see a tank coming over the distant rise. Its treads are chewing up the desert and belching dust. I peer through my rocket launcher sight. He hasn’t seen us yet. I can get him from here. I turn to my loader. He’s not here. I … I … I hear thunder. A loud boom shakes the house. My mother yells at me to unplug everything quickly. I race to the TV set. The Steve Allen show is on. The picture is all snow. Too snowy to watch. I adjust and readjust the rabbit ears. The screen goes blank. Nothing. Nothing is on. I push buttons frantically. Nothing.

    My shoulder aches. I must be laying on it wrong. I shift. I squirm. It’s too dark to read. I click the switch on my lamp. It explodes in light. My eyes adjust. I’m on a beach with white, white sand. A beautiful girl is coming out of the surf. She’s walking towards me. She’s nude. She’s beautiful. I rise to greet her and my shoulder screams in pain. My high school football coach yells, “Walk it off. Walk it off.” I look down and I’m barefoot. Where are my cleats?

    I read the same paragraph over and over. What does it say? I read it again. I close the book. The cover is blank. I open the book. The pages are blank. The sweat is running into my eye. I wipe it away. The target becomes clear, but it’s quivering. I take a deep breath and begin to squeeze the trigger. I have to pee. I look around the crowded room. No one notices me. I really have to pee. I look for a door. There isn’t any. I panic. I …

    I knock him back a couple of steps. He charges at me and I parry his right. I hit him again. He steps back and pulls out a huge samurai sword. I turn and run. I’m running as fast as I can, but he’s gaining on me. I can feel the breeze as his sword passes close to my head. My legs weigh a ton. He’s gaining … Bobby, help me carry the groceries in from the car. I go to the back door. It’s dark. It’s night. There is no car. There is nothing. I turn to tell my mom. She isn’t here either. A baby cries. I jump from my bed. There aren’t any babies in my house. It continues to cry. I search and search. The crying gets louder and louder. I find an old photo album. I open it. It only has one picture. An old grainy snapshot of my grandfather in his police uniform. The photograph speaks but I can’t make out what its saying. Grandpa …

    Dave is yelling over the noise of the plane’s engine and the wind rushing through the open door. I sit at the passenger door frame with my knees on the edge. We’re at altitude. I reach out and grab the strut with my right hand, I put my toe on the step and swivel as I grab the strut with my other hand. I push off, letting go of the strut. I’m free of the plane. I’m in freeeeefaaaaall. I turn my body to the right and … Lauren Bacall, as Slim, is telling Bogie, “You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? You just put your lips together and … blow.” She turns and leaves his hotel room. The black-and-white hotel room is empty. A fire truck goes by with its siren blaring and its horn honking. Weeeoooeee, honk, weeoooeee … I’m cold.

    His knife goes into my ribs. I grab his arm. He kicks at me but misses. My side is bleeding. I want to run but can’t. The truck is barreling down at us. I flash my lights. I honk. Linda screams. The grill of the Mack truck fills our windshield. She nibbles on my earlobe. I pull her closer as she unzips my fly. I turn to kiss her. Her breath is foul and rancid. I open my eyes. Eeeow. They’re going to execute me in the morning. In the morning. I can’t go home. Everybody at the office is especially kind to me because they know. They know. It’s late, but I can’t go home. They’re going to execute me in the morning. I go home.

    There’s a nude, fat guy crammed into a child’s coffin. He’s lying on his side. That seems unusual. I poke him. Nothing. I poke him again. He stirs. We’re twenty feet off the ground. He looks down. He yells. I turn and leave. This scene is too weird for me. I shinny up a flagpole for no apparent reason. It’s hard work, but I can do it easily. The pole is cold and my legs freeze to the steel pole. I can’t move. I try to yell but no sound comes out. I can’t hang on any longer. I’m … I …

    Ginger, the girl next door, and I are lying on the lawn watching the billowy clouds form patterns as they travel across the blue, blue sky. She points to what she thinks is a horse’s head. I tell her it’s a map of Italy. She giggles when I point to a cloud that looks like a catcher’s mitt. She’s cute with her hair scattered across the grass and her newly developed boobs pointing skyward. I point to what looks vaguely like a kitten. She doesn’t giggle. She doesn’t speak. I turn. She’s old and ugly.

    This doesn’t look familiar at all. I can’t be lost. I just came this way. Everyone is going about their lives as if I don’t exist. I look around frantically. Where am I? I ask the kindly looking old lady. She doesn’t hear me. She can’t see me. I reach for her, but she’s not there. I turn. I scream. No one hears me. Maybe I’m not here.

