Male Mosquitoes

“Look at that male mosquito,” says my female co-worker at Amalgamated Monster. “It’s big, flimsy, clumsy, too stupid to get out of its own way.”

“Yeah,” I reply, because I can’t think of anything else to say.

She looks at me and then at the mosquito. “Typical male,” she says.

It didn’t used to be this way!

I remember my father, Horatio Hauser, and my grandfather, Hornblower Hauser. These were what used to be called, men’s men. They were like lions, whose single growl brought the whole family to attention, and whose roar made the mountains tremble (warning – possible hyperbole in the last sentence.)

Now a man’s man is just another term for gay.

TV programs were full of men’s men. There was Matt Dillon, Daniel Boone, Joe Friday, Paladin. Bonanza had four of them in one program. Manliness was so prevalent that even sit-coms frequently dispensed with mothers in shows like Bachelor Father, Family Affair, My Three Sons, The Courtship of Eddie’s Father… oh, and Bonanza again.

If we had a show named Father Knows Best today, it would be meant ironically.

What happened?

We can look at the easy answers – the woman’s movement, easy living, Dr. Spock (maybe even Mr. Spock,) but I think it’s not a social change – it’s an evolutionary one…

Our human race is transitioning from mammal, to insect. Guys are typically referred to as slugs, while women are busy bees.

You know what happens to male bees after mating don’t you? Or even worse, what happens to preying mantises.

Pray we don’t evolve into them.

You don’t believe me? Twenty years ago, people didn't buzz Now try sitting through a movie or even a wedding without hearing somebody’s cell phone vibrate.

It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for what was happening in the insect world. More and more species are evolving to reproduce without male involvement. There’s even an insect in Brazil where the females are growing their own euphemisms.

What’s the answer mankind (as opposed to humankind?) Tim Taylor tried expressing his manliness with grunting, growling and scratching himself. He just became an object of ridicule.

Last weekend I wandered up to the wilderness and tried to join a wolf pack. At first they welcomed me, but they got tired of waiting for me to tie my shoes when we went on the prowl, and when I snuck out a Pop Tart during the evening raw rabbit feed, they all looked at me as if to say – really?

So instead I sit at my work station at Amalgamated Monster, watching the stupid male mosquito bounce himself against the flickering florescent light, hearing the misandrist comments of my female co-workers.

And I wonder how long it will take for the great evolutionary bug zapper of history to end our existence.

Until then – I’m through dating. No sense rushing things along.

Four videos in this post!  Four!  Talk about extra value!

The Twinkie, Camera-phone, Cannabis, Corporate, Costume Crisis

If you see the Mayor of NYC (politically aware, insert name here______,) presenting a medal to the,Apollo Global Management and C. Dean Metropoulos and Company you might feel confused. I’m here to straighten out the story for you.

The new Twinkie saved the day, but the roots of this perfect storm go back two decades.

Years ago, the out-of-towner toured the city taking pictures of the sights with an ancient device that was called by the primitives – a camera. The tourist wanted to have pictures that showed him in front of Rockefeller Center or the Empire State Building. The standard practice was to first ask a friendly local to take their picture then second, go to the local stores to buy a replacement for the camera that the friendly local pocketed while the out-of-towner was posing in front of Rockefeller Center or the Empire State Building. These local stores had a wide selection of moderately priced cameras that had been meticulously restored to new condition after being stolen from out-of-towners weeks before.

Phone selfies put a dent into this lucrative trade. The city was losing money in the important non-violent crime sector of the municipal economy. They passed a law that required people who wanted to drink a lot of soda to buy two over-priced mediums instead of one large, but that only partially filled the revenue gap.

Then one day, an out-of-work camera snatcher inadvertently stole a costume. There’s some argument over whether the costume was the Statue of Liberty, Snoopy, or Kato Kaelin, (a famous fellow in the 90s, but no one can recall why.) The struggling replacement camera stores (where he habitually sold his goods,) had no need for the costume, and it was a cold day, so he wore it home.

