Sneeze Attack
by Ted L Glines
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
Fettuccini with
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
Chicken and
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
Broccoli
(ahhh ...)
remove film cover
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
Damn!
Microwave on HIGH 4 minutes
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
wiping tears away
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
... “Dinggggg” ...
What now?
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
Stir fettuccini ...
tears and sniffles running
Ummmmmmmm
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
stirring ... stirring
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
Microwave an additional
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
one minute 30 seconds
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
right!
sniffle sniffle snort
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
breaker snaps
bedroom lights go out
telephone beeps
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
microwave is dark ... dead
forgot to shut off the heater
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
cannot run heater and nuke-machine at the same time
where is that damned breaker?
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
got it
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
... “Dinggggg” ...
let STAND two minutes
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
as PRODUCT WILL BE HOT
(no shit dick tracy)
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
We are talking
Chef
Boy-R-Ted
(how do you turn the “R” around backwards?)
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
somebody turn the heater back on
Aaaaaa aaaa aaaaaaaaaaa ..
For those epicurian fans who will not notice
a few splats of extra sauce
on their gourmet delites
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww ! ..............
One can picture God
one foot planted on The Grapevine
(California dreamin)
and the other foot in Chaco Canyon
(sing the horse with no name)
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
thunder in the heavens
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
like Armageddon
mountains cracking crumbling breaking
until He is up to His knee
in a tsunami-wild Pacific
Aaaaaaaaa chewwwwwwwwwww !
above a drowned City of Angels
The Big One
sneeze attack
Nothing
by Ted L Glines
She complained
nothing to do
it drove her crazy
and I thought
(to myself)
she simply does not know
how to do nothing
with pzazz
but I am older
wiser
and I have great expertise
at the fine art
of doing nothing
-- oh my --
my favorite activity
is doing
nothing
and I do it
with great zeal
as often
as possible
while shaking my head
at young people
dashing about
all stressed out
going nowhere
accomplishing nothing
just like me
but they have
strokes heart attacks
ulcers
suburban stress syndrome
smoking pot crack meth
killing themselves to escape
nothing
-- epiphany --
-- lightbulb over head --
I should write a book
“The Zen Art of Doing Nothing”
book signings
university lectures
expensive seminars at
Esalen Institute
“Blissed Out Nothingness”
and hire a CPA
to count my wealth
hire drivers for
limousine yacht learjet
maids for my three mansions
while tabloids
recreate me as someone
scandalous and decadent
who does nothing
with
glee
Jokes
compiled by Ted L Glines
Q How Do You Catch a Unique Rabbit?
A Unique Up On It.
Q How Do You Catch a Tame Rabbit?
A Tame Way.
Q How Do Crazy People Go Through The Forest?
A They Take The Psycho Path.
Q What Do You Call a Fly With No Wings?
A Walk.
Q How Do You Get Holy Water?
A You Boil The Hell Out Of It.
Q What Do Fish Say When They Hit a Concrete Wall?
A Dam!
Q What Do Eskimos Get From Sitting On The Ice Too Long?
A Polaroids.
Q What Do You Call a Boomerang That Does Not Work?
A A Stick.
Q What Do You Call Cheese That Is Not Yours?
A Nacho Cheese.
Q What Do You Call Santa's Helpers?
A Subordinate Clauses.
Q What Do You Call Four Bullfighters In Quicksand?
A Quattro Sinko.
Q What Do You Get From a Pampered Cow?
A Spoiled Milk.
Q What Do You Get When You Cross a Snowman With a Vampire?
A Frostbite.
Q What Lies At The Bottom Of The Ocean And Twitches?
A A Nervous Wreck.
Q What Is The Difference Between Roast Beef And Pea Soup?
A Anyone Can Roast Beef.
Q Where Do You Find a Dog With No Legs?
A Right Where You Left Him.
Q Why Do Gorillas Have Big Nostrils?
A Because They Have Big Fingers.
Q Why Is It That Blind People Do Not Like To Skydive?
A Because It Scares The Dog.
Q What Kind Of Coffee Was Served On The Titanic?
A Sanka.
Q What Is The Difference Between a Harley And a Hoover?
A The Location Of The Dirt Bag.
Q Why Did Pilgrim's Pants Always Fall Down?
A Because They Wore Their Belt Buckle On Their Hat.
Q What Is The Biggest Middle Eastern Oxymoron?
A Iraqi Democracy.
Q What Is The Difference Between a Bad Golfer And a Bad Skydiver?
A A Bad Golfer Goes - Whack - Dang! A Bad Skydiver goes - Dang - Whack!
Q How Is a Texas Tornado The Same As a Tennessee Divorce?
A Somebody Is Going To Lose a Trailer.
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Male-ness
by Ted L Glines
In yon days of olde
when men were so bolde,
they ran through the snow
in their shorts,
and pirates swash-buckled
(while I stood and chuckled)
impressing the gals
in the ports,
and men who are swishy
and quite washy-wishy
are scorned with a
thousand retorts,
while there runs a man
R-rated like Pan,
through the forest he romps
and cavorts,
and all the while ... she
is laughing with glee
at that goose-pimpled fool
in his ... shorts.
