Eye-squinting

Some days I wake up to the melodies of smiling, chirping birds. They make me want to bound out of bed and sing the harmony parts, although K-Mac has a strict policy about singing in the bedroom while she is asleep. (Don’t even think about whistling.)

Still, the mood on such days is one of hope. As quickly as I can, I get myself to a room where singing is allowed and I sing, whistle, hum and croon. I would dance but I don’t dance.

On other mornings I am rudely thundered out of bed into a jarring state of gnarling awakeness forced on all of us, by the clunking and groaning of worn gears, the squealing of bad brakes, the wheezing and crashing of mechanical teeth as they digest the disgusting, rancid, festering, stinking contents of giant plastic tubs of smellbad, heaved into the enormous maw of a beastly, whining conveyance by society’s sainted devils, those garbologists without scented portfolio, whose entire language is a single, guttural, tortured, semi-word whose meaning changes by the minute with subtly mixed inflections to the sound of Yo, as in “Yo!” Or “YO!” Or sometimes just an exhausted “yo,” with the implied inflection “yo, what crap!”

Hard to keep one’s outlook on life from souring as you transmogrify from “That sweet old poop, Mr. McGuire,” into that cynical, grump “Old man McGuire.”

This morning as I sat down to my morning bowl of Cheerios, I read a message from Cheerio central on the box, explaining why the shape of their cereal changed from an O to a heart. Old Man McGuire frowned darkly as he read:

Our hearts are filled with joy knowing you’re about to sink… (that much I could believe) …your spoon into our new heart-shaped Cheerios.

Out came my down spout, spouting disdainfully in my outside voice: What crap!  It set my eye-squinting tone for the rest of the day with:

Telemarketers

  • This is a courtesy call (what crap!)
  • Congratulations. You’ve been selected to apply for our credit card (what crap!)

TV commercials

  • Expect more from your broth (Broth? Really? What crap!)
  • Everyone deserves the gift of more data (what crap!)

Door-to-door roofing salesman:

  • I’m terribly sorry to bother you but… (what crap!)

Politicians

  • Trade wars are easy to win (what crap!)
  • I’m like a stable genius (I’m like what crap!)

Meteorologists

  • I hate to rain on your parade, but…(what crap!)

Crooks Without Portfolio

  • Sorry, but this coupon expired yesterday (what crap!)
  • Unfortunately, your bumper to bumper warranty doesn’t cover bumpers (what crap!)

Generalized insincerity

  • Have a nice day (what crap!)
  • You look marvelous (what crap!)
  • Your safety is our number-one priority (what crap!)

Snot

  • Your dog snarled at my wife which is against the covenants of the Homeowner’s Association (what crap!). Also, the ding-ding from your fit bit is over the limits of the Homeowner’s sound quotient. Here is our audio quotient report. By the way, you repainted your house an off-white which is a little too off according to the covenants color czar (what crap!)

Apology

  • Dope: If I have offended anyone, I sincerely apologize (while he is sneering in a silent, mentally mental voice “Eat me.”) (what total crapola!)

Consultants

  • If you get a lemon, make lemonade (what crap!)
  • If you get a turkey, make lemonade (what crap!)
    (By the way, if you get lemonade, you’re doing something wrong.)

Love

  • But I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more…(what crap!)

WARNING: Stand back! Grab the dog and the children! Here comes Old Man McGuire.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2020, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, funny, Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

From the hair down

Q. I heard the lieutenant-governor of Texas say there are more important things in life than living.
A. Like what?

Q. That’s what I wanted to ask. What’s more important than living?
A. Hockey?

Q. No. Because, see, hockey falls into the living category. You have to be alive to play it or watch it or to hit someone in the Oh No Zone with your stick.
A. Does that include driving the Zamboni?

Q. So I tried to make a list of things more important than living.
A. I hope drinking beer is on that list.

Q. Again, you can’t drink beer if you’re not living.
A. You mean if you’re not living right.

Q. Not even if you’re living left.
A. You mean like communists?

Q. Communists, Nazis, Circus clowns. I hate to say they’re all the same, but the one thing they all have in common is the need to be alive when acting like A-frames.
A. A-frames?