“Look, Daddy,” said the child of an out-of-towner, “it’s the Statue of Liberty, Snoopy, or that weird guy that’s famous for something!”

“It surely is,” said the out-of-towner father. “Would you mind if I take a picture of you with my daughter?”

The out-of-work camera thief gave the out-of-towner the finger, but as the costume hand-coverings were mittens, it looked like a cheery wave. The picture was shot before the thief could utter his customary, “F__K O_F!” (Not sure if I needed to blank that third letter.)

“Here’s five dollars and my thanks for making my daughter’s trip so memorable,” said the out-of-towner so politely that he was clearly from Utah.

And so a new industry began – one that helped the city maintain a certain degree of equilibrium until the election of 2012. It was then that the non-violent crime sector of the municipal economy took another serious blow – pot became legal in Colorado and Washington State.

The legal growing costs in Aspen dropped so far below the illegal growing costs in the Bronx, that the local dealers ignored the mayor’s “Buy Local” campaign and ordered their product from out-of-towners.

The local growers, still dealing with the temporary cessation of the availability of (yes, you guessed it,) Twinkies, girded up their birkenstocks and searched the city to find someone to pay for their pain.

With blood in their eyes, (from anger or smoke - not sure,) they hunted for out-of-towners.

“Look, Daddy,” said the daughter of an out-of-towner, “It’s the ghost of Jerry Garcia!”

And hence, a new segment of non-violent criminals moved into the costumed picture racket.

Unfortunately, there is not a happy ending here. The public thorough-fares became glutted with bulky Blues (both from Blue’s Clues and from Rio,) in visually-impairing, and identity-obscuring Dacron. Out-of-work actors – though they didn’t carry cards from Non-Violent Criminals local 22, donned costumes as well. Out-of-towners feared for their lives as waves of animated characters stampeded over street people and Hari Krishnas to get to them. To add to the confusion, Disney lawyers hired members of Violent Criminals local 16 to mug and maul any costumed racketeer they found in Dumbo, Peter Pan, or Snow White costumes.

Colorful, creepy, caustic, cataclysmic, crudity ensued - in short – a riot that threatened not only the downtown, but all tourism in the greater metropolitan area.

Several members of a flash mob, who thought it might be fun to show up outside the Today Show window in Buzz Lightyear costumes, were beaten mercilessly by at least three different factions.

A single golden snack cake was all it took to calm everything down.

And so, a grateful mayor toasts Apollo Global Management and C. Dean Metropoulos and Company with a 16 ounce soda in each hand. If Twinkies (now fortified with quaaludes and a sprinkling of  Bronx’s finest herb) had not returned, the city, as we have known it, might be nothing but a distant and drug-hazed memory.

Today's video is truly - Just Plain Stupid.

Puns – Are You the 1 Percent?

Let’s face it – 99% of the world hates puns (or at least claims to.)  That’s the reason I didn’t use a cutesy title to this post using a word that begins with p.u.n. like punnish, punctuation, punitive, pungacious (pugnacious…)  My favorite is P.U. No more puns, please.
The point is that I didn’t use a pun in the title as a public service to the 99% that (at least claim,) don’t like puns.
I’ll bet a few of you spent time looking for a pun in the title, and maybe I’ll even get a few emails pointing them out.
Anyway, I (claim to) belong to the 99% and so the following puns are not mine, but have been forced upon me by my FB friends.
I don’t want to see these again – I’m leaving.  You 1%’ers, turn the lights out when you leave.

This guy claims to have started several awkward conversations with puns.  I can buy that.

A Treatise (hee-hee, sounds dirty) on Scottish Separatism

As I post my blog today, people in Scotland are voting. They’re deciding if they wish to break away from England and become an independent nation.

I know this because I was at somebody’s house last night that listens to all that brainy stuff instead of re-runs of F-Troop.

You gotta love F-Troop. Agarn got all the credit, but Captain Parmenter had some really funny bits. It’s a shame they just had that guy sitting on a chair all the time in Momma’s Family. What a waste of creative clumsiness!