Pets
by Ted L Glines
You'd love my three
velociraptors
(hatched 'em myself)
they think of me as Mom
always smiling
they love to play
with the salesmen
briefcased kids on bikes
and other snacks
cheap to feed
(have you seen the
Pet-Mart price on
dry velociraptor-food?)
when they get hungry
I invite some politicians
over for dinner
politicians have good taste
lip-smackin' good
dog-catcher dropped in
talking about the leash-law
heh heh heh heh
now we got a new
dog-catcher
stays away from my place
you'd love my pets
and they'd love you
to pieces
| Reviewed by Georg Mateos | 7/6/2007 |
| Ted, some in-laws of mine are heading your way, we have been fattening them for free for a little too long. Have your pets a very nice day! Sending a box of toothpicks. Georg | |
God Loves Chocolate
by Ted L Glines
See there! I knew that title would get your attention.
But, if you insist on humanizing God, then your God would have to crave chocolate. If God dropped in for dinner, you might want to have strawberry shortcake for dessert (God is not on Weight Watchers), and serve it with a chilled glass of original vintage Amontillado.
In our Sunday School version, we have an image of God being a white-bearded old man in a flowing white robe, sitting on a cloud and browsing what He likes to call His Coffee Table Book of Idiots, and He looks a lot like Zeus. He loves you. There is a chapter with your name on it in His book, and He is writing something new in it today (oh oh).
Atheists do not believe in God. No God. No image. No fun at all. Of course, “There is no God,” is a statement which cannot be proved. It is a statement whose time is wasted in the saying, as well as wasting our time in the hearing.
Agnostics escape the issue with a careful “I do not know.” That is safe, but it is not any fun, either. Boring. But the agnostic statement is (at least) truthy. We have been informed, by writings and preachings, that there is a God. But, as far as personal knowledge ...
In many of the ancient beliefs, there does not seem to be any one central and all-powerful God. The Egyptians had many gods like Set, Bubastis, Anubis, etc., each one having a specific set of powers and duties, departmentalized like Godly managers, but quite colorful and ghastly. My favorite was Anubis, the dog with the pointy nose and tall ears, who was their Guardian of the Underworld (that is where you go after you die, and Anubis will see that you behave). The same was true of the Mayans, Celts, Picts, Goths, and the ancient beliefs in tribal Africa and the South Sea islands. Very powerful and colorful demi-gods who might destroy you in life as well as in the after-life. Mostly, these Gods were not cheerful nor uplifting, and a good day was a day when one of them did not drop in for a chat.
But these old belief systems seem to have lacked a central God. This lack was cured by Abraham, patriarch in common for Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. Abraham brought forth a highly humanized central God, a God of love and compassion and jealousy Who was said to be especially interested in the moral welfare of humans. For His sake, we slaughtered pagan infidels where ever we found them, even though this new and better God said “Thou shalt not kill.” There is no truth to the rumor that humans are overly bright.
The origin of Satan is unclear, murky, seeming to have arisen with the Christians since no other religion claims to deify Satan. Even the “Satanists” do not worship Satan. As a demigod, Satan seems to harken back to some of the elder Egyptian demons. And some of the Angels link to Greek images. Religions such as the recent Wiccan beliefs also have deities (Diana, etc.) which appear Grecian in origin, somewhat akin to the Christian Angels, which are a watered-down version of their Greek counterparts. Perhaps it was Moses who came up with the concept of Satan. Or maybe it was Jerry Fallwell.
We see humanization in Hindu deities even though some of them have heads of animals, somewhat like we see in Egyptian demi-gods, except that the Egyptians made no attempt to saddle their deities with human feelings. American Indian demi-gods are animalized (wolf, bear, coyote, etc.) but are given extreme human traits (coyote is the wily trickster). Viking, Roman, and Greek deities, humanized, tended to be dramatically warlike. They had attitude issues. If we cloned Odin and His Valkyries, we could send Him to settle matters in the Middle East (and bring our troops home).
One of my favorite stories is about Arjuna, the warrior who sits at the right hand of the Hindu god, which is told in the Bhagavad Gita - as it is. Arjuna was directed to be victorious in a war where his brothers and uncles were on the opposing side. Arjuna struggled with the idea of having to slaughter his own relatives. This story shows Arjuna finally realizing that his own human priorities had nothing in common with those of God. Interesting. Enlightening, and this drama plays in direct contrast to God as portrayed by Christians.
It strikes me that humanizing God creates a vat full of human misconceptions. On the one hand, you have an all-powerful and omniscient deity, and on the other hand, you weaken Him with all of your human priorities, and you end up with the old white-bearded Zeus-guy sitting on that cloud, making new book-chapters about each of your 6.4 billion earth-neighbors. I guess that works if you wish to think of God as being your personal biographer.