    I leap out from the rim of the canyon. What was I thinking? I’m falling, falling fast, but it’s thrilling. The canyon wall races by. This must be a really deep canyon. I look down. There is no ground. I look for the canyon wall. It’s gone too. Ahhhh … this feels good.

  • Are you sick and tired of living in a second class nation? A country that comes out in the middle of the pack in whatever survey they conduct: life expectancy, education, infant mortality, etc. We’re always far down the list, just above Rwanda. Can you remember when we actually were the greatest nation on earth? Okay, you have to go back to the 1950s when most of the developed world was in rubble and ruin following a really big war. We earned our number one ranking the old fashioned way, by bombing the hell out of everyone else. We were number one in everything. We can be again, but we need a different approach. This war thing isn’t working anymore.

    Before we move on, I should mention that the US actually leads the world in a couple of categories. We are the hands down leader in Gross Domestic Product, GDP (The monetary value of all the finished goods and services produced within a country). Our GDP of 16 trillion dollars is almost twice the country in second place, China.

    We’re also number one in percentage of the population incarcerated. Although we are only about 5 percent of the world’s population we lock up 25 percent of the world’s prisoners. Hooray! We’re Number 1! We’re Number 1!

    We also lead the world, by far, in military spending. We spend over 600 billion, that’s billion with a B, dollars on military stuff every year. Wow! That’s 37% of the world’s total. We spend more than twice the amount of China and Russia combined, and they run a distant second and third place. See we are number one. We’re Number 1! We’re Number 1!

    Just try to imagine the kind of country we could be if we spent some of that 600 billion on infrastructure, education, science, healthcare, medical research, or on anything but pointless wars and acting as the planet’s police force.

    While you’re doing that, let’s take a look some of the countries that actually lead the world in more commendable categories. How about Denmark? They were found to be the happiest people on earth. Happy is good.

    I’ve been to Denmark a number of times and like all Western European countries it has its own variation of European charm. The thing I remember most is the scooters at Copenhagen airport. Scooters, you say. Yes, they have free scooters to get you up and down those long concourses. They’re adult versions of the two wheeled devices we scooted on as kids. Remember how you put your weight on the scooter with one foot and used the other for paddling, or is it scooting? You see businessmen in their suits and briefcases scooting along like intercity kids in the park.

    The second image that comes to mind is strolling through the most popular city park in the world, Tivoli Gardens. It’s like a low-budget Disneyland with gourmet food and cold beer. But the most unusual and totally bizarre aspect of this charming little country is that Denmark was the first country on earth to legalize pornography, and its everywhere. Everywhere. I think I still have a replica one dollar bill with Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinski’s image on it. I’ll let you imagine the pose.

    So how can a little country with scooters, one helluva a city park, and stacks of dirty books be the happiest country on earth? To start with they have a “modern welfare system,” based on the idea that all citizens are guarantied certain fundamental rights in case they encounter social problems such as unemployment, sickness or some other dependency. Healthcare and education are free and equally available to everyone and the government works with the employers to provide retirement. Sounds good, huh? It’s socialism with scooters, dirty pictures and really happy people.

    I’m embarrassed to report that the US came in 17th in the recent happiness rankings, just below number 16, Mexico. Mexico, I’m not kidding, Mexico. Maybe we ought to sneak across the border. We’d be a little happier.

    Another place we might look at is Switzerland. I’m no expert on Switzerland, but I did live there for a few years. The first thing that hits you about Switzerland is that the whole country looks just like it does in their scenic postcards and calendar photos. The place is clean, organized, maintained, and manicured. You won’t see one dented car, a rundown house, a lawn that needs mowing, and old sofa on a front porch, or any litter along their streets or highways. In addition to being neat freaks, they have the highest standard of living on the planet. How is that so, you ask. Well, they have the highest GDP per capita, lowest government debt, lowest tax revenue as a percentage of GDP, lowest unemployment rate, lowest inflation rate, and highest life expectancy. That’s how.

    How can that be, you ask? Aren’t they’re just a bunch of cheese-eating yodelers in funny leather shorts. Yeah, they’re all of that, plus they have a very, very efficient government. A government so efficient in maintaining a low debt to GDP ratio that its citizens pay less tax and receive services superior to those of other countries. Paying less tax gives the Swiss higher disposable incomes, and more freedom and flexibility with the use of their money. Having the highest life expectancy comes as no great surprise. Their government subsidizes the lower classes’ health insurance (sounds a lot like Obamacare, huh?), ensuring health care equality within the country.

    The efficiency of their government, their low tax rate, their high disposal incomes, and having a government that takes care of its OWN people are the major factors in Switzerland’s high standard of living.