But back to Scotland and today’s vote.

I was reassured to hear that they aren’t suggesting breaking the island of Britain at the river Tweed. Having a floating country – even a small one like Scotland might raise havoc in the Atlantic. Imagine water-skiing off Daytona and then getting tripped up by a Hebride Island.

That actually might be a funny bit if the Captain Parmenter guy did that.

Anyway, nobody is suggesting doing anything to the land – it’s just politics. I’ve given the matter some serious thought (or at least I’ve been pretending to,) and I’ve decided that if I were voting today; I would vote yes. I have, (or will have once I think of them,) three reasons for voting aye (that’s Scottish for yes – and Mrs. Chapeau, my 9^th grade French teacher told me I was no good at languages.)

Reason Number One:

More jobs! Think of all the maps and globes across the world where England and Scotland are painted the same color (usually a pinkish salmon that makes me think of the word salmonella – a good reason to avoid British food.) Tens, if not more people will be employed to either create new maps and globes, or to bring paint pots to Libraries, High Schools, Universities, and the UN to color that wee (another word in Scottish,) area north of York, fuchsia, or maybe mauve.

Careful not to paint Quebec; it’s north of NEW York (and they have their own separatist movement – tell me that's a coincidence!)

Reason Number Two:

Public decorum.

The queen will finally be able to tell Prince Charles to stop wearing that stupid skirt! You’re German, Chuck – not Scottish. Even your Celtic title – Prince of Wales, has nothing to do with male skirt-wearing.

I don’t care what Ludmilla Parker Overbite says; nobody wants to see your legs!

Reason Number Three:

Dang it – I have no reason number three. (Politics, not to mention formal essay writing is a foreign to me as haggis – ANOTHER Scottish word!) Mr. Erudite, my 11^th grade English teacher would be so ashamed.

Oh! – how about how Sergeant O’Rourke would like it? No, he was Irish. It’ll come to me…

Maybe not.

If you can think of a reason number three that would give joy to all who read this blog (not to mention Mr. Erudite – or his ghost if he has declaimed his last,) please send it to gfreads@yahoo.com attn: Headley’s reason number three.

And now – an unpaid political announcement.

Melissas

Here’s a column from the old days. I’m not sure where else it has appeared, except it was on the critically profaned, Headley and the Rug (and Cral.)

I've known Melissas all my life. There were Melissas older than me when I was little. I went to grade school, high school and college with Melissas but after college something changed.

Since 1980, I haven't met a Melissa my own age.

It's not that I haven't continued to meet Melissas. I meet them all the time. Someone's daughter is named Melissa, the girl at the cash register has a name tag that says "Melissa." The world is full of Melissas… and not a single one over twenty.

Something is going on here. If this doesn't surprise you, then obviously you're in on the conspiracy. I hope you enjoy how this is affecting me.

Oh sure, I hear about Melissas over twenty. Melissa Joan Hart, Melissa Sue Gilbert. Maybe, it’s the “Joan” and the “Sue” that keeps them around. Has either one of them worked since they were twenty? While I’m at it, other than maybe an appearance on Conan O’Brien, what evidence do I have that they’re still around? Do I ever meet Melissa Joan Hart? Maybe Melissa Joan Hart is a completely computer generated image, or perhaps a “Marianne”, digitally altered to be "Melissa."

No, something is going on here.

I don't want to think the worst - mainly because I can't figure out what the worst could be. Is there some psychic connection between the name 'Melissa" and a twenty year time delayed loss of memory? Are the thousands of Jane Does out there, in actuality, displaced and psychically victimized Melissas?

Are all Melissas of an alien species that has perfected human development through the post adolescent stage that must then recall their agents before they revert to their natural form (a combination of say… an otter and Ed Asner)?

Is there some mad pre-list enumerator in the census department who forcibly changes Melisssas into Mildreds, Mabels, and Marlenes (who you never meet younger than twenty) under the threat of … severe under-counting? Would the prospect of her state losing a congressional seat to West Virginia (a state with no actual people living in it) move a Melissa to change her name?