Somehow, this reminds me of a cartoon from many years ago. These eight or ten grinning angels were lined up along the edge of a cloud, looking down and waving, and one of them says, “Say goodbye to southern California!” Think about it.
“God is a jealous God.” Try to imagine God throwing a hissy-fit! Jealousy is one of the worst of human weaknesses. Period. Why would our all-powerful and omniscient God ever have a cause to be jealous of anything? But that is what some people say; the folks who would humanize God.
Maybe I should send this article along to God, to see if He has anything to add or change. Hey, if He can be your biographer, then He can be my editor. Meanwhile, the next time He visits, I will make sure that He gets His chocolate. Wonder if He likes catfish and green tomato relish ...
Sponsors
Internet Flaw
by Ted L Glines
This morning, browsing the member list at Dragon Blue's Poetry, I happened upon Roge124 (A. Charles Roger - The Professor), an assistant manager, and a dear friend. And there was his photo, grinning out of the front seat of his new car. 61 years old. Living in “Schwenksville, United States America” and “Searching for the lost Paradise.” He has not posted anything since 12/29/06 ...
Being deceased does cause a member to be inactive.
Now let us beam forward (thank you, Scotty) one hundred years. Your great-great grand-daughter in Berlin is surfing the memberlist on Dragon Blue's Poetry and she pauses and views with wonderment the profile for Roge124. “Mein Gott, he is 161 years old. Das ist sehr Gutt!”
Maylynn Hughes (DragonBlue) will not remove Roge124 from her memberlist. Neither would I, for we loved The Professor when he was alive, and we would not dishonor his memory by canceling his membership now that he has gone to his “lost Paradise.” The love we feel for him is not trashed that easily.
Meanwhile, MSN (like all Internet Providers) will continue to increment his age one year at a time, forever, and his member profile will continue to portray The Professor as alive and well in “Schwenksville” forever. Your great-great grand-daughter will wonder why he never posts anything. At 161 years of age, he must have a lot to say ...
I have member profiles listed on many Websites, and on a vast number of MSN and Yahoo sites. You probably are listed on many sites, too. I am beginning to wonder, since I am approaching 70 years of age (3+ years away) - how long will I remain “alive and well” on the Internet after I die?
And my own Website (Amnesiac Memoirs) will (theoretically) continue forever since it is a free site. Oh, after I am dead and am no longer paying the tiny annual premium, the site will have a banner ad. But Amnesiac Memoirs will continue to be there, representing me and my works (and some special friends) as “alive and well,” The hit-counter will continue to increment, along with my profile age, people will still be signing my Guestbook, and the music will continue to play on my site's pages in the year 2525 (585 will be the age showing on my profile by then).
Perhaps Internet Providers will someday start sending out emails to their member Website owners - “Are you still alive?” And, if you fail to respond, they may not cancel your Website because of their uncertainty that their email query may have gone to your junkmail. They do not wish to offend you, especially when you are 585 years old. We must show respect for our elders. Terrible situation.
There may be no truth in the rumor that MSN programmers are due to release Windows Beyond, their newest version, which will feature a Hotmail application allowing you to receive e-mails from beyond the grave. With Bill Gates, anything is possible. Even now, some forward-looking mortuaries are offering plush coffins with built-in laptops.
My Mouse is Dead
by Ted L Glines
My mouse is dead
awwww
poor wittle thing
gone to that great
mouse-trap in the sky
my mouse
was more mouse
than other mice
a true visionary
for he was
an optical mouse
not like other
blind mice
he must have seen
his end coming
as he fell and crashed
on the evil glass desk top
!!!!!!!splat!!!!!!!
scrambling all his ones and zeros
his left-click
shall click no more
poor demised mouse
gone but not forgotten
......................
Non-Fat Milk
by Ted L Glines
Being my natural candy-freak-self, yesterday I bought a package of Hershey's Kisses. I love milk chocolate. On opening the package, I found they had included a small packet of their new product, Hershey's Kissables (tiny hard-candy-coated milk chocolate candies shaped like Hershey's Kisses). On the back of this little packet you could read its list of ingredients (providing you had the visual acuity of an electron microscope). I don't, but I have some prowess at squinting.
I will not bore you with the whole list. The first two ingredients (of milk chocolate) will be more than sufficient. The very first ingredient was Non-Fat Milk (hence the title of this miniscule and mindless missive). It was the second ingredient which set me back on my heels; Milk Fat. Yes. That is what it said. Into their gargantuan candy-vat, they pour the mega-gallons of Non-Fat Milk, and then ... and then ... in go the tons of yellow Milk Fat. Uh huh. If this makes any logical sense to you, please do give me a call. As far as I can see, this first portion of their milk chocolate recipe must be the oxymoron of the culinary industry.
