Archive for the ‘Ha!’ Category
I don’t care what that website says, from now on, my dear dracaena, you’re just another member of the household staff. No more being mollycoddled with bottled spring water. Drink tapwater with the rest of us.
In fact, you should feel guilty for creating so much waste, those bottles going into the recycling bin and then, as it turns out, low oil prices make virgin plastic cheaper than recycled anyway. You’re supposed to be transforming carbon dioxide and light into oxygen. You weren’t put in this earth to create garbage.
Don’t ask any special favors regarding the tapwater from now on. I’m not setting it out in a container for twenty-four hours so the chlorine will settle, as the blogs suggest. This isn’t a distillery. Besides, due to the excellent water quality here–“…some of the best-tasting drinking water in the world,” according to the Mission Springs Water District–there’s little need to chlorinate.
And your tapwater will be dispensed from the usual gooseneck vessel. Your loss of bottled spring water will not be compensated by my inclining a crystal pitcher over your root mass.
If you want to chirp about it, remember when you were rootbound. You looked like Madeleine Albright, except I won’t let you color your hair.
Absolument, stasis. I bought you a nice large pot, fourteen inches in diameter, much roomier, like adding a second bedroom. And that new bag of nourishing soil wasn’t exactly the cheapest on offer, it was mid-grade. If you want, I could dig through household receipts just to prove I didn’t get out of the garden department for under $60 on the repotting project.
This isn’t even to mention the stinky fish emulsion fertilizer that came along later. Nor the cork spacer between the pot and carpet.
The investment in you equals bringing home a puppy.
Think how you make the outside plants and shrubs feel. They see you preening right there by the sliding glass door to the patio, noting how you’re attended, and say, “Hey, all we get is a hose splash.”
Know what they’ve been collecting? Grey Poupon empties thrown from passing Rolls-Royces. They’re drilling a hole in the bottom of each and stringing them together, a garland for you.
You don’t like it, I’m saying right now, potted palms are on sale, and plenty are looking for fourteen inches to call their own.
South Haven, Mich.—At breakfast this morning in Captain Nemo’s restaurant, I overheard the talk of two men, one of whom had already distinguished himself by saying, “You can use every bit of a hog but the squeal.” In fact, he did most of the talking. But late in the session, the other one listed his pet peeves:
- Socks with open-toe sandals
- Low-powered motor scooters on the highway
- Motorcycles towing trailers (“If you need that much shit, get a convertible.”)
Then he told of the ultimate. He had seen a low-powered motor scooter going 30 mph on the highway, towing a trailer, and the rider wore sandals and socks.
The every-bit-of-the-hog-but-the-squeal man said, “Did you hit him?”
Maybe time to check some cold case files?
Winnowing out the Rolodex could mean the end of something, but I don’t know what (and maybe don’t care)
Story and photo by Ronald Ahrens
Every so often, I weed out my Rolodex.
The reason I still have a Rolodex is because of stapling business cards onto the blanks, a good way to match logos with name-o’s.
I first saw this Mandarin system on the desk of Jean Jennings.
Blank cards are getting hard to find. For example, the last bunch came not from a store shelf but the Internet.
And now I’ve run out.
As I look for my doctor’s card, I see the name of a garden tractor salesman from seven years ago at a Pennsylvania flea market. Not that I wouldn’t love to go back. Or the local bartender who offered to wash my windows.
In the photo, you see I selected some to be set aflame (using kerosene, or maybe just the plastic coatings, as an accelerant) and then to be run over by a steamroller.
Reasons for deletion:
- You moved on, were fired, became disabused of all notions, went on permanent vacay, moldered, retired, drank hemlock with Socrates, called it a day, or otherwise died
- You never phoned or treated me to lunch, you didn’t pay up, you must be kidding
- You had a sex change
- You’re on e-mail, on the Internet, on a bathroom wall, or you posted a card on the hardware store’s bulletin board
- We will never work together again because you over-edit
- You dangle modifiers
- You don’t know that prepositions take objects, even when compounded (for him and me, for crissakes, not “for he and I”)
- I can’t remember how we met
- I never believed you worked there
- Comb your hair and brush your teeth!