Q. Use your imagination
A. I would, but I lent it to my brother and he took it on a magical mystery trip.

Q. Have you ever taken a magical mystery trip that wasn’t so magical?
A. Like when I got arrested that time at an Orioles game for impersonating a nudnik?

Q. Uh, not really.
A. Yeah, you’re right. That was a whole different ballgame.

Q. So, back to my list of things more important than living.
A. You have a list?

Q. It’s a pretty short list. The only thing left other than living is dying.
A. Wait a sec. What about living large?

Q. And then croaking because you get too large?
A. You are a killjoy, aren’t you?

Q. Speaking of being killed, have you ever been dead?
A. That’s kind of a personal question.

Q. Not if you’re dead.
A. All right. Every now and then I’ll wake up feeling dead from the hair down. If you know what I mean.

Q. Sorry. I don’t have any hair left
A. You should get some.

Q. Gee, what a great idea.
A. Sarcasm?

Q. Let’s get back to being dead
A. It’s not one of my favorite topics.

Q. So, if being dead is more important than living…
A. I hope that’s not true because I’ve got a lot stuff going on this weekend. You’re making me worried.

Q. I would say the best argument that being dead is better than being alive is if you’re dead you don’t ever have to worry about getting dead.
A. Hadn’t thought of that.

Q. Because, to be dead, you first have to get dead. And that is the sticking point for so many people.
A. It’s a whole different popsicle.

Q. I’d like to hear what the Lt. Governor of Texas says about that.
A. I’ll bet he was just kidding

Q. I’ll bet it’s hard to convince the guy with the black robe and hood and sickle that you were “Just kidding.”
A. A whole different kettle of underwear.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2020, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, F.A.Q., Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of), The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , | 5 Comments

Chisel-headed communist

I was signing into some website and it asked for my password. I admit I am one of those complete and troublesome idiots who can never remember any of the 1,271 passwords for my 1,271 most important websites.

Over the years, I have entrusted to one website or another every piece of data that comprises my life. But I also constructed a series of clever passwords no one can ever break.

When I tried to log onto that website, they demanded I identify myself with my secret password. I quickly typed in 1234abcd. (Hackers never expect something so simple. Maybe 1234 or even abcd but never together.)

But that website’s chief of security (a retired nun from Ashtabula) texted me they had no record of my name ever being connected to that password. Ever. And ever. Amen.

Okay, I thought. I got the site confused with another. It happens. I am not perfect. Let he who is without gas get a horse.

Anyway, I quickly typed in abcd1234.

Website: Nope.

Me: How about ab12cd34

Website: Nope.

Me: BringBackFirefly

Website: Nopers

Me: How about: Openupyouchiselheadedcommunisttoepickingdickweed

Website: Sorry. That password has already been taken.

Me: Look. Do you have even the slightest idea who you are trucking with?

Website: Your password should include at least one number, one upper case letter, one lower case letter, one thank you letter to your grandmother for your lovely birthday socks and something that is neither a number nor a letter. How about a rune? Something in Elvish or Pig Latin for example, or, if pressed for time (or pants) a simple semicolon would be okay. Surprise us.

At this point I felt frustrated the way Biblical Job was frustrated when the locusts and the frogs and the armadillos fell out of the sky. (Job 16: 2-4 Then Job answered and said ‘Really? Armadillos? Come on, man!’)

It was the worst possible moment to find myself humiliated. Although, the more I thought about it, there actually was no good time to be humiliated. Hmm. I felt chagrined not knowing that. I checked and, to my continuing humiliation,  I found my chagrin tank empty. I badly needed a nap. But I sucked it up and clicked on the humiliation button that taunted “Forgot your password, hee hee?”

I was taken immediately to the page of the Spanish Inquisition. Nobody expects that. The tone on this exchange of texts was spare and intimidating. Almost Jesuit.

Website: Why did you forget your password? Do you think we have nothing to do all day but think up new passwords for you?

Me: Er…

Website: You want a new password? First, prove you’re not a robot.

Me: Wait. What’s wrong with robots? Some of my best friends are robots. In fact, my only friend is a robot.

Website: We don’t allow robots to set foot on our website. They get grease on the virtual carpeting and think they know everything. Plus they need constant oiling. So we need proof you’re human. At the very least an elf.

