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Commence Ye Festivities, Followers: It’s Find the Fib

15 Aug

by Roger White

 

Ah, yes. It’s just about that time again, my anthrax-addled adherents. No, I’m not referring to Be An Angel Day—although August 22 is official Be An Angel Day. If you’re unfamiliar with BAAD, it was created by Jayne Howard Feldman, author of Driving Under the Influence of Angels, who insists that she was inspired by said angels to devise this special day to encourage being kind to others and participating in all-around do-goodery. This is not to bidareyae confused with BAHAD—Bean A Hell’s Angels Day—which involves smacking a motorcycle gang member upside the head and then running like hell.

 

Anyway, that isn’t what I’m talking about, so just leave it alone.

 

No, troops, it’s time once again to play Find the Fib. Yes, I know that NPR Radio has its backward version of this shtick, but as I said before, I’ve been doing it for 33 years now, so if anyone has a case against anybody, it’s me. Against them. About this. But I love NPR, and only lawyers win when you sue, and who needs wealthier lawyers?

 

Which reminds me of another lawyer joke:

Q: Why is attending a bar association meeting like going into a bait shop?

A: Because of the abundance of suckers, leeches, maggots, and nightcrawlers.

 

God, I love that. Anyway, faithful gawkers of my quasi-regular epistles know that every 18 years, rain or shine, I present Find the Fib. How it works is this: I give you, dear readers, several news reports from around the globe. However, one of them is total bunk. Sheer hokum. Your job is to determine which one. First one to e-mail me the correct answer at roger.white@tasb.org wins three real U.S. dollars. No pennies, real bills. Second place wins two bucks; third place, one genuine American dollar. Fourth through sixth place wins a nifty “Jesus Is Coming, Hide the Bong” bumper sticker; seventh through ninth earns a hearty “Thanks for Playing Our Stupid Game!” e-mail from yours truly. Taxes on winnings are sole responsibility of individual winners. Void where prohibited. Prohibit where voided. Violators will be prosecuted. Prosecutors will be etc. etc.

 

If you don’t want to play this time around, worry not. You’ll get another opportunity in August of 2032. So here goes. Find the Fib:

ohboy

Story No. 1: Overly germaphobic types in South Korea have invented something they call the Finger Nap. Finger Naps are tiny plastic sanitary gloves that fit over one’s digits—basically finger condoms—to be used by over-the-wall neat freaks to eat pizza, hamburgers, donuts, and such. Some restaurants in South Korea have caught on to the trend by installing Finger Nap dispensaries. Now if they could only invent Nose Naps for eating kimchi.

 

Story No. 2: Boeing is teaming up with South African Airways to develop jet fuel made from tobacco. The fuel, concocted from a hybrid tobacco plant, is part of an effort to cut carbon emissions and promote green energy in South Africa. Test-farming of the plants is under way, with biofuel output expected in the “next few years,” a company spokesperson said. The spokesperson did not say whether fuels would be available in menthol and ultra-light.

 

Story No. 3: Authorities in New Jersey are investigating the explosion of a giant vat of eggnog, which damaged a pharmaceutical plant and caused minor injuries to two workers. Employees were mixing artificial eggnog flavorings in a laboratory in Totowo, New Jersey, when the explosion occurred, the town’s fire marshal told local news reporters. The company was trying out a new eggnog recipe, the marshal said, adding that the cause of the blast was undetermined. There’s been no word from officials about why a giant vat of whiskey was parked next to the giant vat of eggnog.

 

Story No. 4: In a tragic twist, a Wisconsin man was killed accidentally by an invention he envisioned to save lives. The inventor was wearing his “para-shirt” invention, created weeeto be worn as a dress shirt that could be used as a parachute in the event of a high-rise office fire, when the parachute deployed while the man was driving on a Madison freeway. With his view obstructed, the man drove off a downtown overpass, dropping thirty feet to his demise. Now if he’d only invented the “car-a-chute.”

 

Story No. 5: A South African animal rights group is planning to sue those responsible for the death of a giraffe that smashed its head on a bridge as it was transported in a trailer on one of the country’s busiest freeways. Eyewitnesses reported seeing two giraffes in an open trailer being driven along Johannesburg’s N1 motorway before one hit its head on the bridge. “Look how low that bridge is and how tall the giraffes are,” one witness cried. “Who thought this one through?” South Africa’s National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SANSPCA) said they would be seeking to prosecute the giraffe relocators. Meanwhile, SASORSP—the South African Society Of Really Stupid People—is also seeking the drivers to award them the organization’s highest honor.

 

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.

 

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.

 

Let’s Play the Blame Game

11 Dec

by 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 duhhhhof 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.”

you are here, no here“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 meowuhohwith 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.