Please do not misunderstand. I am no expert in the arena of cooking. I am probably the only person you know who can boil water and have it turn out lumpy. I may be the only person in history who has ever had to clean up the horrendous mess after attempting to hard-boil an egg in the microwave. My chocolate fudge makes some mighty fine chocolate syrup. However, having said all that, it seems to me that when you add milk fat to non-fat milk - you get Whole Milk; the stuff which leaks out of the bottoms of cows.
But, that's just my countrified opinion.
Virtuality
by Ted L Glines
As some of you already know, “Sweet” was written as a special Magick Spell for and about Patty. I am pleased to say that she was taken to surgery and a mass of scar tissue (left from a prior surgery) was removed from her intestines (no re-section necessary). Patty is recovering nicely and (as of our phone conversation last night) is becoming properly grumpy about being poked and prodded in the hospital. She is already walking all over the place, has started a liquid diet, and is telling the pesky nurses (Patty is an ex-Navy nurse) to get outta her face. Patty is tough. She will be outta there in no time!
Meanwhile, I have been taking care of feeding her kids. Kids? Yeppers. Patty has virtual kids; virtual pets on NeoPets.com. They are very colorful (all three of them) and very (virtually) hungry. They must be fed virtual food every day. If you fail to do this virtual care-giving, they each will run the full virtual gamut from “Not Hungry,” to “Hungry,” to “Very Hungry,” to “Famished,” to “Starving,” and then to a never-ending stage of (virtually) “Dying.” Virtual pets never actually die, because they are virtual, not actual (like the virtual food they eat), but it is a powerful guilt trip if you allow your virtual kids to go virtually hungry. You would not be so virtually cruel, would you? I thought not. (That was a virtual thought, there, by golly.)
On NeoPets, you get tons of NeoPoints by winning at your favorite games, and you use these NeoPoints to buy virtual food for your virtual NeoPets. And NeoPets is a vast virtual world where you may explore, have virtual adventures, and (of course) shop for (virtually) anything. My favorite place is Tyrania, full of wild natives and intellectual statements like “Ug!” On the Tyranian Plateau, there are these virtual dinosaurs which lay really huge virtual dinosaur eggs. Due to the virtual heat on the Plateau, these eggs cook into huge virtual omelets (virtual yummers). Pretty cool omelets; egg-and-peas, egg-and-cheese, egg-and-pepperoni ... Once every 24 hours, you can grab an omelet (try to do it more often and the blue sabre-toothed guy will bite you (virtually, of course). I have scores of virtual tooth-marks.
One omelet will provide three virtual snacks to a NeoPet. Hmmm. You know how kids are. How many snacks does it take to fill up a kid? So, the daily virtual omelet is not enough. However (we know there is always a virtual solution), there is this one food shop in Tyrania which sells Ranusaurus Steaks (talkin' gourmet delight, here) for only 606 NeoPoints per steak. Check out your local supermarket and see how many NeoPoints it costs for a Porterhouse Steak! What a deal. What a deal!
So, by early next week when Patty comes home from the hospital, her NeoPet kids will be spoiled plumb silly on their Ranusaurus Steak diet.
You, on the other hand, will be stuck at home (where you are reading this madness), eating hamburger helper. Hey, pop over to my place this next weekend and I'll broil us up some Ranusaurus Steaks with my special virtually tasty Texas bar-b-que spices. Be sure to bring your virtual appetite!
Hair
by Ted L Glines
No way you can tell me our most distant ancestors weren't furry. You ever walked around naked when it was 35 degrees outside? Didn't think so. Surely we had hair, lots of hair, all over our bodies.
So, what happened? All we have now is the hair on our heads and in three other spots. Sure, we have very fine hair, if you can call it that, all over our bodies, but this is useless hair. Some folks make a decoration out of pubic hair, but that's women for you. The underarm fungus merely sells razors and deoderant. The same is true for facial hair, unless you are a hippy or homeless or a religious nut.
Even the hair on our head is useless except for decoration. We act like we need the hair on our head. We dye it, style it, comb and brush it, trim it, and purchase a wig if any of it is missing. But the hair on our head serves no utilitarian purpose. It had a purpose for our early ancestors. They could drag women around by the hair, but that idea is less than popular these days. Our American Indian brothers liked to scalp people. They'd snatch you bald-headed and then tack up your stinky scalp on the wall above their bed. Sort of an early version of American Idol posters. But that idea lost its popularity, too.
Somewhere along the line, it appears we lost our ancestral hair. Some folks believe that we lost our hair because we began wearing clothes. We must have been wearing clothes a long time before the Garden of Eden. Even Adam and Eve were hairless, or they would not have needed to use fig leaves to cover up the good stuff. But there are tribal folks in Africa who still run around naked, and they are just as hairless as you and me. So it is not about wearing clothes.
Maybe it is Intelligent Design. Is it intelligent to have hair that is useless?
When fish first appeared, they had scales. They still have scales today. When lizards and snakes first appeared, they had scales, too, and they still have scales. Then some lizards changed their scales into feathers and they became birds. And birds never lost their feathers. Some of the fish became amphibians and some of them walked on the land and they became mammals. And the mammals had hair instead of scales. Have a look at deer and wolves and cows and ferrets. They still have hair! The hair keeps them warm. Thus far, the design is intelligent.
