Cranky Man’s Tips for Life

Posted on August 26, 2013 by Mike Shortall

The following are tips, advice and admonitions which I have ..

a) Found strategically useful,

b) Tactically solid, or …

c) Just sounded cool

They are deliberately vague, hopelessly cliché, and sufficiently applicable to just about any situation, so as to be totally worthless for most situations.

But then there will be that one time you might wish you had these insightful thoughts at your finger tips …

Always check your 6. Never leave your wingman.
Never touch the poker pot until all the cards – including the Dead Hand – are face up on the table.
Your Ship – the one you’re waiting to “come in” – loaded with that once-in-a-lifetime stroke of Luck or your long-denied chance at comfortable Wealth will never arrive until you have little need for the Treasures you so hope will be included on the manifest. Plan accordingly.
Time is a guideline (except for tee times and airlines).
If the Gift Horse smells like a pile of manure, you’re aren’t looking into it’s Mouth.
No one will ever say, “I told you so.”, unless they were right.
You should never need the undercoating, the extended warranty, or the Platinum Protection Plan.
You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometime, well you might just find, you get what you need.
Right Turn on Red is not prefaced by Whenever You’re in the Mood …
When in the gym locker room, right-of-way always goes to the person with no cloths on.
If there’s the potential for tragic consequences, assume the worse and recalculate the Return-On-Stupidity.
Whenever trying to figure out the Mysteries of Life, it’s helpful to remember God has a weird sense of humor.
If it sounds “Too good to be true”, it is.
The ability to Listen is an undervalued skill.
The abilities to write – without spelling errors – and to speak – without “uhs, duhs or likes” – tend to influence people.
When the volcano is rumbling, the Earth shaking violently; and the water turning into sulfuric acid, you need not wait around for the Townhall Meeting providing you with the evacuation routes. Get the hell out now!!

However, should you decide to wait for said Disaster Townhall Meeting, it’s entirely permissible to shoot the knucklehead who keeps asking the stupid questions, like “Do we have to wait for the end of this stupid meeting telling us how to evacuate; or can we leave now?”
There’s never a pony under all that manure.

Keeping the rubber side down …
(anthonylukephotography.blogspot.com)

Keep the rubber side down. The shiny side is decorative only.
Always keep your feet and your gunpowder dry.
Never make an important life decision until you absolutely must. The circumstances will surely change as soon as you commit to an early course of action.
Offense wins games. Defense wins Championships!
Invest heavily in weight loss companies in early December.
Politicians are only as good as their word, which is why you can never believe what they tell you.
Never answer the unasked question.
No one sends you anything of value for free.
Maximize your advantages by exploiting the soft spots in Zone Coverage before they switch to Man-on-Man.
Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.

Never let them see you sweat.
Let them see you as unpredictable Wild Card with a touch of Absolutely Nuts.
When they come to you and say, “We’re the Government; and we’re here to help”, RUN!
When the Government tells you, “Everything’s fine; there’s no reason for panic.”, RUN!
The most dangerous words to come from your Significant Other’s mouth can be “Honey, I’ve been thinking …”
Never fight over the same ground twice.
You will always find it in The Last Place You Look!
Flexibility and Adaptation are the keys to Survival.
Before you hit the “Send” button, re-read your message; consider your audience; and assume not a single person has a sense of humor.
The Truth?!? You can’t handle the Truth!

Shower King

Posted on August 8, 2013 by Mike Shortall

Ferris Bueller was certainly
King of his shower!

Wonderful is the life of The King of the Castle!

After weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks of travel to painstakingly select the finest materials from all The Land; begrudgingly indulging the persistent needs of The Craftsmen as they toiled to produce a suite suitable to the Household Royalty; and living in the relative squalor of cramped Guest Accommodations, this morning it was This Lord of This Castle’s decision to christen the newly renovated Monarch’s Personal Retreat and Shower Hall!