But no! the effect is even more pervasive! I've always known Melissas. I can't think of any time in my life that I didn't know at least one or two. It would be a simple thing for me to go on the net and look up a few of them. Find them, email them, convince them there's no need to file a restraining order and assure myself that they are OK.

But I can't think of a single last name. I check my yearbooks - they seem to be missing.

Something is definitely going on here.

It makes me sad to admit it, but I fear there’s nothing to be done for the Melissas of the past. Gone is the Melissa who used to date Jim in college. Gone also is the Melissa who spilled Elmer’s all over my Batman lunchbox in second grade (maybe I don’t miss her that much) but perhaps we can save the MNYTs (Melissa’s not yet twenty).

Lo-jack has been very effective in recovering lost and stolen cars. I have no idea what a lo-jack looks like (maybe it’s quite fashionable) or how it’s installed (best not to dwell on that too much). Certainly, aliens would know how to disable lojack and besides, once you start with optional equipment in innocent human beings, the next thing you know we’ll be installing multiple CD changers and things just get too involved.

In the wild, forest rangers track the movement of bears by attaching a tracer to them with some sort of pop-rivet device. Some Melissas may be willing. Piercing is quite popular but how do we protect our more timid MNYTs?

I called my representatives, the Democrat suggested a new entitlement program; the Republican assured me a tax cut would do the trick. I have to admit; I don’t have much hope. As we’ve learned with terrorists and tele-marketers, it’s pretty hard to stop a determined conspiracy.

Perhaps it’s best to settle for a Melissa ID card for them to carry. “Hello, my name is Melissa, if I’m calling myself Mabel or Jane Doe, please contact the NMTB (National Melissa Tracking Bureau) and please don’t say a word to any aliens or census takers you might see nearby.”

Speaking of conspiracy - did you know that The Princess Bride wasn't supposed to be a comedy at all?

Worst Poem Ever

Not for the first time, I got to Wednesday night without a finished bit for my Thursday morning blog post.

I bought a Power Ball ticket.

No dice.

I thought about faking my death, but my unlicensed legal adviser told me that if I did and sold even one extra copy of Trouble in Taos

 or Volition Man

that I could be sued for fraud unless I was willing to actually…die.

“But how would anyone know if I sold one extra copy?”

My ULA (unlicensed legal adviser) gave me one of those looks lawyers (licensed or not) give you. “In your case,” she said, “that would be one copy… period.”

“Nope – not worth it,” I said.

“Too bad,” said my unlicensed legal adviser.

ULA’s can be mean.

Not surprisingly, other writers offered to come to my rescue offering stuff they would never get accepted by a legitimate publisher – figuring the only way it’ll ever see the light of day is on this blog. For the xx^th time, Stanley McFarland offered me his poem, Garumplefink.

“Haven’t I already posted this?” I asked.

“No, but you've turned it down several times.”

“Why do you think I've turned it down?” I asked Stan. (He hates it when I call him Stan instead of Stanley. Actually, I think he secretly hopes people will think he’s Stan Lee and give him credit for his favorite superhero Thor, whom he resembles…

 in no way what-so-ever.)

Stanley looked puzzled for a moment, and then said – “Because it’s too funny?”

“Right,”

After giving Stanley the mistaken impression I was considering posting his ‘too funny’ poem, Garumplefink, I started looking through a folder of unpublished poems he left with me, and found… The Worst Poem EVER!

I don’t think Stanley thinks it’s funny, but I do. I’ll skip the boring parts along with the title and get to the good stuff.

Every person is a sculpture

We begin roughly formed, and raw

We are shaped by sharp edges and blows

And pain

There’s a knee-slapper – at least it will have to serve as one because, as I said, it’s late Wednesday night and other than Stanley’s Garumplefink – I’ve got nothing.

At least I can assure you that I won’t even consider subjecting you to Garumplefink…

Until the next Wednesday night I’ve got nothing…

And Power Ball craps out…

And my ULA nixes everything else I think up.

And now - the news