However, except for useless decorative patches, humans are hairless. Why? Maybe God did it. Pictures of God show the same useless hair, beard included, like Zeus or some homeless guy. Up until now, this hair situation has remained a big mystery.
I think the answer is obvious. We are hairless because we were hairless in the beginning. If we were hairless in the beginning, then we could not have evolved from the mammals. We probably do not belong here at all. We must be aliens from some far distant galaxy and, if we are not careful, we are likely to be evicted.
Dang!
Sponsors
WaterPressure
by Ted L Glines
You folks who like to piddle with psychotic (I mean psychic) phenomena can play with this one. It was a little thing, but wierd.
Last night I was shaving, getting ready to go to work at about 11:20 PM, and the water was running. All of a sudden, with no warning, the water simply quit. Stopped. Kaput. Not a drop. This is a trailer park and I figured some damned fool had pulled out without disconnecting his water line (again). Anyway, I have backup water in gallon jugs for just such emergencies, so I finished shaving and went on to work. I knew the trailer park maintenance guys would have the water fixed in short order.
It was a routine long and boring night at the hotel. I got some stuff done on AuthorsDen, and cleaned out my E-mail, and did a bit of proof-reading. My relief was a few minutes late but she sweet-talked me into grinning about it. These young girls know I'm a pushover for smiles and giggles. When I got back home, it was about 8:30 AM, and the water still was not running. Hmmm, very strange, but not strange enough for the Twilight Zone song, yet.
I knew the rental office would not be open that early but I found someone working in the auto repair shop which is connected to the office. I asked the guy in there what was going on with the water. He knew nothing about any problem. That was odd because there were about ten RVs and trailers connected to that water line. Nobody had complained? Very odd.
On the way, walking back to my trailer, I saw that there were no water lines connected at spaces #9 and #10 (mine is #11 - don't you dare tell the IRS, INS, DEA, CIA, or the cops looking to serve warrants). So I stopped to turn on the mains at those two empty spaces. Plenty of water pressure. So, that meant that the water outage started at my trailer. Why? It's all one straight water line from the front all the way to the end of the RV spaces. If you are at the keyboard, you can begin fading in the Twilight Zone song, but keep it way low in the background.
By 11:00 AM, someone answered the phone in the trailer park rental office. It was Mrs. Eaves' daughter. I asked for Mrs. Eaves but the daughter said, “I'm sorry but she went to the hospital.” Well, out here in the boondocks, a comment like that may lead to 45 minutes of down-n-dirty hospital gossip. That's what I love about this area -- the people are so open and friendly and (OMG) talkative. Even the members of the KKK are friendly. Mostly. Anyway, it turned out that Mrs. Eaves' arthritus medication had been changed. She had a reaction and her kidneys and bladder stopped working, and her lower intestinal tract quit functioning, so she went to the hospital Don't worry (I thought you might be worried), she's okay, in rehab, and is planning to be back at work by Friday. We got through all this in about 20 minutes and I told the daughter that I would be sending a big prayer at Mrs. Eaves. Then I told the daughter about my water problem, and about there being plenty of water pressure at #9 and #10. She thought that was pretty strange but she said she would have someone come right out and check it.
Right about then, I was fixing to get on the computer and whip out an action/thriller story about this guy who is in love with the sheriff”s sister, who gets caught in the middle between the sheriff who is protecting his KKK son because the kid killed a black guy by dragging him behind a pickup truck -- and the sheriff's sister who wants to help her lover find the mysterious killer (this is based on something which happened right here in my county). I was headed toward the computer when Patty called from Kentucky, to tell me all the latest Paducah soap opera (you would not believe). We talked about my water problem, and Patty related the story of her father. His water came from a well, and it stopped. He got the well pump running again, but still no water. He took the pipes apart, and found a mouse in the water line. He'd never heard of anything like that before. Right about there, I said “Oh oh!”
“What?”
“What did your dad do with that mouse?”
“He threw it in the field.”
“No wonder I've got a problem,” I said, “that damned mouse came over here and got in my water pipe!”
“Ted,” she said, “that was twenty years ago.”
“It's a long walk from Kentucky!”
“Think of the cats and owls chasing him!”
“No problemo,” I chuckled, “this is a really BAD mouse! You know, leaping up and down, red-eyed and flat-footed! TEETH!!!”
Don't mind us, Patty and I are known to take any simple thing and turn it into a Hollywood epic. Laughing is our favorite thing.
Before she got off the phone, Patty suggested that I disconnect my water line (hose) from the #11 water main to see if the main had pressure. Well duh ... that's what I love about Patty -- she has such an uncanny grasp of the obvious. Ya gotta hate people like that (if you are not in love with them).