Merlin-esque plumbery

As I enjoyed the warm, luxurious stream of an opulently appointed Monument to Modern Plumbery, I marvelled at the wondrous gifts of Nature and almost Merlin-like Saucery that surrounded me. I bathed in appreciation for the impressive talents of the Artisans of the Land.

As I completed the showering process …

(Sorry … No photography was allowed for obvious reasons of Taste and in the interest of preserving the Public’s Vision and Sanity.)

… in preparation for my day among The Inhabitants of the Realm, I recalled a recent admonition from The Queen of The Manor.

“You better make sure you squeegee the glass shower door!”

Huh …?

Now I’m pretty sure there was a “Your Highness” added to that suggestion, but I might be imagining that.

So there I was … in all my Royal Splendor this morning …

(Again … Sorry, no pics.)

OK … Here’s a pic.
Use your imagination.

Working that squeegee like a one-armed Royal Window Washer …

‘Cause – ya know – I needed the other hand to keep the towel properly positioned!

Anyways, if you ever want a Crown-worthy Challenge, try squeegeeing the lower portions of a glass shower door while attempting to maintain Your Royal Dignity!

Then please, tell me how many weeks I need to keep doing this silly housekeeping chore without invoking The Queen’s Wrath …

‘Twas the Night before Furlough

Posted on July 1, 2013 by Mike Shortall

Enjoy a little Christmas in July with me and my fellow Federal civil servants with this twist on an ageless classic.

‘Twas the Night before Furlough

Concept and execution if not the actual words

by Barack H. Obama

Santa Jack Lew with furloughs for you!

‘Twas the night before Furlough
And all through The White House,
Not a creature was stirring,
Barack had Droned the last Mouse!

Congress was nestled all snug with The Fed
While visions of Mid-Terms danced in their heads.
With Michelle in her kerchief and POTUS in his cap,
The First Couple was hankerin’ for a Hawaiian recess.

When on the South Lawn there arose such a clatter,
Barack leapt from his bed to see what was the matter!
Away to the window he stumbled and crashed,
Tore open the shutters, “Get me a ‘Publican to lash!”

Then towards him on the breast of Taxpayer Dough,
Came Chief-of-Staff Lew, the House Liaison in tow.
And what to befuddled POTUS appeared
Was the Promise of what all Liberals hold dear!

The conspiring driver, so witty and quick,
Had come with an idea to surely do the trick!
More rapid than pirates on good winds of trade,
Jack Lew had found the secret for more Treasury raids!

I'm not saying this looks like anyone, only acts like some.

Leadership? Plenty of butts instead …

“Now Nancy! Now Harry! Wake Biden up too!”
“On Fienstein and Boxer!” clammored The Lew.
“Grab Van Hollen and Stoyer and Allyson Schwartz!
We know how to get those ‘Publicans by the shorts!”

“Sequester”, Lew cried, “is how we’ll get what we want!
Higher debt, more money, no need for any cuts!
They would never let it happen, and we won’t cut a dime!
The ‘Publicans will fold handily. They do all the time!”

Then amid all the whooping, the hollering, the yells
Someone asked, “What happens if it freezes in Hell?”
“Don’t worry about that. Our Gambit is sound.
We’ll make the ‘Publicans bad guys. Make it painful as well.”

But The Voice was persistent, an answer was needed.
What of sequestration, if the goal goes unheeded?
Of workers, fixed incomes, and services rendered,
What if the ‘Publicans didn’t surrender?

The Democrats turned on that Voice with wild looks.
Who dare throw a wrench in their Debt Ceiling hook?
Joe Taxpayer had wakened in the midst of the hoopla,
Was asking who’d suffer should The Plan prove a faux pas?

‘Twas The President’s turn to show that he cared
For those who paid taxes and relied on their share
For their services rendered, and the wages they need
For mortgages, tuition, that new Healthcare decree!

