by Roger White
Now that we’re in the dead of winter, and those despicable, horrid, scorching temperatures of mid-July are long gone, I truly miss those despicable, horrid, scorching temperatures of mid-July. This always happens, and I always know it’s going to happen. I am now officially sick of winter. I dreamed of grilling out in the backyard recently. This wondrous dream was even set to music—à la Led Zeppelin. I call this wondrous nocturnal fantasy “Stairway to Summer.”
Note: If you can’t play “Stairway” in your head as you read this, this will make no sense to you whatsoever and you will become convinced that my mind has been eaten by worms. The latter may be true, of course, but read on if you will:
“Stairway to Summer”
There’s a daddy who’s sure all that sizzles is gold,
And he’s grilling five pounds of heaven.
When he gets there he knows if the propane is low,
With a card he can get more at Walgreen’s.
Oooh, oooo-oooh, and he’s grilling five pounds of heaven.
On his grill there’s some mush, but with his handy wire brush
He scrapes and, oops, he just lost one patty.
In a tree by the grill, there’s a songbird who sings,
And, uh oh, the bird just soiled another patty.
Oooh, oooo-ooh, and dad’s grilling three pounds of heaven.
There’s a feeling he gets when meat falls through the slats,
And his spirit is crying and bereaving.
In his thoughts he has seen the grill smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand drooling.
Oooh, oooo-ooh, and dad’s grilling two pounds of heaven.
And it’s whispered that soon, if you use a big spoon,
You can salvage those patties in the fire.
And a new day will dawn for those on the lawn,
And the backyard will echo with laughter.
Did anyone remember ketchup?
Oooh, oooo-ooh, and he’s grilling a half-pound of heaven.
(picking up the tempo now)
If there’s some gristle in your ground chuck,
Don’t be a dumb schmuck,
It’s just a sprinkling of tendon.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by,
But to use care,
Well done’s safer than rare.
Oooooh, but it makes him wonder.
His head is humming on his fifth beer,
But have no fear,
The wifey’s calling him to slow down.
Dear Daddy can you smell the gas now?
You’ve burned a whole cow,
Your burgers are lost on the whispering wind.
(kicking it in!)
And as we settle down to eat,
Everything’s ready but the meat,
There sweats dear Daddy in the heat,
Who shines bright red in drunk defeat.
Did all that sizzle turn to ash
The answer comes to him, behold!
There’s fried chicken on the stove,
So let’s have that last Michelooooob!
Ooooh, and dad’s scraping the burnt remnants of heaven.
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.
Let’s Play the Blame Game
11 Decby Roger White
Did you ever notice how a lot of bloggers and columnists these days start their blogs and columns with “Did you ever notice…”? Uh oh.
Actually, in all the 2,103 columns I’ve written over the past (censored) years, I don’t believe I’ve ever kicked off an installment with those four Seinfeldian words. So allow me this one:
Did you ever notice how there is always someone or something to blame for every cotton pickin’ thing these days? In this age of victims, nothing just happens by chance or circumstance anymore—someone must be blamed. Fault must be found. Perpetrators must be punished. And surely somewhere down the line, lawyers must be compensated.
I have resisted this mindset as long as I can, dragged my feet against the rushing tide of the times until my heels are raw. So I give in. I will now add my voice to the din; therefore, I give you my “blame” list for some of the odd quirks and tendencies that are endemic to li’l old me.
Scapegoat No. 1—Doorways. Ya know the age-old question of “what did I come in here for” that hits you when you walk into a room and then draw a complete blank? Well, at my age this happens just about every hour on the hour. I thought I was getting old and feeble-minded, but as it turns out, my door is to blame. Yep, psychologist types at the University of Notre Dame have determined that walking through a doorway triggers something called an event boundary in your noggin. In other words, what you were thinking of in one room goes flying away when you go to another room, especially when the TV is on and the Cowboys have the ball. Okay, I made up that last part. But isn’t this great? I have a lawsuit in the works against Pella Doors and Windows. If you want to join me in a class action suit, dial 1-800-DUM-DOOR.
Scapegoat No. 2—Apple Maps. I get lost a lot; now, I’ve someone to blame. Did you hear about this? Seems that Apple Maps, in its rush to compete against Google and other major online map companies, goofed big time, putting many cities and landmarks in the wrong places.
In one grievous instance, Apple plopped some town called Mildura, Australia, more than 40 miles away from where it really is, and—believe it or not—some drivers actually ended up stuck in the rugged Australian outback and had to be rescued by police.
Can you picture this? The road sign reads “Mildura Straight Ahead” but the car’s Apple Map says “No, Ron, turn left.”
“Crikey!” says Ron and turns left against his better judgment. Ten hours later, as Ron scorches in the 110-degree heat of the outback, he decides to leave.
“NO!” orders Apple Map. “You are here. This is Mildura.”
“But…I’m thirsty.”
“I’m sorry, Ron, but I have shut off your motor.”
This is ripe for another juicy legal action, no?
“Uh, yeah, hello? Is this Apple Maps?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, I have Apple Maps on my iPhone, and it told me that to get to Dallas I had to drive straight ahead off the Galveston Sea Wall, and my car is now in 15 feet of water. Can I speak to your legal department?”
Scapegoat No. 3—Kitty litter. One of my duties around the homestead is waste management—and this includes changing that most toxic of entities, the kitty litter box. I have always thought that this lovely, touchy-feely euphemism—kitty litter—is one of the cruelest of domestic ironies. The term “kitty litter” sounds cute, harmless, even cuddly somehow. Have you ever changed a kitty litter box that hasn’t been touched by human hands in over a week? This is one of the foulest, nastiest, zombie apocalyptic-type things you’ll ever come in contact with. I honestly believe that you could arm the U.S. Marines with cats, turned back end toward the enemy, and you could send any opposing force running faster than Iraq’s elite Republican Guards.
Anyway, it turns out that, now stay with me here, some suicide attempts have actually been linked to kitty litter. I believe it. A study by a guy named Teodor Postolache (really, that’s his name) claims there’s a link between an infection called Toxoplasma gondii, which you get from handling kitty litter, and suicide attempts.
So there you have it, honey. I would change the box, but, man, I’m so down. What’s the use in living?
Side note to self: File suit against the Fresh Step company.
Now, this last part has nothing to do with anything, but I believe it carries a strong message for you and me. Seems that a Florida man remains in the hospital with severe injuries after the cops stopped him for DWHATSIYS.
What’s DWHATSIYS, you ask? That’s police lingo for Driving While Having A Traffic Sign In Your Skull. Duh. The Florida Highway Patrol pulled over one L.R. Newton after he smashed into a road sign and then kept on going. When they stopped the guy, they found that a big chunk of the traffic sign was sticking out of his headbone. Newton’s in stable condition, but the sign didn’t make it.
Stupid sign. I’d sue the sign makers.
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.
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