So, there I went with my trusty pliers and managed to get the hose unscrewed enough from the #11 main to see there was plenty of water pressure. If I had been a dog, I would have spent the next few minutes shaking the water off. Still, not a lick of water running inside the trailer. Now I knew I had something really strange on my hands. There is nothing but straight open water pipe between that main and the faucets inside the trailor.
I called the front office and gave the daughter the update. You can fade in the Twilight Zone song to about half volume. Things are getting thick.
The kicker was, about 20 minutes later, when, for no reason at all, the water came on full blast in my trailer. Dee-deedeedee-dee-deedeedee, full volume, Maestro!
Of course, feeling like some kind of a damned fool, I called the daughter and told her my water had turned itself on.
I figure we have a choice here. Either (1) It was necessary for me to hear about Mrs. Eaves' hospital crisis (so I could send her a power prayer), or (2) I've been had by the ghost of super-mouse. Take your pick.
Preacher
by Ted L Glines
poet's lament
We find our "burden" overrated,
never asked nor obligated
not rewarded - compensated,
tis to obscurity we're fated.
Hark - our ego takes a turn
watch it swell - feel it burn,
none but us will e're discern
these matters of our grave concern,
like OrthoRhombic's tumescent flea
on that river - manly glee
yelling "Raise the drawbridge!" repeatedly,
his pride plainer to see than he,
methinks his cries may go unheeded
as life flows by him unimpeded,
his lordly pride's been superceded
as if his "gift" was never needed,
so though our message may seem dire,
we are lonesome as "the crier"
with naught but other poets in our pyre,
we're often only preaching to our choir.
Author's Notes: Dang! You mean no one's gonna dust off their ole trusty sword and run out there leading bannered armies on my cause du jour issues? Hmmph. Imagine that. Back in my 20s (several months ago) , I did take myself too seriously (like OR's flea) and it is embarrasing to remember the tripe I wrote in that crazy hippy time when getting published was a cause unto itself, and the further out in left field you were, the easier it was to be published. I still write tripe, but it's better tripe because it's just for fun ... well ... mostly ... kinda-sorta (drat that flea!) .
AlleyCat
by Ted L Glines
(There is a little bit of lion
in every tabby-cat. Once in a
while, you've got one with a
Napoleon complex...)
She don't want or need to hear
none of that "kitty-kitty-kitty"
hurry and bring that food right here
or this ain't gonna be pretty,
beware her soft and kneading paws
so sweet - you're thinkin wrong
wait'll you feel her teeth and claws
you'll be singin another song,
she's not the weakest thing you've met
to think so is a boner
she ain't no furry toy or pet
and she don't have no owner,
she's be learnin her "roots" ya see
and she knows she's really a lion
so you'd best treat her regally
if you don't wanta go home cryin,
don't be tricked by her cuddly purr
and all her fluffy frills
her innocent look is a food-chain lure
and she purrs before she kills,
lookit her walkin down the street
all sleek and proud and fat
everyone thinkin she's so sweet
my "sabre-tooth" alley cat,
now - what do you think of that,
please reflect
and give respect
to my "killer-mouth" pud-i-tat.
Collections
by Ted L Glines
Cousin Clara passed away,
dead and gone to angel's play,
buried nigh a year ago
but Citibank won't let her go
because of charges that she owes,
as if to give her further woes.
She owed nothing when she died,
she was clear with naught to hide.
I guess in death she dropped her guard
and they renewed her credit card,
and charged a fee for that of course
and would collect it - now by force.
They called me just the other day
saying Clara had to pay
the charges and the lateness fee,
they even tried to threaten me.
I told them they should use their head,
that cousin Clara was long dead,
but Citibank seemed not to care,
she owed the bill - and that was fair.
"But she's dead," I screamed in rage,
"she won't care if you engage
the meanest lawyers in this town,
she won't even give a frown!"
The way they were persisting,
there was no sense resisting,
Clara needed no protection
from this posthumous collection,
so I gave them what they sought;
I gave the address of her plot.
Citibank is trying to this day
to make our long-dead Clara pay,
and somewhere up above the sky,
I know that Clara grins on high.