The grip of a golf club was light in Barack’s hand
Like the fate of the Middle Class throughout The Land.
He had a kind face and whispered so sweetly,
“Let us worry of that, we’re The Power Elitely!”

The grip of a golf club was tight in his hand …
(From http://www.golf365.com)

He was chummy and glib, quite full of himself
So Joe Voter shrugged off the misgivings he felt.
The Democrat leaders returned to their caucus,
Plotting and planning how to best drain the coffers.

In the end their Big Gamble, it soon fell apart.
Their opponents, the ‘Publicans refused to impart
Higher taxes without spending restraint and responsibility
Towards an Economy renown for its fragile instability.

Joe Taxpayer saw this, and wondered aloud
“The Gambit was futile, so let’s kick this around.
The budget’s important! The worst case is here!
You can’t stand on principle, and at taxpayers sneer!”

But the Democrats were nothing if not committed
To getting what they wanted without being fitted
With ceilings and limits to what they could spend
Even if it was Taxpayers who suffered in the end.

“We need them to suffer, to really feel hurt
From silly cuts in Park services to the pay for their work!
So process those furloughs! Don’t spare them any Pain!”
The POTUS was certain their pain was his Gain.

So as Barack headed off on another vacation,
He climbed up the steps of his tax-paid ‘portation.
And we heard him exclaim as he flew out of sight
“Happy furloughs to all! Thanks for paying The Price!”

Mother Nature’s Little Terrorists

Posted on June 25, 2013 by Mike Shortall

The week before Fathers Day had been simply a miserable one. Suffering from a bad head cold and another affliction, the details of which you should thank me for not sharing, had me irritable (OK … more irritable), whiny, and wiped out.

By Friday I was ready for the “nuclear option” which simply involved loading my body up with enough pharmaceuticals to render myself Borderline Functional and a walking (at times barely shuffling) advertisement for Modern OTC Pharmacology.

The good news … I started feeling better on Saturday, the bad news … peeing green for two days …

By Saturday afternoon I was feeling semi-human; and as is the object of my peculiar OCD, I decided to cut the lawn, both in an attempt to feel halfway normal and to avoid having to do it on Fathers’ Day.

The plan was to watch the final round of the U.S. Open Golf Championship from Merion Golf Club on FD.

So I went outside to don my special Lawn Cutting Sneakers – identifiable by the thick coating of hardened green lawn slime – and get moving … albeit very, very slowly. Clearly, as the story will illustrate, I was not close to thinking clearly or acting thoughtfully.

As I tied my left shoe, I felt something sticking my toe. It felt like any small piece of garden debris that finds its way inside any gardener’s shoe and thereby joins the list of recent developments longing to make my life just a bit more uncomfortable.

What I didn’t notice at first was that the “debris” was moving around ever-so-slightly all on its own.

It must have been the after-effects of all the medications I had pumping through my organs. I actually got the other shoe on; stood up; and took a few steps towards the garage when I said to no one in particular, “What the blankety-blank is that?!?”

Still not quite over my body-brain numb, I meandered over to the porch and removed the irritated foot from the green-coated sneaker.

Maybe it was pre-meditated!
(Picture from seananmcguire.com)

A flash of yellow on my sock was like a jolt of electricity to my medication-addled zombieness. Hopping and cursing, and flailing at the little yellow bugger, whose only sin was the misfortune of getting trapped in my smelly, foot-filled sneaker.

Not that I cared. Them and me, we have a history.

So its broken corpse was left in the middle of the front porch as an example for all its surviving breed, as this was not the first time I had been the object of this ambush tactic. My pain this time was just as real as the last.

It was a Summer maybe five years ago. A rather hot but enjoyable day at Five Ponds Golf Course in Warminster. Having just finished hole 11, and moving casually off the green to our carts and the 12th tee.

As my friends and I are sometimes prone to do, we had procured a few adult beverages – in can form – from the snack stand at the turn. My first beer sat in the cart opened and awaiting my return.