    So, do you think if I moved back to Switzerland I’d live better, healthier, and longer, or if I lived in Denmark I’d be a helluva lot happier? How can that be? This is the greatest country on earth, or so we’ve been told, time and time again. Then why ain’t we? How come our teenagers come out 31st in math, 24th in science, and 21st in reading in global rankings? We’re number 21! Doesn’t sound good, does it? We’re number 21! We’re number 21!

    First off, I failed to mention that Denmark has a population of about 5 and a half million people and Switzerland has a just little over 8 million. That compares with the US’s population of roughly 322 million. We’re third in the world, behind China and India, just a notch above Indonesia in population. How do you think those places rank on the happiness or prosperity scale? Does our size make us more like China and India than Denmark and Switzerland? I hope the hell not, but size does seem to matter (my wife has been telling me that for years). Little countries are healthier, richer, and more fun.

    So, how do we become a little country so we can be happier, better off, and live longer? I’m not sure. But I do know that even the smallest change is damned near impossible in our too-big and too-diversified country. If we can’t all agree on the easy things like, healthcare for ALL our citizens, the right for all people to marry, a women’s right to decide, the value of education, the importance of fixing our crumbling bridges, or what to do with the twenty million or so Americans that aren’t “legal,” how in the hell are we ever going to make the kind of changes required to make this a better place to live. We can’t. So, should we just give up? No, no we can dream, can’t we?

    If we could do something, we might look closely at the Swiss confederation model. They have twenty-six cantons (think states) that perform almost all of the functions of government for their nearly homogenous citizenry. How else could they run a country that speaks four official languages? In most cases their cantons are organized around a common language and other characteristics. Oh, I failed to mention the cantons have almost all of the funding and most of the power of government, so they don’t have to argue with other cantons about what they think is right for their citizens. They just do it. The cantons take care of their people while their federal government runs their military, their rail system, the post office, and handles foreign affairs. That’s it.

    We should do something like this. You’ve all seen maps of the US drawn with cultural or common-demographics boundaries. Redefining our states along some sort of things-we-have-in-common boundaries would be a beginning. Secondly, dismantling Washington and moving all that money and power to our newly defined states would put on a path to become a much better place to live.

    We might even scale back our 600 billion dollar a year defense budget and do something like Switzerland does. They vigorously defend their own little country and remain neutral while the rest of the world goes to hell in a handbasket (no one knows why we use “handbasket” in this trite expression). Not that many years ago their immediate neighbor to the north declared war on the world, the whole damn world, and yet they left Switzerland alone. Why, because invading Switzerland would be trying to steal a bone from the neighbors dog, hardly worth it. That’s the kind of national defense we should have. Oh yeah, they haven’t been in a war since 1815 nor are they the target of any modern-day terrorists. And so far their neutrality hasn’t pissed off any Islamic fundamentalists. Sounds pretty good, huh?

    Oh, I almost forgot. When we redefine our new state boundaries we’ll spit California into logical demographically-similar chunks but we won’t even mess with Texas (as they’ve been warning us for years). We’ll simply give Texas back to Mexico, Six Flags, the Alamo, the Texas School Book Depository, Rick Perry, George W, and all the rest. Mexico can have ’em. And, we’ll even throw in those damn Dallas Cowboys, Jerry Jones, Tony Romo, and that brash, gaudy AT&T stadium. It will be great place for soccer matches, bull fights and rodeos. But, But I’m not sure if Mexico should have the Houston Texans. Nah, we want to keep J.J. Watt. They can have George W. but not J.J.

    No need to thank us, Mexico. De nada.

    De nada.

    Author’s note – I just checked, and I can’t afford to move back to Switzerland on my humble US retirement income. So, its either here or Mexico. Mexico with Rick Perry? Nah, I’m staying here.

  • Some friends of ours were telling us about this spat going on at their church. Two women are making the lives of our friends and other members of the congregation difficult for no obvious reason other than their own spitefulness and small-mindedness. I live in an older adult community and have become quite familiar with the concepts of angry-over-petty-things, totally irrational bitterness, and orneriness just for orneriness sake. I’ve even fallen victim to this geezer malady myself. I hate the insecure braggart down the street and his incessant bragging about his fraudulently earned VA benefits, and I’m really pissed at the lady across the alley. She lets her three damn dogs bark and bark and bark. I get so mad I could…

    Why do we get so angry over the little things in life like the pickle jar we can’t open or the neighbor that lets his weeds grow when we’ve got lots of really big global issues we should be getting fired up about? Things like: Living on a planet with an unceasing appetite for rapidly diminishing fossil fuels and no thought of a Plan B. Or are you worrying about the impending global water crisis, its real and its frightening. Then we’ve got our failures to mitigate global climate change along with dealing with idiots like George W. that wouldn’t even acknowledge we have a problem.

    If these issues are too big for you then we’ve got plenty of international problems to get pissed about. You should all be up in arms with these ISIS thugs, al-Qaeda, and all of the other murdering, Islamic terrorist groups. Or how about the Taliban, they’re easy to dislike and they’re on everyone’s shit-list. And, are you concerned about the three million refugees that were forced out of Syria. Or the six and half million Syrians displaced by their civil war. And why aren’t you all upset about the Ebola virus. They now estimate it will kill 20,000 people. That’s 20,000 with a capital 2. Or Putin’s cold-war attitude towards Ukraine. He continues to piss me off.

    We’ve got plenty to get angry about right here at home. Things like living in a country where no one cares that one in seven adults don’t have health insurance. Or a country where the average cost for a private college has risen to $44,750 per year (Psst – Harvard will run you $60,240). All of this in a country where the per capita income was $42, 693 in 2012. And we like to think of ourselves as living in the “greatest country on earth” and yet our high school students perform 27th out of 34 countries in mathematics and 17th in reading skills. A country with a can’t-agree-on-anything, constipated, do-nothing-but-squabble, severely divided government. Get mad. Write your congressman or better yet oust your congressman. Oust ’em all!

    Enough of these big-picture causes. How about the issues right here at home. New Mexico is at the bottom of nearly every list regardless of what’s being studied, health care, education, income, etc. But I found two lists where we lead the nation. We are numero uno in alcohol related deaths and teenage pregnancies. Are you proud of that? No, then get pissed, really pissed and then do something about it, anything.

    If you need more, there’s the heartbreaking slaughter of the elephant population by ivory poachers in Africa. Or a great big issue that’s just come to my attention. I was shocked with the size of Nicki Minaj’s ass in her new music video. It’s really big. I don’t think I couldn’t get my arms around something that big even if I wanted to. She should be pissed. Really pissed. I’m pissed that I actually watched the video of her twerking. Twerking with an ass that size. Miley where are you?

    These are a few of the causes to get mad about, really mad. I’m sure you can come up with many more, and they’ll all be more satisfying than getting pissed at the neighbor just because he voted for George Romney or has a goofy comb over hairstyle.

    And if people get you more riled than issues or causes, I’ll give you a list of some of the people that get under my skin. I find the older I get the longer this list gets. Assholes like: Donald Sterling, Bernard Madoff, Dr. Phil, Michele Bachmann, Justin Bieber, Chris Brown, John McCain, Kim Kardashian, Bill O’Reilly, Oprah, Alec Baldwin, Kayne West, Dick Cheney, Jesse Jackson, John Boehner (aka Boner), Terrell Owens, Matt Lauer, Paul Shaffer, Kathie Lee Gifford, Al Sharpton, Randy Moss, David Caruso, Dennis Rodman, Pat Robertson, Star Jones, Bryant Gumbel, Pack Pong-ju, Mariah Carey, Larry Flint, Donald Trump, and Rush Limbaugh. Just to name a few.

    Picking one of these turkeys or coming up with someone of your own will be more meaningful and a lot more fun than getting all upset over that guy down the street that refuses to pick up after his dog.

    It’s dog shit or global warming? Your call. Your cause.

  • As a student of writing I’m always looking for ways to grow and improve. Using original or clever similes and metaphors seems like a good way to make my writing distinctive and unique. My instructor cautioned that although similes and metaphors are the wonder of writing if they are overdone, they backfire. Okay, I’ll buy that. I’ll never use: Dead as a doornail, or Sharp as a tack, or Drunk as a skunk, or As high as a kite, or As flat as a pancake, ever again. I’m not sure I ever used them in the first place, but I’m often as forgetful as a goldfish. Oops.

    Let’s take a look at how others have dealt with the challenge of creating original analogies. But first I want to show you some of the winners of The Washington Post’s Worst Analogies ever written in a High School Essay Contest. Remember these are high school students. American high school students.

    • He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
    • The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.
    • McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty Bag filled with vegetable soup.
    • From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you’re on vacation in another city and “Jeopardy” comes on at 7 p.m. instead of 7:30.
    • Bob was as perplexed as a hacker who means to access T:flw.quid55328.com\aaakk/ch@ung but gets T:\flw.quidaaakk/ch@ung by mistake.
    • Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
    • Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a movie this guy would be buried in the credits as something like “Second Tall Man.”
    • Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.
    • The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
    • His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

    With brilliant kids like these it’s hard to imagine that the American education system has fallen so far behind the rest of the developed world. Especially with lines like…a Hefty Bag filled with vegetable soup.

