Monday, February 9, 2015

Perfume. There?

It was a good morning. Both of us (and the pets) were almost awake, getting ready to go to work and other places. Lunch was packed and I was suddenly face-to-face with my wife and her beautiful new purple shirt. What made it more beautiful than other shirts, purple aside, was that it showed more chest than normal (no naughty bits, in spite of this blog's theme). So I gave her a nice, romantic kiss in that general area. We were impressed but the pets went about their business, non-plussed; one appearing starved and the other waiting for the starving one's food.

Fortunately it was time to go to work. When I say fortunately, I am fortunate to have a job. I am, however, still allowed to bitch about being up in the morning. When in the car, the wife ordered me to scrape the windshield. Of course I had to scrape the windshield.. I was already in the car.  This is a metaphor for our relationship.  It's also a direct statement about the weather here.  As we know, Pennsylvania's state bird is the cloud, and this lovely display of weather did nothing to dispel that fact: it was miserable, gray, and had frozen drops all over the car.  We know the sun exists, it's just that we wonder why it doesn't come round to visit now and again.  Anyone following the news will know that the Northeast has been threatened with snow for the past month. Lucky for us the weather forecasters are always wrong and we've barely gotten any snow.  Instead we've gotten frigid temperatures and bits of precipitation, almost constantly.  Last weekend we hit forty degrees and the bikinis were out all around.  Brian Williams saw his shadow and won't be on tv for six weeks.

So as I was finishing up the windshield, I detected a really horrible taste developing in my mouth.  It got worse and worse until I finally realized where it came from: my wife's chest.  Apparently women put perfume there. And I inadvertently ate some of it.  Off we went to Dunkin Donuts, for some coffee to get the taste out of my mouth. Other candidates were soda, windshield cleaner and lye.

I know I'm late to the party but I was/am so sick of the Stupidbowl that I almost can't describe it. But I shall anyway. In an unearthly first, I was invited to attend a party. In an even stranger first, I accepted, largely as this was my best friend and there were likely to be football-free zones.

There were, indeed, football-free zones, sorta, but there were still too many televisions (defined as more than zero or one).  I'm kinda like Charlie Brown and Lucy (or Homer Simpson) with televisions: I look at the motion, realize it's sports, look away, then see the motion again and look....

I don't care who Brady Bellechek is and don't want to hear his name anymore as long as I live.  It's not enough that there is a game.. I have to hear about it until I'm blue in the ears. I hear about it on the news station. I hear about it on the rock station.  I even hear about it on the public radio station, which I had hoped would be free of sports, at least after the first day.  The only thing worse than this is the item, and I use the term loosely, about deflated balls. I have no real idea what's going on here but I have been bombarded by it every moment of every day, no matter whether it's television, radio or the web.  The first time I heard anything of this, it came up on my alarm in the morning. I can be excused from incredulity (and sense) when something starts talking at me before seven in the morning.  As I grew further awake, I heard something about deflated balls and just assumed this was some kind of comedy routine. It became a really popular comedy routine when I noticed that the evening news and even Sunday's edition of Shoot the Press mentioned it.  If they have so much damn trouble with their balls, why don't they ask the cheerleaders to blow them back up and get on with the event? The politicians must be up to something when this is the lead story for days. You'd think that there was a Kardashian involved, for all the press coverage.

Yesterday in England was the first Visit the Mosque day.  This was a hastily conceived bit of press, thrown together after the Charlie Hello attacks, designed to invite outsiders into mosques to prove that Muslims are not all terrorists.  One Muslim lady complained about having to apologize all the time for the actions of the terrorists.  I suspect she should be having that conference with the terrorists, not the press.  The theme of the day was We'll Blow Up that Bridge When We Come to it. Seminars were offered too: Be Nice to Christians Day, Not Murdering Your Neighbors, and Improvised Explosive Devices.  All of the usual British suspects, with all of their comical British accents, ventured out from their quaint little towns to inspect the mosques. They were declared fit and now life can continue in England (at least until something blows up there).

NOTE: be careful reading this blog, as it may be booby-trapped. And boobie-trapped. Furthermore, it may explode.

1 comment:

  1. So, you never said, is Brady Bellacheck a real person?