As I tilted can-to-mouth and gulped, I immediately thought, “What did those two (fill in the blank) put in my drink?” But as I moved to spit out the foreign object, I realized it wasn’t an “object” at all.

hunter-killer terrorist hornet

Jumping up and spitting was never done so quickly or violently, my mind raced to the possibility that the “thing” might go the “other way”. My panic and confusion didn’t help matters and My Little Stowaway got stuck on my lip …

You can imagine the result.

Several jabs later, I finally got the little bugger out. Only he wasn’t no “little bugger”. She – obviously a She – was a hornet about the size of my thumb. She had got me at least twice on the bottom lip.

Instantly, I was in mucho pain and running through my dictionary of colorful colloquialisms.

My friends – on the other hand – were in hysterics … until of course they saw the size of her broken corpse. They were awe-struck for about 10 seconds. Then the hysterics started over again, only louder.

Guys are funny that way, although I will say it does take your mind off the possibility that you could be dying of anaphylaxis.

We considered what we should do, given my obvious discomfort and size of the animal that had attacked me.

Well … actually they decided. I was still hopping around; swearing a lightening-blue streak; and stuffing ice into my mouth.

Naturally they decided to keep playing unless I wanted to “Go crying to my mommy; and get my boo-boo fixed.” Or words to that effect …

Guys are funny that way.

Mother Nature has it out for me … Why?

Of course I decided to keep playing. Figuring, if I’m going to die, I might as well croak on a golf course, as is any serious golfer’s dream. Just think of all the neat stories my friends could tell as they divvy up my golf equipment and supplies after the funeral!

Yep, guys are funny.

I’m not sure why Nature hates me. I always pride myself on my live-and-let-live outlook, so long as you’re not a weed on the lawn or a mouse in the house.

On the other hand, I did par that long, straight and difficult par-5 that day! Moaning, groaning, and adding a few new entries into the vulgate along the way …

I lived to face Mother Nature’s little terrorists another day.

So as Fathers Day was spent watching the U.S. Open Golf Championship, I couldn’t help but think maybe Phil Mickelson – as he faded in yet another Open – could have used a few hornets in his shoes that last day at Merion!

Mickelson could have used a jolt.

The Cranky Hobo

Posted on June 18, 2013 by Mike Shortall

Life at my house is officially in total upheaval. And like a lot of people, I detest disruption in my daily routine, the fabric of my life. However, change is the inevitable development of these middle-aged years.

Just as many males will meander through the various temptations of the Mid-Life Crisis … convertibles, sky-diving, yoga, andro-gels, and women much too young to take them seriously; many females find one significant outlet for their restless middle years …

Home Remodeling!

It’s an age-old phenomena. Every husband, lover, or significant other will eventually experience the dread, the uncertainty of the day they step through the front door to find paint swatches scattered across the vestibule/bathroom/kitchen or hear the warning claxon of those immortal words, “Honey, I’ve been thinking …”

Yeah, right ... This has never happened.

Yeah, right … Assuming it’s a married couple, my bet is this never happens.

No fun nor favorable experience ever grew from such innocent beginnings.

That’s not to say that the End Results are not good, uplifting, exciting, renewing …

But no one, who is not a contractor or do-it-themselves nut job, EVER enjoyed the in-between parts. The preparation, the shopping, the displacement, the mess, the shopping, the selection process, the color wheel migraines, the shopping, the second thoughts, the changes to all the decisions you thought were already made, the re-shopping, and worst of all the construction disruption …

And that’s where I am stuck now … in the worst possible space in the house … my refuge, my quiet place, my comfort zone, my Fortress of Solitude …

Yes, they are tearing apart my master bath. Bad enough the bedroom, but the bathroom too?!?

Now what am I going to do?

Apparently, it’s living as a Hobo!

