A Paddle for Your Thoughts?

Whining crybaby

Photo courtesy of Gratisography

Have you ever wondered what’s wrong with America?

I mean, what’s really wrong with America?

Well, here’s my answer:



That’s right. You heard it here first. I repeat…


You can drive from sea to sea and see purple mountains majesty and foaming seas and stuff like that. The sun rises and sets. We get four seasons most everywhere (except in Florida where they get sunrises, heat, and hurricanes). God did a pretty good job with America.

It’s the people who keep screwing it up.

People rioting, having temper tantrums, holding their breath, turning blue. (Oh how I wish more of them would turn blue!)

People in the newspaper, on the TV news, splashed all over the Internet.

“Gimmee, gimmee, gimmee!”

“We don’t like this. We don’t like that. Waaaaaah!”

“Hey! Let’s start a fire!”

I think if we’re going to turn America from wrong to right, we’re going to need a new leader. A person of such wisdom and clarity, someone who could turn things around in a heartbeat.

My mother.

With my mother in charge, there would only be two courses of action for the whiny crybabies who seem to have taken the country by storm:

1) A righteous spanking with a paddle

2) Being sent to your room to take a nap

Now, I haven’t talked to my mother about this, but it doesn’t seem like paddling every brat in the country is feasible. You’d have to establish a spanking corps. A group dedicated to paddling offenders from coast to coast.

The problem nowadays is that out of a population of 309 million people, about half of those would have to be in the corps. In the old days, we simply called them “parents” but nowadays, we seem to be short on “parents” so it might not be the best way to go.

My bet is that mom would probably go for nap time.

I think her first order of business would be to create designated napping facilities throughout the country. Put one anywhere there are whiny, crabby people. You know, pretty much on every street corner…

  • Professional baseball and football games
  • Grocery store checkout lines
  • Any retail store on Black Friday (and Black Thursday Night)
  • Justin Bieber concerts
  • Capitol Hill
  • College campuses
  • Union shops
  • White collar office building

I think my mother could pull this off.

If you didn’t take your nap, she would threaten you with not coming out until you’ve taken your nap. Of course, there wouldn’t be any WiFi or computers in any of the napping areas. It would just be you, alone, with nothing but your miserable, useless thoughts. That by itself would be enough to set most people straight. Except that most people don’t think, so maybe there’s a glitch here I should tell mother about.

Well, doesn’t really matter. If anyone can straighten out the people of America, it’s my mother. Even if it takes a good paddling.

Speaking of dying…

Old man screaming

Photo courtesy of Gratisography


Did I tell you the news?

I’m dying.

It’s not like my doctor called me up with some test results or anything. No, I discovered my ailment from a trusted, reliable source whose diagnosis is 120% accurate:

An AARP membership card application in the mail.

Not only is this proof that you’re dying, but if you pay them a membership fee, they’ll get you discounts on stuff that will hopefully make your life happier as you’re dying.

Stuff like travel to go where other dying people hang out, prescriptions to alleviate your suffering as you’re dying, and  eating out at restaurants to fuel your dying body.

Think I’m making this stuff up? Then try stopping by a local restaurant during the day.

You’ll see flocks of cantankerous old people wearing AARP baseball caps, carrying their membership tote bags while waving their membership cards in the air to flag down wait staff who are actively trying to run away from them.

They’re the people who keep sending their food back to the kitchen because it all tastes like wet cardboard. Boy, do I have news for them: When you get old, EVERYTHING tastes like wet cardboard.

But don’t blame it on the AARP. They’re just being honest with you about your advanced state of decay.

Remember not so long ago when you could break rocks with your forehead, dig a well with a garden shovel, then run a 10k race in flip flops, with nary a sore muscle the next day?

Fast forward to you waking up every morning with muscle cramps, sore arms, aching lower back, and dry spit glands all from the rigorous exercise known as “sleeping.”

Even getting in and out of a car is more like an octogenarian Olympic event:

“Well ladies and gentleman, it appears he’s found the door handle and is struggling to get the door open. He’s trying to get his leg out and look, the left foot has touched the ground. I repeat: the left foot has touched the ground. He is now bringing his right foot around and oh, that terrible crackling noise. Oh the humanity! He’s putting weight on both feet and now he’s… Oh no, looks like a bolt of pain has seized him. He’s now back in the seat, writhing in pain. The bronze metal is definitely out of reach.”

But if you’re worried about getting a participation trophy for all you’re going through, rest easy. You’ll probably end up with a four-tier Lazy Susan filled with “trophies,” all coming from your favorite doctor. Be sure to proudly show your guests whenever they stop by:

“And this one? This one here is for a bladder infection. Next to that, halitosis. Behind that one is high blood pressure, low blood pressure, pre-diabetes, sleep aid, awakening aid, excessive ear wax control, gas, and of course, a bottle of gummy worm multi-vitamins just to mix things up.”

So here’s the bad news: You’re dying. But cheer up… at least you don’t have to pay full price for runny eggs that taste like wet cardboard.

Happy “You Should Be Dead” Day

Happy Earth Day! Better known as “You Should Be Dead Day”. The day when people all over the globe celebrate how wonderful the earth would be if you were dead.

