What Happened To My Country???

What happened to my country?? Like so many of my ‘baby boomer’ brethren, I went and fought in a useless war, and then those of us who made it back, then worked hard to make a living, pay our taxes and raise our children to respect our history, sacrifices, and flag. Now multi millionaire prima donnas are staging ludicrous demonstrations in the belief it is going to make our country a better place for accommodating the violent and lawless elements of our society. Well, there are a number of bad elements out there infecting our politics, police, corporations ,and yes, among all the racial stratums of our culture. Our laws once dealt with these issues. Sadly, our system is now corroded with political correctness and racial bias propagated by the media and far left, while the right sits back throwing verbal stones while doing nothing. What has happened to my country??

I have no faith in either of the presidential candidates in leading, much less solving these problems. One candidate is shrouded in veils of corruption, deceit and secrecy….while the other is more concerned in being measured for his throne once he is elected. What has happened to my country??

Well, at my age, my meter will soon expire and once they ticket my big toe and tow my chassis away, I’ll be able to gasp that even though my country was never perfect in my youth, it was far from being the lumbering tragedy it is becoming today. What has happened to my country??



First, the prologue….

When we moved into our house we found that the previous owners had left a lot of junk down in the ‘half’ finished basement. Among the items were paint cans, moldy National Geographic’s and four gigantic rat traps! My Dad did not seem to deal very well with the possibility that we may have rats the size of smoked hams. Half the basement was well constructed with a concrete floor and brick walls. The other half was still unfinished earth, spider webs and of course, large yellow rat eyes peering out at you from every corner! This part of the basement was creepy.
Because the summer temperatures topped out in the high 90’s, Mom had Dad put in one of those little swinging doors on the bottom of the basement door for my dog Chiggers to come through and get out of the heat during the day. Dad was hoping Chiggers was a rat killer….end of prologue.

Every year, Mom used to put out a serious bean garden every year. Always a good size one and from it she canned enough green beans for the winter not only for us, but most of the neighbors and the National Guard as well. But it was a pain going out and watering it everyday.
Now, Dad had episodes of genius just about every week or so when he and Mom went down to the VFW for shrimp and beer night. Most times, Mom just told him to put the beer down and took him home, but one time he made some sense! He wanted to make it easier for Mom to get her garden watered, so he decided to punch a small hole through the basement wall and connect an old water hose to the drain hose on Mom’s washing machine down there and run the hose down to the garden. That way, each time she washed clothes, the garden would get watered from the drain off. Dad lived for moments like this.
Saturday afternoon…..Dad got a big hammer and a stone chisel and went outside behind the house and measured off where the washing machine would be on the other side of the brick wall. Finding what he believed was the right spot he commence to pounding. In the cool basement, relaxing, was Chiggers. When the pounding started, that poor dog went nuts! Seemed like the entire basement was coming apart. Chiggers ran around whining and trembling in the dark basement while Dad did his thing on the outside. After about ten minutes, Dad had finally punched a small hole through the wall. He then reached through the hole pushing the loose masonry out to the other side. At one point, he pushed his hand clean through to the other side.
Chiggers was a mess by now. The poor animal was running around in circles and pissing all over the concrete floor. Then Chiggers saw something digging it’s way through the wall next to the washing machine. That’s when he really lost it! The dog ran and leaped through the air and clamped down on Dad’s hand with a ‘Vulcan Death Grip‘! On the outside of the wall Dad screamed! “Holy shit!! A rat’s got me by the hand!!!” I’m upstairs watching TV and don’t hear Dad. Mom’s on the phone with her sister jabbering away and she don’t hear Dad either. But our next door neighbor, Mr. Benze, does and comes running over to Dad’s aid. “What’s wrong Sam?” Mr. Benze shouted as he watched Dad twist and kick his legs in all directions.
“A damn big ass rat has me by the hand!!”
Mr. Benze jumps back like he thinks the rat’s going to gnaw it’s way through Dad and then come after him! “What do you want me to do, Sam?”
“Go in the damn basement and beat it off my hand for Christ sakes!” Dad cried.
Mr. Benze ran to the basement door and cautiously opened it. “Hurry Benze, before the vermin chews it to a stump!” Mr. Benze went into the dark basement and looked towards the corner where all the commotion was. It was dark and cluttered and he had to strain to see.
“My God, Sam!!” cried Mr. Benze. “Your dog’s in here and he’s in the corner of the basement fighting with the rat!!!”
My Dad then shouted, “Get em Chiggers! Tear em up boy!!” At that, my dog bit down harder on my Dad’s hand and this caused my Dad to start screaming like a sissy on a roller coaster. A few moments later Chiggers’ ears perked up. He could hear the ice cream truck coming up the street and chasing that truck held a priority over any basement varmints. Chiggers let go of Dad’s hand and ran out from the dark corner of the basement and then between Mr. Bentz’s legs and out the open door racing around to the front of the house and out to the street to wait for the ice cream truck. Dad jerked his injured hand out of the hole in the wall and collapsed as Mr. Benze came running out of the basement.
“Your dog took off after it,” said Mr. Benze. “Couldn’t quiet make out what it was with everything happening so quick.” Dad just sat and moaned.

Now the epilogue……

Several things happened later that summer, concerning the events I have written about. Dad got more than his share of free beers at the VFW by the retelling of the rogue rat attack. Then Mom’s entire garden died the first time the washing machine drained wash water that contained bleach, and last of all, Chiggers got premium nothing but premium butcher bones all summer……what a hero.