Living out of boxes and cardboard “valets” … Nothing where it’s supposed to be. Nothing where it can be found without crawling around on all fours and opening no less than three 20-gallon sized Rubbermaid containers.

Showering in the Commoners Bathroom (Ew … What is THAT?!?) and soon to be sleeping in a strange, cramped bed.

No man was meant to live like this!

And right about now, there’s this very attractive, extremely gifted housewife, sitting at her desktop Mac, reading this blog with a building whistle of steam leaking from her ears, muttering, “Oh stop being such a baby! Why can’t you be excited?!? They’ll be done in two weeks!”

Mona Lisa’s iconic smile rumored to be the result of Color Wheel Dementia during rehab of her Camden, NJ row house.

Yeah, right … And I’m Mona Lisa.

It’s already been roughly three months of shopping and searching, searching and sampling, sampling and spending … and we haven’t even gotten to the Color Wheel of Mind Numbing Choices.

“Honey, do you like the Tawny Apricot Caramel (beige) or the Cinnamon Mud Brickle (reddish beige)?”

Of course, it will all look magnificent once it’s completed, as it always does. She does have a gift for getting it right.

It’s just those intervening 18 weeks in Hobo Hell I dread.

Two weeks?!? Yeah, right …

Murder at Citizens Bank Park

Posted on April 28, 2013 by Mike Shortall

The Phillies are killing me! They’re killing a lot of things lately … except of course opposing pitchers.

It’s bad enough the Philadelphia Phillies on most nights look like they couldn’t hit their way out of a wet paper bag. The pain I feel when they make the call to the bullpen at Citizens Bank Park and Chad Durbin answers the phone is becoming unbearable. My angst when men are in scoring position with Ben Revere in the on-deck circle brings on fits of nausea.

I’m might still be a long way from giving up on this season. But the early going has been difficult and frustrating. And yet all of this early season negativity would be manageable if the Phillies would just do one thing for me …

Stop killing The Schmitter!!

What little joy I get from sitting in the freezing cold; watching the Phillies bats make #5 starting pitchers look like Cy Young Award candidates are those two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame …

Oops … Wrong sandwich …

Yes, yes, yes … I get it! At 800+ calories, The Schmitter is only a step away from shooting up an IV bag of pure cholesterol! Any Nanny State Mayor – a la Mr. Nutter or NYC’s Michael Bloomberg – would be tempted to forego their campaigns to outlaw oversized soft drinks if they had a shot of putting a sandwich like The Schmitter out of business.

Perhaps in a fit of civic service, The Phillies have decided to do their dirty work for them.

The McNally’s Tavern creation of steak, fried salami, cheese, onions, tomato and special sauce (There’s ALWAYS special sauce!) stuffed into a kaiser roll is your typical ballpark bacchanal. Yep … 800+ calories posing as The Key to Good Living. It will just be a few less years of living it.

But I’m OK with that, because to me it’s Comfort Food!

Most importantly Comfort Food is crucial when very little of what’s going on in between the white lines on the field is making anyone feel comfortable! I indulge but a few times a year, knowing a steady diet of such bacchanalia is not a recipe for long life.

Went to our first game in our plan last Saturday night (April 20). It was cold. Cliff Lee couldn’t find the plate without hitting a Cardinals’ bat. The Phillies -on the other hand – left their bats in the clubhouse. The spousal unit was cocooned in a Phillies snuggie; and just looking for a reason to bail out for the warmth of the car ride home.

At least my beers weren’t going warm!

When I walk into the Citizens Bank Park, I walk right past the new Schmitter concession and almost threw an aneurism when I saw what had replaced the McNally’s concession beneath the left field escalator. Donuts and fried chicken?!?

When I found out The Schmitter had simply been moved to another concession, a weight the size of Cole Hamels‘ ERA was lifted from my chest!

So after three rather cold and disheartening innings I decide … It’s time! I wander over to see The Schmitter’s new locale and grab a little in-game meal.