Me: What kind of proof? How about my American Bowling Congress membership card? Show me a robot who has one of those.

Website. Hold on, nimrod. Congress is full of robots. Everyone knows that.

Me: I believe you’re thinking of the U.S. Congress. A common mistake.

Later, I spoke to Minoochin my number-crunching robot neighbor. He had me buy a software password vault. You enter all your passwords and lock them away with one single password. Only you know it, so only you can sign in. The key, of course: don’t forget that one password.

So, I came up with a doozy. In fact, it’s

d-O-o-Z-y IV-3-II-1

The Minooch warned me again to give my new password to no one.

“You give away your belt,” he said, “and your pants fall down.”

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2020, all rights reserved.

 

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of), The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Evil, evil bo beevil

To many these days, there’s nothing more satisfying than making fun of something or someone they don’t understand, without realizing how very much they misunderstand that “those people” do, in fact, understand, but are too polite, or Canadian, to say anything — which the original misunderstanders probably won’t understand, but then, after an eye-blink of thinking they will tell big fat lies and allow that they have been misunderstood because, yes, of course they understand perfectly, very perfectly, and to prove it they begin to boil down their understandings and misunderstandings into great bubbles of understandably evil off-gassing.

Can I get an Amen, here?

Take, for instance, evil.  How hard is evil to understand? Evil is bad, nothing else to say, right? In fact, one might expand one’s understanding of evil to cover all bases and say evil is bad and bad is evil. But be careful, because bad evil is a whole different style of banjo.

Let’s just say you are bad or evil – not both. You will likely be pulled out of line at the airport for a full bad-or-evil cavity search and then asked to swear never to be bad or evil again. When you agree, the frisker says “Well, okay then.” You can scurry back into line without ever being asked about being bad evil. Which, ironically, is bad or evil but — because of Obamacare — never both.

Yes, it can get confusing. Take this simple test that will help you sort out bad from evil

The monster hiding under your bed is

  1. Sad
  2. Bad
  3. Evil
  4. Dusty
  5. A dusty bastard.

Bad bad Leroy Brown is

  1. Bad
  2. Bad bad
  3. Meanest man in the whole damn town
  4. Badder than old King Kong
  5. He wants you to believe King Kong is just bad or just evil, hoping you won’t notice his bad-evil accent.

If you grab someone’s erogenous zone in public you are

  1. Erroneous
  2. Elected president
  3. Accused by Evil men of being Evil, you sly dog, you
  4. Evil, evil bo beevil, banana panna po peevil, fee fi mo mevil, E-vil.
  5. Dramatically ironic

A libertarian, a Gelusil tablet and a depressed bear walk into the path of a speeding bus. Which one suffers most in death?

  1. The depressed bear (Just when I realize I can walk and talk, I get run over by a bus)
  2. The libertarian (I kept getting myself confused with a librarian and now this.)
  3. The Gelusil tablet (When they tell you to chill and chew a couple Gelusil, they mean a couple, not just a singleton, and so then I have to explain to the media why I’m alone and how my Gelusil partner was eaten by a depressed bear, which, 10 times out of ten gives me pre-death heartburn.)
  4. The bear claw, formerly attached to the arm of a depressed bear. (Look, I saw it in the street and went for it. How was I supposed to know the claw belonged to an actual bear who got very depressed over losing his claw. But look, if it helps, I have to say it was one of the better bear claws I have eaten.)

The basketball team of the electoral college is playing round ball with the men from the college of cardinals in Madison Square Garden. To many observers this is a classic matchup of Bad-Idea-Evil versus Evil With A Red Dress On. Discuss.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2020, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of), The human comedy | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

Attention: people in white coats

A bear walks into a bar…

Okay, hold it right there…

I don’t know about you, but it’s been quite a while since a bear last walked into a bar in my town. Some blame it on the liberals, those communist bastards who have scared all the bears into writing existential novels or acting in low budget art movies. Others blame it on conservatives, those nazi bastards, who have rounded up bears, forced them into tutus and six months of ballet lessons, down payment non-refundable.