And I don’t mean just you.

Because just you being dead wouldn’t do much for the planet. Unless you flush your toilet excessively in which case, you should probably be dead.

But not if you’re a ridiculously wealthy, famous Eco Warrior of Environmental Justice. Or just being ridiculously wealthy and famous suffices. That way you don’t have to be dead because you get to tell everyone else who should be dead.

Like Margaret Sanger who said, “The most merciful thing that a family does to one of its infant members is to kill it.” Now I don’t know if the founder of Planned Parenthood was rich, but I think she was pretty famous. Just not famous enough for you and me to be dead… yet.

Remember that other famous guy, Jacques Cousteau?  He thought you should be dead too.

His thoughts on taking care of Mother Earth amounted to “World population must be stabilized and to do that we must eliminate 350,000 people per day.” I wonder if you’re supposed to volunteer or if someone just gets to pick your name from a hat? 350,000 people per day. Now that’s a pretty big hat.

But not as big as the one you would need if we were to make about 6.5 billion people dead. Keeping the number of the un-dead on earth at about 500 million is what some anonymous people with money think the number should be.  Maybe their names are in that hat which is why they don’t want to be famous.

Hard to say.

Which is why I think having gobs of money helps even more than being famous. Then you get to erect huge walls of stone in Georgia while you hide in a luxurious cave somewhere. But rich and famous is still a pretty good combo.

Take a guy like Prince Charles who has something like 10,000 houses all over the world, offices, shops, and property to boot. Do you know why he’s not supposed to be dead? Because he’s worth about $210 million and he has lots of stuff. That’s why he can’t be dead. Besides, he needs places to live and you can’t be in those places because then where would he live. Right?

Meanwhile, you’re throwing eggshells on a compost pile in your backyard, shutting off the lights in rooms when you’re not in them, and cutting up the plastic rings from your six pack of beer so Snuffy the sea turtle doesn’t get strangled in one.

That’s exactly how I see Bill Gates skipping around his 66,000 square foot home, yelling at people to turn off the lights in any of the twenty-four bathrooms or saying something like, “Close the window! What are you trying to do, heat up the outside?”  as he cuts up the plastic rings from his six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

The same Bill Gates who has his calculator out saying “The world has 6.8 billion people. That’s heading up to about nine billion. Now if we do a really great job on new vaccines, health care, reproductive health services, we could lower that by perhaps 10 or 15 percent.”

See? If he can get more people to be dead, then all the better. All people have to do is get vaccinated, stop by a health care clinic, or kill their own children, and voila! Utopia!

Or, maybe one of the co-founders of Earth Day,  Ira Einhorn, had a better idea. He simply killed then composted his girlfriend.  So she is not only dead but she’s also earth-friendly.

So why don’t these Eco Warriors of Environmental Justice make themselves dead? Wouldn’t that be a good answer?

Well no.

Because unlike you and me — oxygen-breathing, carbon-emitting, inconsequential bi-peds — the Eco Warriors of Environmental Justice need to stick around to make sure all the compost gets put to good use.

And then they can flush their toilets all they want.


Canned Ham and Animal Crackers

Who is living under the bed of ignorance when they refuse to see that the price of
canned ham products and animal crackers are shooting through the roof?

Everything costs more these days and sometimes, you can’t just put necessities off any longer
because of lack of money. I mean, the broken training wheel on my bicycle isn’t going to
fix itself and the pet rock needs braces.

I had to ask for a raise at work. But how?

After shooting 200 top quality steel-tipped aluminum 13/8, 1.828 mm staples into my
cubicle wall from three feet away while pacing nervously thinking about all my money
woes, it dawned on me that I had spelled the word “pleh” out of staples which is “help”
backwards. Indeed… it was a sign.

Finally, at 4:59 p.m. on a fateful Friday afternoon, I walked with determination to the
boss’s office where I was forcefully stopped by the secretary, Ms. Butinsnots. She hit me
in the left eye with a #34 rubber band with a 1/16 thickness. I only know that because
the #24, 1/32’s sting but don’t leave a red mark.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she snortled.

“None of your business!” I shouted back as I ran into the boss’s office, tears running
down my cheeks, right hand over left eye, nose fluids flowing profusely.

I wanted to say “I demand a pay raise” but all that came out was a very garbled, “I
demand a PEZ.” Fortunately, he had a Humpty Dumpty PEZ dispenser on his desk
and offered me several candies. They were strawberry with a slight aftertaste of mint

“So you want a pay raise, is that it?”

“Yes, yes… that would be nice. Thank you!”

“Well you’re not going to get one. In fact, I had twenty-two complaints this month
alone about someone in your department stapling all the napkins together in the
employee break room as well as writing ‘Ted from Accounting is a jerk’ with staples on
the wall of the senior management conference room.”

I reminded him that it could have been anyone from my department and I would be
sure to dish out swift justice. He then reminded me that I was the only one who worked
in the department. Touché!

As I left his office, Ms. Butinsnots chortled then hit me from behind with a #24. She
wasn’t laughing on Monday when she woke from her nap and found herself stapled to
her chair and her box of rubber bands glued shut. It may have been someone from my
department, but I’m not saying who.