My introduction to The Mistake by the Gate!

First off, that smoky flavor that lingers in the air like a wet ashtray is … well … a wet ashtray. The concession gods actually placed one of the best ballpark food concessions right next to the Corral of the Damned! The place where lungs go to die, whether you’re intentionally inhaling or just standing nearby trying to get your Schmitter fix.

Nice move, Phils. I guess an EPA Superfund site wasn’t available?!?

And it gets worse … The new locale appears to lack the work space and productive capacity needed for the Supply Side to meet the Demand Side of the Happiness Equation!

The line was long. It moved way too slowly, especially when the process and its participants seemed disjointed and barely interested. The counter movements were so slow, by the time you were lucky enough to have that $9 sandwich handed over, it was barely warm enough to register as cooked food.

I know by now – after 57 years – that all things change, whether you want them to or not, with no regard for how said change will affect you. Yet you would think ONE THING that by most non-medical measures was good – if not good for you – would remain as reliable as Chase Utley on the base paths.

OK … Bad comparison …

Those damn chicken-stuffed donuts better be good!

Once loyalty withers …

Posted on January 29, 2013 by Mike Shortall

(The story you are about to hear is true. Only the names of the guilty have been changed.)

Philadelphia sport fans are generally religious when it comes to their teams. They will wear their emotions and allegiances proudly on their sleeve and wallow for weeks when hopes for a championship dissolve into disappointment.

They also travel well, whether that means staying loyal to their hometown teams when forced to relocate to other regions of the country or the simple prospect of traveling to other sports cities to support the Philly teams on the road. If you happened to watch any of the Philadelphia Flyers games this past weekend, you no doubt noticed the numbers of Philly faithful – both winter snowbirds and permanent transplants – taking the opportunity to see the hometown boys taking on the local Florida competition.

Of course, such is not always the case. And from time-to-time, former Philadelphia sports fans fall for the allure of a local team or the no muss, no fuss ease of jumping on the nearest bandwagon.

Sometimes you can see The Leap coming for months …

Thus, there was no real surprise recently when several familiar faces, long-time Philly residents who had relocated to points South, appeared on Facebook wearing the colors and whooping it up for the NFL successes of the local football team, the Baltimore Ravens.

Bennie A, renown for picking the British as his “AFC homeland”!

To protect their identity, we will simply refer to them here as Benedict and Arnold.

You could sense a change in the familiar sports attitudes emanating from a mid-sized metropolitan area in Maryland a few years ago, when idle chitchat during a family gathering took a turn towards the off-season prospects of the Purple and Gold. No big deal at the time, as Benedict’s brother – also once a Philly sports fan – had morphed into a Ravens fan after years of Maryland living.

We took note when the aforementioned Bennie received a brand new Ravens jersey as a gift recently, the name Suggs prominently stitched on the back. And as chance might have it, Bene’s brother has a well-appointed Baltimore Ravens man-cave in his home just a few doors down from Bennie and Arnie’s version of West Point (historical point of reference; see Arnold, Benedict).

You could almost HEAR the colors changing!

So of course, a week or so ago we were treated to assorted Facebook posts showing the midst of their Raven-esque AFC Championship game festivities and the hullabaloo the resulted when the Baltimore team won and landed a berth in the Superbowl.

Not being able to remain silent any longer, I challenged Arnold on where their loyalties lie. The Answer?

“They are our ‘AFC team’!”

uh huh …

Now, I try not to be cynical.

(OK … I don’t try very hard; but I try a little.)

So immediately, I imagine all sorts of possible scenarios that play into my somewhat difficult-to-resist cynicism.

Majestic Eagle …??

Would this phenomena occur in The Natural World, if say the ravens, notorious scavengers, unable to actively hunt to sustain themselves, were 4-12 in road-kill contests; but the eagles, proud and superior hunters, were 11-5 in superbly executed trout fishing attempts? Would fans of The Natural World be tempted into dumping the majestic eagles for road-killed squirrel-eating ravens, if success continued to favor the predator that serves as the National Emblem?