Some people say it’s the fault of global warming which is the fault of man, while others argue over exactly which man, his known associates, street address, cell number, etc. Others say it has nothing to do with global warming, which makes no sense. Global warming is why bears go into bars in the first place – for the air conditioning and the cold beer.

Some blame the sudden drop in bear-bar sightings on the rise of craft beers which bears find a little too bitter. They’ve seen too many times what happens when a bear chugs an IPA. It always comes out their noses.

Over on the subcontinent, however, in places like Mumbai, it’s not any odder that an Indian sloth bear should be in an Indian bar in the first place than he should order an India Pale Ale. Interesting but unprovable fact: India’s Sloth Bears can run faster than humans, but they are also very tame-able, and often trained as performing pets (see “tutus” above). They can even do some lap dancing (as long as the word some is clearly defined beforehand.)

Why is it, in these reports, we hear only about oddball patrons who walk into a bar (i.e., a rabbi, a priest and a wallabee-wannabee walk into a bar; a zombie, a whale and an ordained banjo player, walk into a bar, etc.) Don’t weirdos ever go anywhere else? (Wine spillings? Hard boiled egg peelings? The Medical Examiner’s Gift Shop? Wal-Mart?)

Also, the idea of seeing a bear in a bar isn’t as thrilling as it used to be. Think of your friends or even family members who have had a bear sit down next to them in a bar. How many times have they forgotten to bring it up at home at the dinner table when the sergeant major asks “What’s new out there in the real world today?”

Maybe you’ve been out there yourself and answered “Yeah, I did see a sloth bear guzzling a wheat beer at lunch, but, you know, it was a sloth bear. Other than that, just the same old crap, a normal day of eroding manners, sanity crises, lying liars lying like rugs and the odd hatchet thrown at the odd hatchet-deserver.”

Most recently, while in a bar, drinking a beer, I was surprised to see a bear suddenly sitting on the bar stool beside me. The surprise changed to boredom as he started doing bird impressions in between his burps (although the more I think about it, the more I wonder: It’s quite possible that his burps were also his bird impressions.)

“Shouldn’t you be hibernating somewhere?” I asked.

The bear looked my way and said “Are you talking to me?”

“No,” I said, “I’m talking to the bear sitting next to you.”

He looked to the stool on his right, which was empty. He looked to the seat on his left, which also was empty. Except for me, of course.

“So,” he said, “either you are the bear sitting next to me, or I am the bear sitting next to you.”

“Hey, pal,” said the bartender “you’re talkin’ to yourself again.”

In perfect unison, we responded “Are you talking to me?”

Five minutes later, a large white van pulled up and men in white coats and nets got out and walked into the bar.

So. Will someone please explain to all the white-coat people out there that you can’t fit a bear into a butterfly net?

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2020, all rights reserved.

 

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, funny, Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Our Dictator

Q. I’ve heard some people say that our dictator is a narcissist. What does that mean?
A. A narcissist is a mixed bag of nuts. Telltale signs include: an inflated sense of being the biggest liar in the world; an ability to lie about everything and to lie about lying about everything, even while appearing to be an obvious liar; an inability to tell the difference between the truth and a talking ferret; a sense that the world revolves around them and who the hell are you?; an insatiable need for admiration, attention and tummy rubs. Narcissists often fail in their personal relationships, because of their complete lack of giving a crap about anyone but themselves.

Q. What is the difference between a benevolent despot and a dictator?
A. Benevolent Despots are authoritarian leaders with no limits on their power to grab a second, third or even all of the Crème Brulee, but who wisely use their power to benefit ordinary schlubs who aren’t technically allowed to know that Creme Brulee exists. The benefit, by the way, is a coupon good for one Crème Brulee, redeemable at any Benevolent Guillotine Center. (Offer void where laughed at.)

Q. But what if the Benevolent Despot isn’t wise?
A. Ah! As the French would say: sometimes ze toenail, she is tough, no?

Q. How does a dictator differ?
A. The dictator has the power to do or eat anything, anyone, anytime, anywhere, anyhow and you can’t do anything about it. Nanny nanny boo boo. Get them all out of here. Now! (Mic drop/throw.)

Q. Is there a cure for narcissism?
A. Since narcissism is officially listed as a cluster B personality disorder, the only cure would be the same one we use to cure hams.