Author's Notes: Forgive me, Citibank, for using your name in vain. In that final hour, just before you die, you must call all your creditors and inform them that you will henceforth be deceased, and they should desist from adding further charges to your account. Make sure you do that, ya hear! I wrote this for all of you who have been out to the cemetery and probably wondered why there is a post box at the foot of Clara's grave. I empty it on weekends. You ought to see the nasty notices from Sears! (I must thank Ms. Blue for the inspiration which made this poem necessary, which came from a joke she posted on Dragon Blue's Poetry)
Mayor
by Ted L Glines
Small is cool
don't act the fool
or put it down
I love my town
family small -- butt kickin
three old people and a chicken
no votin for Mayor -- ballot-fest
we just take an IQ test
here's the fact and I ain't funnin
it's been the chicken -- three years runnin
Mayor Clucker on parade
we three watchin from the shade
chicken shore does strut her stuff
pass the hooch -- cain't get enough
Mama's cookin -- finger lickin
pass the biscuits -- pass the (*oh oh*)
wipe your mouth and say a prayer
cause we just gobbled up the Mayor
Author's Notes: Dang! Always did say the Mayor had good taste. Small towns have a way of treating politics with pure irreverence. Go into Nana's Family Diner here in New Boston, Texas, any morning between 6:30 AM and 8:00 AM and you'll find yourself in the middle of a gabfest between all the people who govern and run this tiny city. All of them are older folks; Mayor, City Council (persons) , Chamber of Commerce, police and fire chiefs, newspaper editor, all of them grew up here together, dated each other's siblings, got into wild mischiefs together, and have grown gently old together. You'll never hear a political word out of any of them, unless it's lambasting the idiots in Austin or Washington. Most likely the conversation will be about whose granddaughter is dating whose grandson, or about some crazy outsider who's just moved into town. Small towns are that way. Speaking of which, we better put an ad in the paper for a "Chicken with Ambition." Oh, and Patty came up with the title for the poem. She's a keeper.
MiddleEastTourism
by Ted L Glines
Summer time is coming
and you're going on vacation,
you'd like to travel safely
so here's an explanation.
Please enjoy the Arabs,
even with their Jihad look,
cause if they take you hostage,
you can always write a book.
Take delight in Israel,
bask in Abrahamic sights,
but stay away from driving
in those land-mined Golan Heights.
There's a **Special** deal on Baghdad,
those wild Arabian nights,
take your kevlar vest and helmet
in case you're shot by mad Shiites.
A little tip on flying,
though it sounds a bit insane,
if your captain wears a turban,
you should jump right off his plane.
And if you spy Osama
in the Pakistani night,
he'll sure be glad to see you
... don't forget to write ...
Monster
by Ted L Glines
What do we know
about Dracula
or the life of Frankenstein,
we know they killed
were fearsome threats
to everything yours and mine.
We need our monsters
to be unknown
so we can scream in fear,
because if we knew
too much -- too much
we'd offer them a beer.
If Alien was portrayed
sadly suffering
from psychoses and illusion,
we'd have to lay him
on the couch
as fear morphed to confusion.
We hope the Great Cthulhu
stays a frightful threat
from gods who are long dead,
don't tell us how
as a monstrous teen
Cthulhu wet the bed.
I'm not one
to close my heart
or coldly to disparage,
but ... really
I don't need to know
about The Blob's failed marriage.
Monsters must be evil
inhuman -- unknown
awful fiendish wild,
and it won't help
to know Godzilla
had embarrassing pimples as a child.
So leave me alone
with my scary fiend
the unknown fearsome foe,
just let me be
so I'll enjoy
my midnight horror show.
Author's Notes: Like in Mother Goose, there may be some disguised link to current events, as the worst monsters of all stalk the daily news.
Nope
by Ted L Glines
I ain't writin no poem tonight
nothin bout love and nothin bout fright
just gonna have a darned fine night
vegetatin in the soft moon light.
Jus for one night -- don't care bout love
don't wanna write bout the heaven above
don't want fiends or a lil white dove
no rhymes which fit like a lady's glove.
Ain't writin no poem and you can't make me
don't give a hoot if the muse foresakes me
gimme a beer and heaven take me
trippin til the dawn decides to wake me.
Ain't gonna write no songs or rap
no rhythms to make you dance and tap
jus gonna dream and take a nap
and someone else can make you clap.
I may be a fool and I might be a dope
but I need some rest to give me scope
don't ask for a poem -- don't even hope
I got one word and that word is "Nope!"
Author's Notes: Hmmm ... a poem about refusing to write a poem. Might be a contender in an oxymoron contest. Ya think?
Postal
by Ted L Glines
Out and beyond the coast so rocky,
came a wild-eyed pilot -- a UFO jockey,
his craft like a sphere -- it needed no wings,
its cone of power did all of those things,
with laser thrust from its ruby heart,
an Arcturus-engineered work of art.
But our pilot was fearing somewhat for his health,
wishing his ship was designed for stealth,
these earth people chasing him with their planes,
he wanted to be in safer star lanes,
but his job it was to deliver the mail,
without getting splashed or landing in jail.
He looked at tutorials -- scanned all his maps,
to find the address -- avoid all the traps,
this promised to be a triple mind-bender,
and he might have to scribble "Return to Sender."
As he departed this area coastal,
he pondered the merits of going postal,
and inside his ship -- this flying miracle,
his comments were certainly less than lyrical.
At the very last moment he spotted your place,
dropped off your letter and climbed into space.
Plain it was junk mail -- obviously,
should you toss it away or pause to see?
You opened it up -- expecting jingles,
instead -- an ad -- for Arcturian Singles.
