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Clang the Clangers! It’s Contest Time Again!

23 Jun

by Roger White

 

Either I’m having a patella-buckling, spleen-expanding, koala-slapping case of déjà vu, or I’ve written all this before and am now simply too addled to recognize it, but here goes: You know how sometimes the gods smile upon you. Yah? True, sometnot sure what this isimes they do. This is when things somehow turn out OK despite your astounding lack of common sense. Sometimes, however, they just grin and chuckle, leaving you to fend for yourself. They are amused at your puny efforts.

And yet other times, the gods smirk or give you that blank stare like you really screwed things up.

My advice for these times is just to act like you truly intended the outcome, no matter how calamitous. This gives the gods pause, and that brief delay in the Great Spinning Wheel of Fate (GSWoF) often provides that slim window of time in GSWoFwhich you have a certain measure of self-determination. Like that time you were second string on the seventh-grade football team, and the coach was trying to decide whether to let you in the game just before halftime and in your excitement you simply ran out onto the field and got to play two whole plays before coach yelled at you to sit down and quit acting foolish.

Kinda like that.

This is to say that I believe the big guys are smiling at present, because just in time for the Third Biennial Oldspouse Familiar Phrase Contest (OFPhC) I have received another supply of premium glossy bumper stickers as prizes, you lucky ducks. That’s ducks, with a “d.”

For those too young, old, sensible, or hirsute to remember, the OFPhC involves a pile of phrases, quotes, movie lines, book titles, common sayings, utterances, and/or bodily function noises that I’ve rendered in a somewhat obscure manner. Your job, should you decide to accept it, is to come up with the more common version of said utterances. For example, say I give you “A Male Homosapiens For All Periods of the Year.” You say—… oh, come on. You say, “A Man For All Seasons.” Bingo! See how easy?

First three humans (I will accept cats, too) to respond at roger.white@tasb.org with the correct answers each wins a premium glossy bumper sticker (sorry, the “Ronald Reagan for Governor” ones are all gone—you get “Jesus is Coming. Hide the Bong”). And you get your name in the Gazette! Pseudonyms are fine.

Exciting, huh? OK, ready and. Go. What are the more well-known versions of these sayings:

  1. She steers me to imbibe.
  2. There is a lollipop spawned each 60-second interval.
  3. Expired males don’t do any storytelling.
  4. Feline Atop a Heated Metal Canopy.
  5. A Few Prefer It Scorching.
  6. Do not allow the insects in your bunk to munch on you.
  7. A countenance only one’s female parent would really like.
  8. Leave snoozing pups to recline.
  9. Chance, Manifest Yourself as a Woman This Evening.
  10. At the rear of each guy who’s accomplished something one will find a female.
  11. Idiot’s precious metal.
  12. Traversing the brook and through the forest, to my mother’s mother’s abode we travel.
  13. The Era of the Water-Bearer.
  14. A Story of a Couple of Towns.
  15. Mothers, do not allow your offspring to aspire to be ranch hands.
  16. Tammy WStay Upright Near Your Male.
  17. Lucifer persuaded me to act as I did.
  18. If I’ve informed you 16 divided by 16 times, I’ve informed you 250 times 4 times.
  19. This is the manner in which the small, rounded pastry disintegrates.
  20. The third planet from the sun is your bivalve mollusk.

 

Roger White is a freelance bivalve mollusk living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely female spouse, two precocious offspring units, a very obese dachshund, and a cat with Epstein-Barr. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com. Or not.

Suburban Worldsick Blues

27 May

by Roger White

 

With a tip of the hat to a master chronicler of the American age, it must be noted that Bob Dylan never lived in a 3/2/2 with central heat/air and two and a half mortgages during a time when, by all appearances, our society is on the verge of utter decay—all viewable with the click of a mouse or touch of a pad.

 

So I give you “Suburban Worldsick Blues.”

 

Perry’s in the Capitol, railin’ against abortion,

I’m lookin’ at my taxes thinkin’ it’s extortion,

The man in the trench coat shootin’ up the school halls

Says he got bullied so everybody must fall.

 

Look out, dad, the economy is bad,

God knows what we did, but the country’s on the skids.

 

You better duck down, turn page, watch out for road rage,

Another mass swhyhooting, another senseless rampage,

Sterling’s on his cell phone reminiscin’ ’bout slavery,

Miley’s twerkin’ onstage, scandalous behavery.

 

Look out, mom, Gotta stay calm,

Soldiers in Kabul dodging roadside bombs.

 

Get sick, get well, they’re laying off again at Dell,

Are we winnin’ whatever war, it’s gettin’ kinda hard to tell,

Presidenidiotst says our healthcare system’s unfit,

All Congress says is where’s your birth certificate?

 

Well, Hormel, GM organizin’ recalls,

Bad meat, bad brakes, pickets down at town hall,

Daughter’s college fees call for medical sedation,

Building border walls to stifle immigration.

 

Look out, pop, no tellin’ where it stops,

Younger daughter’s boyfriend working at a head shop.

 

Mortgage underwater, excess beer consumption,

Viagra wants to help with that erectile dysfunction,

The factonoworkry just made a Chapter 11 declaration,

School board says it’s gonna teach divine creation.

 

Text tweet online, your selfie looking so fine,

Kids in Bosnia steppin’ on old land mines.

Icebergs meltin’, droughts killin’ all the wheat,

Just global warmin’ lies of the liberal elite.

 

Well, get dressed, get stressed, face the day’s traffic mess,

Oops, your job’s just been outsourced to Bangladesh.

Don’t follow leaders, take pills for all the cedars,

Find yourself a new position as a Walmart greeter.

 

Look out, mama, you’re dyin’ from the trauma,

Increase yer Prozac dosage, tune in the dalai lama.

 

Well, jump down a manhole, filibuster gun control,

thebardThink I saw a shadow up there beyond the grassy knoll,

Headin’ to the car, another day in the loony ward,

Shakin’ yer head ’cause the vandals keyed yer new Ford.

 

Roger White is a freelance writer living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, two precocious daughters, a very fat dachshund, and a self-absorbed cat. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.

143a.

 

Listen to the Wife. Don’t Put Off the Doc Visit

7 Mar

by Roger White

Musician/songwriter Dan Fogelberg. Actor Dennis Hopper. Musician Frank Zappa. Television producer Merv Griffin. Actor Telly Savalas. Psychologist/writer Timothy Leary. What do all these guys have in common? They all died of prostate Dancancer, a highly treatable disease if caught in the early stages. Why am I telling you this? I guess you could say it’s become a personal mission of mine to get the word out about early detection. I was diagnosed with prostate cancer in November 2013.

It was a shocker, to say the least. It all started with a routine physical, grudgingly agreed to after the insistent urgings of my lovely wife, Sue. One of the many things the doc checks for in guys my age (50+) is the level of PSA in the bloodstream. PSA, short for prostate-specific antigen, is produced by the prostate gland, located down in the male nether regions. Its main function, to put it in terms appropriate for family-friendly reading, is to produce a substance that, um, allows one’s boys to swim more freely. An elevated PSA level is a red flag, however.

Now, here’s where it gets tricky. PSA tests, as Sue and I found through voracious research, are somewhat controversial because some health advocates have cited an overdiagnosis and overtreatment for prostate cancer in otherwise healthy men. Only 30 percent of men with elevated PSA levels are found to have prostate cancer following biopsy, according to the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force. And the biopsy is no picnic, let me tell ya. Many men, I discovered, opt to skip the biopsy—a quite literal pain in the rear—and conduct what’s termed “watchful waiting” over the years, wherein they’re obliged to check their PSA level regularly to see if it’s rising.

Unfortunately, it seems this controversy about PSA test accuracy has been used as an excuse by many men to simply skip the whole screening. Well, I’m here to tell men over 50, despite the clamor about overtreatment, to get your PSA level checked. I was in the 30 percent. My biopsy report came back stamped in red, in cancerall caps: “CARCINOMA.” Cancer. After the initial terror wore off, we went into action. And here is where it helps immensely to have a supportive partner. Sue read everything she could get her hands on about prostate cancer. We found that every case is different and that treatment options are varied—and confusing. We discovered that although prostate cancer is among the most common cancer in men, some men can actually live with the disease into very old age.

This, however, was not my case. The biopsy showed that mine was advanced to the stage that I required treatment. My options were surgery (removal of the prostate gland), external radiation (a series of treatments in which a beam targets cancerous tissue), or brachytherapy (inserting radioactive “seeds” directly into the body). Considering my relatively young age at diagnosis and at the recommendation of specialists, we chose surgery. Radiation, we found, is more viable for men in their 70s and beyond. My main fears regarding the procedure weren’t about being cut open; the possible side-effects were truly frightening: risk of urinary incontinence and loss of sexual function. With all this swirling in my head, we chose February surgery15, the day after Valentine’s Day, as the day to go under the knife.

I don’t remember much about my hospital stay, except that I was in much more pain than I had anticipated. And I was sent home with a “little buddy”—a catheter. With that cumbersome bag strapped to my leg for more than a week, I hobbled around the house looking somewhat like a nude gunfighter.

But the catheter’s off now. I have a nice scar running from just under my belly button to just above my crotch. I have a little pain, and I’m moving slow; however, I’m not wearing adult diapers and my ability to function as a man is coming back day by day. TMI, perhaps, but this is important stuff. I have some obstacles to overcome, but I have my life.

prostate-cancer[1]The upshot is this: Prostate cancer is the second-leading cause of cancer death among men in the United States—sixth in the entire world. According to the American Cancer Society, of all the leading new cancer cases and deaths estimated for 2014, prostate cancer accounts for 10 percent, second only to lung cancer.

Listen to the wife, men. Get a physical.

Roger White is a freelance writer living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, two precocious daughters, a very fat dachshund, and a self-absorbed cat. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.