Q. Wait. There’s a cure for ham?
A.Yes. You inject the ham with salt, sugar, sodium nitrate, sodium erythorbate, sodium phosphate, potassium chloride, water and/or flavorings.

Q. What do you mean by flavorings?
A. Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun. Yumbo riddy!

Q. Is our dictator smart enough to understand racism? Or is he dumb enough to be a racist?
A. No. Wait. Yes. Uh, lemme think. Better call his lawyer and see if he’s still incoherent. (The lawyer, not the narcissist…But wait. They’re both narcissists

Q. Why does he feel the need to lie about everything?
A. It’s like asking why some people fart all the time. They’re afraid they’re not being heard. With some dictators, the truth is too quiet and not at all obvious. By lying, on the other hand, everything is big. Grandiose. Which is why a dictator abhors an SBD. They leave people guessing and pointing fingers or slapping their hand over their head. A dictator fears people won’t think he’s a really Big Guy unless he honks like an elephant so no one needs to ask “Who dealt it?”

Q. Is our dictator a happy man?
A. Only when someone is lying on the floor with his foot on their neck.

Q. What’s with his so-called base? So many people support him no matter what he does.
A. Go back to the concept of cluster. People are like a cluster of grapes. They don’t like to be plucked alone. And remember, It takes a village to kiss an ass that big.

Q. What does he want?
A. Everything for him and no soup for you.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2020, all rights reserved.

Posted in Mockery and derision | 7 Comments

Rawt Ro

Owner: What do you want? Can’t you see I’m thinking?
Ownee: Here I am, standing at attention, my head cocked at an adorable angle, awaiting your command. By the way, if you happen to have an old, unused treat hanging around, I know a guy who can get rid of it for you.

Owner: Why don’t you go lay down? Have a nap?
Ownee: Just a small treat would be fine. Or two small treats. They’re small, after all.

Owner: Where’s your ball?
Ownee: Ball? I know that word.

Owner: Is that it, over there?
Ownee: Yes, I’m right here. Ready to help. By the way, you wouldn’t happen to be sitting on any old treats would you? Don’t get me wrong, old treats are fine. Sitting on them is also fine, even if they are crushed. Are they crushed? That would be fine.

Owner: Over there. Look where I’m pointing.
Ownee: Funny, but I never noticed before. When I squint my eyes, that thing on the end of your hand looks like a sausage.

Owner: Follow my finger. Over there. Under the table with the big lamp. See it?
Ownee: So, just to be clear, do we – I mean you, of course, heh, heh — have any sausage in the house? By the way, outside the house would be fine.

Owner: If I can see it – and I’m looking right at it — you can see it. Look where I’m pointing.
Ownee: I guess I’ll just come right out and say it. I would like a sausage. I really would.

Owner: No, stop licking my finger. Stop. Do you want your ball or not?
Ownee: Definitely not a sausage.

Owner: Okay. Just this once. I shouldn’t have to do this. Now, do you see where I went and found your ball? It was right where I pointed. Right there in plain sight.
Ownee: I’ve been looking all over for that ball. I think. Maybe not. What is a ball anyway? I do know this: it’s not a sausage.

Owner: Geezy weezy it’s covered with slobber.
Ownee: I love the smell of slobber in the morning.

Owner: Okay, here it goes. I’m just gonna toss it down the hall. Go play and leave me alone.
Ownee: Finally, some action.

Owner: Hey. What are you doing? Did you just roll your ball under the couch?
Ownee: What a great game. I hide the ball under the couch. Then I make like I’m trying to crawl under to get it. But I can’t reach it. So I whimper.

Owner: Stop trying to crawl under the couch. You’ll never make it. You’re too fat.
Ownee: A carefully timed whimper always gets him out of his chair and into the game.

Owner: No, dear, I didn’t say you were fat. I was talking to the hairbag.
Ownee: Yes! I knew it! He’s lifting up one end of the couch. There’s my ball. Odd. His face looks like the color of raw hamburger.

Owner: I know he can’t talk back, dear. Or wont.
Ownee: Speaking of which, I wouldn’t mind a hamburger. And can I get fries with that?

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2020, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Dogs I Have Known, Mockery and derision, The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments