It’s Not My Fault She’s Crazy & Hysterical

genius
I can neither confirm nor deny having told someone’s mother that is not my fault she is crazy and hysterical. However the rumors about my having had to duck following the words that might not have been said might be true.

Maybe.

Someone might have said “relax” to someone else a couple of times for the sole purpose of trying to encourage them to do the opposite but I can’t confirm or deny such a rumor.

All I can do is suggest that you keep reading and determine for yourself whether an insouciant dad blogger who defenestrates his enemies would ever engage in scandalous behavior or do anything that might lead people to call him a scoundrel.

Trouble Knocked On The Door

There was a time when someone asked me what I would do if trouble knocked on the door and I told them I would answer.

“Why would you ever do such a thing?”

“Because trouble and I are old friends and a good friend looks out for his buddies.”

That didn’t go over so well so I tried to support it by suggesting I was paraphrasing what Groucho Marx said about friendship but they refused to listen so I suggested they remove the barbed stick that had been shoved up their behind.

It didn’t go over as well as I had hoped it would. In my head it was cool and witty, but apparently cool and witty didn’t accompany it through my lips.

Pity.

ugly

Maybe I should have quoted Mark Twain instead. Maybe an author of classic novels would have been better received than a comedian who starred in classic movies.

Have I mentioned that if you say you don’t like the Marx Brothers, Three Stooges, Princess Bride and or Seinfeld I begin to question your intelligence.

Is it wrong of me to say that out loud and not just wonder quietly to myself if you are an uptight prune lipped knucklehead who is in dire need of something that will cause you to loosen and lighten up.

You might even be the person or persons who are trying to kill blogging.

Ok, you might not be doing it intentionally but your grand desire to turn your cyber shack into a cybermansion of swag and might isn’t doing much to help the blogosphere.

It is not pushing people to write insightful, authentic and engaging content. It is not adding value. It is sucking the life out of us and not in the kind of way that makes us groan, smile and snore.

Damn you.

Don’t Take This Too Seriously

Don’t take these words too seriously. Life has been so bleeping busy I haven’t had time to write the way I want to and when that happens I get a little squirrelly.

Got way too much to do, way too much to write about and way too many ideas for changes I want to make here.

Been trying to decide if I want to go through the older posts here and try to clean them up. Posts like the excerpt I shared below where I wonder what the hell I was thinking.

It would be so much stronger if I cleaned it up a bit and added a picture. But it wouldn’t be as authentic if I did that and I am not sure that is a good thing.

I admit to suggesting that if she hoped for more than simple companionship she might consider spending time at the produce market.

Apparently this is not advisable nor is suggesting that he would probably die in robbing a drug store for used condoms. Don’t ask me to explain why” Preserve Your Memories

There are benefits and advantages to maintaining that authentic look/feel. It provides a nice benchmark I can use to help measure my improvement as a writer and storyteller.

Sometimes I look back and wonder if I have regressed, stagnated or just lost it. Sometimes I look back and smile because it is clear that things are better.

Most of the time I don’t pay much attention to either because there isn’t enough available to look back, look to the present and gaze upon the future.

That is preserved for the few moments between the time I close my eyes and fall asleep. That is when I think about how to grab the brass ring when my pony passes by.

Will I do so with the right or left hand or just leap off the horse and grab ahold with both. I probably should just use one hand, but I know myself far to well to believe that I’ll just stab at it.

Nah, I’ll send all two hundred something, something hurtling through the air with reckless abandon and hope that I don’t land on anything sharp.

That is the problem with aging, that shit hurts now. Ok, it always hurt a little but in the old days I didn’t care because when you are 19 you watch the bruise appear and fade away as fast as it showed up.

It is not like that anymore.

These days those motherfuckers act like you invited them to move in. They stick around for a bit.

And now friends I must head out into the woolly and wild outdoors because dad is a hunter-gatherer and I must go hunt down some food and build a fire to cook it upon.

Steak…it is what’s for dinner.

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