(Pardon me, I mean would they be inclined to supplement their loyalty with the raven as their designated “carrion-eating bird”?)

Back in the Sports World, I imagine I have missed many an opportunity over the years to adopt my own “AFC team”; thereby feeling free to enjoy the success and championship seasons of the cross-state Pittsburgh Steelers. After all, I could find no guidance on geographical limits to bandwagon jumping!

What if Bennie and Arnie decided they needed an additional American League baseball team? Actually , I’m surprised that hasn’t happened yet, since the Baltimore Orioles are just as geographically convenient, and they enjoyed a 14-games-over-.500 playoff season in 2012!

…. or this sorry excuse for a bird?

I just HOPE they aren’t holding out for another season before deciding they need an alternate NL East team, since the Nationals must look mighty tempting to anyone tired of waiting for the Phillies’ to work through their current rough stretch!

That would be the real dagger in the back of Philadelphia Sports Loyalty to which Bennie and Arnie still profess to cling. But once The Seal is broken, all kinds of contamination is possible!

They could insist on having another NHL team (Washington Capitals) or another NFC East team (Redskins)!

But of course, the BIG QUESTION is this …

What happens when their original home town Philadelphia Eagles and their “AFC team”, Baltimore Ravens face-off? That might be a sticky enough situation during the regular season, with that Ravens man-cave right down the street and all those Ravens lovers in such close proximity. But even worse …

What would happen if the Eagles and Ravens faced off in a Superbowl somewhere down the road?!? My doubts fester to a boil as I consider the possibilities.

I envision scenes of frequent bathroom visits to switch between the colors of one team or the other based on the state of the scoreboard!

Then it hit me!

The Answer to their conflicting emotions in such a situation … and a nice little niche market to be exploited by some enterprising merchandiser. Reversible football jerseys!

A jersey that would show the colors and emblems of one team that could be easily turned inside-out at the drop of a hat – or a change in the scoreboard – to show the colors and emblems of another!

And we will call them … Front Runners!

Christmas Tree Wars

Posted on December 28, 2012 by Mike Shortall

“So, how do you guys make sure … ?”

Those words were a precursor to a Christmas experience I had yet to have the “pleasure” of experiencing. By the time I finished that sentence, I was having one of those little voice-in-the-back-of-the-head premonitions of impending Yuletide Aggravation.

We were Christmas tree shopping two weekends before the holiday. And we had found a suitable tree …

A suitable tree is a) alive, b) reasonably full and bushy, and c) fixable in places where it’s not reasonably full and bushy.

After looking at the first 45 trees, I usually remind my spousal unit that the tree doesn’t have to be “perfect”, which always gets me that “Thank you, Captain Obvious!” tilt-headed glare … which of course I live for!

As is the customary belief of REAL Christmas tree aficionados, Artificial Trees are reserved for soul-less, Just-Add-Water, Communists.

Fidel Castro extolling the perfect alignment of artificial Communist Christmas trees.

… and so we arrange for a tree-rustler to grab our prized evergreen and head off to The Prep Area, where the tree trunk gets a fresh cut and – in our case – a hole drilled up the middle of the trunk to accommodate our center-post tree stand.

For years and years we used the traditional four-point screw clamp tree stands and never seemed to have a problem. Then twice in three years we had trees topple over for no apparent reason; one time as we were walking out the door to Christmas Eve Mass.

And ever since we have relied upon our Center Post tree stand.

And this is where Christmas 2012 took its unanticipated cruise through uncharted waters.

The Mistake I made was to ignore the visual warning signs, despite the “uh oh” feeling I experienced after the following conversation, which resulted from my evaluation of the center post, tree-drilling set-up.

“Hey, I’m just curious, but I notice you guys don’t have the usual self-check fixture on the top of the drill rig.” (as had been used at other tree establishments in years past).