    Let’s look at some real authors. Remember all of those choice expressions Bogie used to mutter in his movies. Well a lot of those great lines were written by Raymond Chandler way back in 1939. Here are some of his better analogies from The Big Sleep:

    • A few locks of dry white hair clung to his scalp, like wild flowers fighting for life on a bare rock.
    • The General spoke again, slowly, using his strength as carefully as an out-of-work showgirl uses her last good pair of stockings.
    • I lit the cigarette and blew a lungful at him and he sniffed at it like a terrier at a rathole.
    • I had my hat tilted forward over my eyes to keep the setting sun out, and was leaning back against the seat feeling older than Mount Rainier.
    • I felt old and tired and gritty, as if I’d been wrestling in a gravel pit.
    • The old man licked his lips watching me, over and over again, drawing one lip slowly across the other with a funereal absorption, like an undertaker dry-washing his hands.
    • When Robert B. Parker wrote Perchance to Dream his sequel to The Big Sleep in 1991 he continued in Chandler’s tradition.

      • In front of the windows was a desk that could have been a basketball court for midgets.
      • He sounded like a guy that recited bad poems on the radio.
      • The younger one’s sicker than a week-old oyster.
      • She looked blank. She also looked pained and bored and tighter than a Methodist deacon.
      • The gate guard smiled as politely as a tax collector, but not as warmly.
      • My head felt like the inside of a snare drum.
      • It was no more noticeable than a crocodile in a bathtub.
      • His grin had all the warmth of a pawnbroker examining your mother’s diamond.

      I’m pretty sure I know the guy that Parker was describing as – He sounded like a guy that recited bad poems on the radio. You probably know him too. He lives just down the street.

      Just when I thought the catchy simile was dead I discoved Eoin Colfer and his two delightful books, Plugged and Screwed. This Irish author knows how to draw an analogy. How about:

      • You’re like a boil on a supermodel’s ass.
      • Mike’s boys lean inward like tall flowers attracted to the sun.
      • Zeb could get the Dalai Lama to shoot dolphins.
      • He goes at everything with the enthusiasm of a five-year old wired on Skittles.
      • Fortz is living proof that evolution goes both ways.
      • Krieger is not pretty to look at even from behind.
      • What you eventually realize is, that when people blink they are mostly just blinking, not spelling out some kind of code, or when they shift away from you in bed, it ain’t because they don’t love you anymore, it’s because you have sharp elbows.

      Like a boil on a supermodel’s ass. It doesn’t get any better than that, but let’s look at a few more. I don’t know where these came from, but Michael Kerr collected these on his web site, Humor at Work.

      • Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
      • She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.
      • She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
      • The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife’s infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM.
      • Even in his last years, Grandpappy had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.
      • Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
      • The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
      • The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.
      • The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
      • It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.
      • He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.
      • Her eyes were like limpid pools, only they had forgotten to put in any pH cleanser.

      And we are told to never mix metaphors. My old boss at Intel used to mix his metaphors. English was his second language, so we might forgive him for telling me to “grab the ball by the horns.” Jim Carlton (whoever he is) collected these mixed metaphors on his website.

      • We could stand here and talk until the cows turn blue.
      • He was watching me like I was a hawk.
      • I’ll get it by hook or ladder.
      • He’s a wolf in cheap clothing.
      • They’re diabolically opposed.
      • He received a decease and desist order.
      • I wouldn’t eat that with a ten-foot pole.
      • Take a flying hike.
      • He’s not the one with his ass in a noose.
      • I can read him like the back of my book.
      • From now on, I’m watching everything you do with a fine-tuned comb.
      • These hemorrhoids are a real pain in the neck.
      • It’s time to grab the bull by the tail and look him in the eye.
      • I wouldn’t be caught dead there with a ten-foot pole.
      • I hope he gets his curve ball straightened out.
      • It’s time to step up to the plate and lay your cards on the table.
      • It sticks out like a sore throat.
      • People are dying like hotcakes.
      • You can’t go in there cold turkey with egg on your face.
      • We have to get all our ducks on the same page.
      • The fan is gonna hit the roof.
      • She’s suffering from a detached rectum.

      Ouch, that detached rectum must hurt. Okay, I’ve got the picture but I’m as lost as a nun on a honeymoon when it comes to creating original and humorous similes and metaphors. I’d write more now but I’m as tired as a one arm paper hanger from burning the midnight oil from both ends. But I do know a guy that I can’t wait to describe as “a boil on a supermodel’s ass.”