- When I asked if you wouldn’t mind picking up the tip (or else I would’ve had to use my credit card), and you were embarrassed, and said your wallet was in your car because you’d slammed on the brakes and it had slid from your purse—you’re Type A, you drive like a demon, and your car is a leased Mercedes even though you rent a room in Palm Desert—yes, that’s right, when you flounced back in through the wine bar’s front door in your frilly purple minidress and blonde-white hair and heavy make-up, I glimpsed you and wondered how a whore had gotten into such a nice place
- You drive a hybrid and like to talk about motorcycle accidents
Mr. Elon Musk
Dear Sir: –
Before the nurses change my bandages again, and while I still have lithium residue in my lungs, I will oh-so-calmly tell you what a dandy car you make. Even before the early fireworks show in WeHo, I have drove Teslas exclusively when I could get away with one. For sustained mashugana and wide dismemberment, the Model S has got ever other car skinned. Even if my business hasen’t been strickly legal, it don’t hurt anything to tell you, no matter what the range indicator said, that I truly believe we could have outrun those coppers clear to San Berdoo in the Model S.
Champe Barrow, indireck relation to Clyde
The yellow Tern Verge bicycle first caught my attention, then his craggy grin. He was tall, wild looking, with a woolly jaw. The bike was a $2000 beauty, yellow and black, like a meadowlark. He wouldn’t let me take a picture, saying I could get one on the Internet. He suggested I buy a Tern Verge for myself, dismissing my assertion that I have a bicycle. This one folds up, he blithely pointed out, and it has a 30-speed drivetrain.
“It’s fast,” he said. “I can get to La Quinta in an hour and a half—faster than the bus.”
Then he started about putting rockets on it, yes, here on either side of the seat post, and making his own hydrogen fuel, flying away, and landing on the flat roof of the house, which is covered with solar panels. Houses will soon be clad with solar skin, you know.
“We have all this technology now, but the big oil companies don’t want us to use it.”
He followed me into Von’s, pushing the bike along, and when he waved his right arm in making a point about 3-D printers, which allow you to make this very bicycle in your own home, the automatic doors reopened behind him. We advanced further into the store. Too far, actually. He had now transitioned to stem cell therapy. We don’t need doctors any longer. We can do it all ourselves: teeth, hair, hydrogen assist for people with wonky limbs. The VA is sending you out on your own. Obamacare? Useless.
I made a getaway, later thinking I should’ve asked his opinion of orgone therapy. celiac disease, electric cars. And whether someday his picture will be taken without his knowledge.
When I checked out, the cashier said he’s a regular, and she laughed when I rolled my eyes. He was standing at the end of Aisle Two, having accosted today’s lucky shopper.
At the aisle five checkstand, I placed two cans of Foster’s beer on the belt and stood there daydreaming as the guy ahead, a combo Munchkin-troll, completed his transaction.
“Izzatgudbr?” he said to me.
“What was that?”
I still hadn’t understood, so he extended his left hand and hoisted one of the blue, gold, and red cans. “Izzatgudbr?” he repeated, no more plainly but with an increase of vehemence.
The gesture helped to clarify.
“Yes, very good.” Trying to be useful, I added that I buy it regularly.
This was the type of sparky situation you might end up hearing about in the news: Troll Arrested After Grocery Store Rumble Grievously Gores Goading Goofball. Despite my desire to please with a dandy answer, I was mildly offended at his grabbing the beer; he was more than mildly offended at not being understood. Additionally, for me, a modicum of shame attends the public purchase of alcohol. Please, no evaluation or questions. I averted my eyes.
The troll turned to the cashier, a big, hefty fellow with a ruddy, sympathetic face.
“I was speaking English,” the troll said.
The cashier wanted to stay out of this one.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t understand.”
The troll fumed some more until change was dispensed, and then left abruptly.
Now I stepped before the cashier. “Next time someone asks about my beer, I’m going to say he should spend two dollars to find out for himself.”
He replied, “Or just, ‘Piss off!'”