Author's Notes: "Neither rain nor black holes nor Haley's Comet shall get in the way of the Universal Systems Postal Service (USPS) ," dedicated, as ever, to delivering junk mail. We should be proud. It was not that many years ago, in history, that we had no contact nor knowledge of the mysterious Orient. Then Marco Polo went there, followed by some other hippies, and Donald Trump. End result: Toyotas, outsourcing, and ads about Asian Singles. And now our best minds are venturing into the mysterious and unknown universe. Let this visionary poem be a warning to you. But then, you might be turned on by the Great Cthulhu's daughter ...
Just so you'll know, the Great Cthulhu's daughter is quite a looker. Great legs (all 8 of them).
I had a friend. He was a clothing designer. They carted him off to the funny farm. He'd been
trying to design some sexy thongs for her (8 legs - 8 crotches - no buns).
Terrible situation.
Remind me to apologize to H.P. Lovecraft for that one.
He won't mind, though. Just before Lovecraft died, he was thinking of branching out
and doing steamy romance novels. Monsters like to have fun, too, ya know.
Don't believe it? Read Christine Feehan's Dark Series. Whoa! Awesome writer!
Qualified
by Ted L Glines
How do we know the qualifications,
experience background and skill,
of the folks with high vocations
for the positions which they fill?
Leave it to CNN - Lou Dobbs late at night,
to sort the truth from all the lies,
expose the dirt - increase your fright
and point out all the scandal ties.
Recently on a one-ay-em show,
a famous surgeon took the chair,
just how much did he really know,
and where did he get his skill and flair?
Could be Harvard Medical School
or maybe M*A*S*H in the field,
he surely did not look the fool,
his secrets now would be revealed.
His operations were quite well known,
like the Pres's prefrontal lobotomy
and (we got this on the phone)
his followup amygdalotomy.
The question now was when and where
did all that skill come from,
could he show proof to clear the air,
or was he just a bum?
Lou Dobbs says, "Tell me, I pray,
can you show proof to shed some light?"
"No, but I can prove that I stayed
at a Holiday Inn Express last night!"
Author's Notes: If you got the punch line, you watch far too much TV and you should stop it right now. For those who may not know, a "prefrontal lobotomy" is a surgical proceedure where a small amount of tissue is removed from the brain's prefrontal lobe, thus rendering the victim (erm, patient) completely without volitional memory. It was experimental in the 1960s and the "subjects" were criminals incarcerated for seriously violent crimes. It was quite interesting to see an ex-serial killer being retaught how to eat and go potty. And the "amygdalotomy" removes brain portions which respond to external stimulii. If the Pres had both of these proceedures done, perhaps that explains the state of the nation today (*Secret Service is gonna get me for sure, now!*) .
Gentle viewer, I have this very dear maniacal buddy
who sends me the very best in outrageous
e-mails!
Here's the Latest:
do we press harder on a remote control when we know the batteries are getting dead?
Why do banks charge a fee on "insufficient funds" when they know there is not enough money?
Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, but check when you say the paint is wet?
Why doesn't glue stick to the bottle?
Why do they use sterilized needles for death by lethal injection?
Why doesn't Tarzan have a beard?
Why does Superman stop bullets with his chest, but ducks when you throw a revolver at him?
Why do Kamikaze pilots wear helmets?
Whose idea was it to put an "S" in the word "lisp"?
If people evolved from apes, why are there still apes?
Why is it that no matter what color bubble bath you use the bubbles are always white?
Is there ever a day that mattresses are not on sale?
Why do people constantly return to the refrigerator with hopes that something new to eat will have materialized?
Why do people keep running over a string a dozen times with their vacuum cleaner, then reach down, pick it up, examine it, then put it down to give the vacuum one more chance?
Why is it that no plastic bag will open from the end on your first try?
How do those dead bugs get into those enclosed light fixtures?
When we are in the supermarket and someone rams our ankle with a shopping cart then apologizes for doing so, why do we say, "It's all right?" Well, it isn't all right, so why don't we say, "That hurt, you stupid idiot?"
Why is it that whenever you attempt to catch something that's falling off the table you always manage to knock something else over?
In winter why do we try to keep the house as warm as it was in summer when we complained about the heat?
How come you never hear father-in-law jokes?
And my FAVORITE......
The statistics on sanity are that one out of every four persons is suffering from some sort of mental illness. Think of your three best friends -- if they're okay, then it's you.
Sex
by Ted L Glines
who're we kidding with our high class act
we're all sex fiends and that's a fact
we'll screw anything that's looking good
just lay it down - that's understood
so what're these holy platitudes
our nose-in-the-air moral attitudes
don't mean a thing to the fire of youth
when the scent of sex is the only truth
where a winking eye and a stolen kiss
behind closed doors - orgasmic bliss
while out in the world in the light of day
we pray our "sins" will vanish away
and churchy folks with begetting habits
infest our world with morals of rabbits
by the look in your eye and your pelvic motion
I see you're beginning to get the notion
in order to not be nervous wrecks
let's raise a cheer 'cause we all love sex!
Author's Notes: Too sexy for my poem. Hey, how do you think we managed to become 6.4 billion people? Not from platonic friendships! Ya gotta love those birds-n-bees!