The Tree OF Life

The tree of life has many branches, all interconnected to a trunk of experiences which grows from a fertile foundation of values and guidance. We drag our butts along a number of these branches, during our lifetime, in search of the fruits of wisdom and the hard nuts of reality. Many are rewarded with the blossoms of happiness, while others fall prey to the squirrels of misery. So goes life.

At my age, I find that each day is just too short for all the things I want to ponder. The variety of books I still want to read, the many words to share with friends, all the thoughts I need to write down and all the rainbows I want to see. When you’re young, your procrastizine gland, which surrounds the anal sphincter, is constantly active and tells the mind that you have your entire life to find whatever the hell it is you’re looking for. Then one day, that gland wears out and you’ve crapped away your entire life!

First off, I’m not so naïve as to think a mentally balanced person will ever find the meaning of life, because the harder you try, the more depressed and confused you’ll be. Fact is, life is pretty much a dream to the wise, a holding pattern for the faithful, a circus to the rich and a friggin tragedy for the poor. It’s always complicated by politicians, theologians, philosophers and the idiots at the DMV. These people are all driven by agendas and self endorsed importance. Life is really simple, but humans, with their advanced brains, insist on making it convoluted, or worst of all, unlivable.

At some point, in our individual lives, when our life warranty is close to expiring, we finally see life for what it is. The sun comes up and then it goes down. People are born and then they die. So my basic philosophy is; always hold your loved one close for it will only last a lifetime, you should always fill what’s empty and empty what’s full and then finally scratch where it itches. Life was never meant to be complicated….unless you’re a teenager.



This may come as a shock to Wifey and the dog…..but, I’m not perfect! Nope. As a matter of fact, I believe that I have more foibles that most people who are not institutionalized. I have tended to dwell in mediocrity for most of my life, but fortunately my offspring were able to repel those negative genes during the first micro moments of conception and they developed untarnished. Now, please don’t think I’m bearing a pathetic soul in order to garnish sympathy from the occasional reader. I have recognized and even embraced my short comings as part of my identity and demeanor. It is who I am, and from that I gain strength.

I have three primary weaknesses and 1,326 secondary weaknesses. I shall blog on the three primaries and save the secondaries for a book. I have had a lifelong love affair with bacon, butter and beer. First of all, when God gave man bacon, it was a peace offering because of the first global warming thingy that caused the Great Flood which whacked out all of mankind, saving only Noah, his crew, the petting zoo and the OMG Ark. To this day, every time I consume a crisp strip of the divine pork belly, I show adoration by declaring, “Oh my God, that’s friggin good!” The second, butter, has also been my nemesis. There are only three items on this planet that butter can’t enhanced the flavor of….sushi, goat fur and bat anuses. I cook with it, put it on all warm food, and up until 1998, I used it in carnal experimentation.

Now, I come to my third and final weakness….beer. First, let me issue a disclaimer to the temperance members by saying that I only enjoy beer when I drink it and not at any other time. I never drink beer in the morning, as it gives my bacon an odd taste, but it is totally acceptable when having last nights bacon pizza for breakfast. I enjoy beer when I go out, like to restaurants, friend’s homes or out to the mailbox. I never, ever drink and drive, now that Wifey’s retired and can drive me around. Sunday football with bacon pizza…..hot buttered popcorn……beer…..yep, life is friggin good!

As I said, I’m not perfect. I have my shortcomings, but I also have my plusses. I want to be remembered for the fact that I sometimes shared my beer and even gave out baggies loaded with of my famous Mac & Cheese & Bacon casserole, topped with buttered croutons. Also, when I drove, I braked for all squirrels and most teens. I tipped well at Hooters, I didn’t chase after whatever it was that men chased after in my youth, and I never peed in the shower….on purpose. My philosophy…..if the glass is half empty, then the barkeeps pissed about the tip.


How To Tell Your Wife When She’s Wrong


The easiest way to tell your wife when she’s wrong, is in a secluded corner of your backyard where no one, especially she, can hear you. The repercussions can often be astounding! However, in the predawn era of our long marriage, I often analyzed Wifey’s missteps and pointed out her misjudgments and slipups. She was often respectfully silent during these orations as if she were mentally recording the event for future playback. I was never demeaning or disrespectful of her goof-ups, just ‘hard love’ honest.

Into the second decade of our married bliss, whenever I critiqued certain actions on her part, I was often required to give verbal evidence, in detail, of my conclusions as if I were standing before the Supreme Court of the land and all the justices were angry women with contagious menopause. Wifey started to become more and more confrontational with me during those times as if her good judgment seemed to be sucked into a swilling black hole in her cerebral cortex. As she plunged into her 50’s, whenever I would tell her she was wrong about anything, it was like mud wrestling with a shaved grizzly bear high on bovine hormones…..I didn’t stand a chance.

Nowadays, with several decades behind us, we now have an unspoken understanding that I keep my unwarranted criticisms to myself, and in the improbable event that she may be wrong, then it’s my fault for not intervening and preventing her judgmental debacle. On those occasions, I usually apologize for her mistake and promise not to let it happen again. All very confusing for an old guy my age, but makes perfect sense to her. Seems she’s always right, even about being wrong. That statement just hurt my brain.

All and all, before stepping forward to regulate her misjudgment on a matter, I will spend several days in deep meditation before doing so before comprehending how I will approach the matter, and by the time I do, she can’t remember the circumstance anyway and acts like I have vindictive dementia and reminds me to go take my meds. Fact is, Wifey’s blameless mind is a lot like a hotel bed….it gets changed all the time.