“Yeah, well … the grounds not very level here, so we can’t use the fixture as intended or the trees will come out drilled crookedly.”, our tree rustler offered.

“So, how do you guys make sure you drill the tree straight?”, I asked.

“Oh well, I’ll hold the tree in place as straight as I can; and The Driller checks the alignment from three directions to make sure we get it straight.”

uh huh …

Actually, there were two mistakes made here.

The first was to turn our annual Christmas tree purchase into an hunt, where we tour 4or 5 road-side tree lots before we head back to our usual Christmas tree merchant because no tree anywhere else jumps out and screams, “MERRY CHRISTMAS!!” at my lovely wife, Carol with sounds of Schroeder, Lucy and the rest of the Charlie Brown gang singing Christmas Time is Here.

The second mistake was not bailing out as soon as I saw the tree-drilling set up or after hearing that explanation. It just didn’t occur to me that if the drill rig was not level, even if the tree was visually “straight”, the “crooked” drill rig would …

Well … you can guess what happened next.

Get the tree home, but wait until the next day – December 16 – to pop the tree into the center post tree stand. At first I didn’t notice the Leaning Tree of Holiday Anguish. I usually allow the tree to stand in the warm house so it falls out from its tightly wrapped handling and transportation configuration.

The next morning, I come down stairs on my way to work and check to see how the tree is looking.

Oh no … You have got to be kidding me! Crooked?!? The damn thing is CROOKED!!!

At first I thought maybe the tree’s trunk is twisted. So I turned the tree on its stand looking for both The Good Side of the evergreen and an angle where it didn’t look like a drunk leaning against a lamp post. But no matter which way it was turned it somehow looked even worse!

2012 Tannenbaum II

So this Christmas season offered me the one holiday experience I had yet to encounter … The Retail Return of a Christmas Tree. After 50-plus years of Yuletide experience, you tend to believe you have seen it all.

Silly Santa …

Now some might say we were callous to reject an imperfect specimen. Yes, it wasn’t the tree’s fault. It was the boobs on the business end of a lopsided drill rig.

The tree vendors were nice enough about it. They offered me another tree or a refund. I made a cursory glance around for a replacement; although I have to admit, I didn’t WANT to find another one, also subject to the same off-kilter drilling process.

The tree purveyors offered a smile with my refund; and I trudged on back to the same old place we usually go, where the trees are on display with their trunks pre-drilled so there’s no guesswork involved. We ended up buying Tannenbaum II at our usual place and enjoyed a visually balanced Christmas tree!

The moral of the story is … “Familiarity breeds content.”

Also … “If it sounds too stupid to be done correctly, listen to that little voice in the back of your head.”

The Art of Fiscal Cliff-Diving

Posted on December 6, 2012 by Mike Shortall

Way too bold to be from D.C.

There was a point in my life – a long, long time ago in a land far away – that I waited not-so-patiently for late Saturday afternoons when I could hijack the family TV (NEVER during a Notre Dame football game!) and flip on ABC’s Wide World of Sports. WWS was a hodgepodge of traditional, niche market sports such as the Penn Relays, amateur boxing, international soccer (Remember now, this was the 1960s.) and some really arcane competitions like barrel-jumping. (Who doesn’t enjoy a good barrel-jump crash?!?) and the iconic cliff diving competitions from La Quebrada, near Acapulco, Mexico.

Cliff diving – it appears – is making a big comeback!

No, this version does not include majestic vistas of bright sunlight glistening off blue water as a backdrop to a group of whacked-out daredevils perched on a rock sitting perilously close to a huge cliff that looks a mile high even on black & white TV (the 1960s … Remember?).

No, this fiscal cliff diving version just includes the whacked-out daredevils.

No Speedos, please

Now admit it … Wouldn’t you just LOVE this fiscal nonsense as REAL cliff-diving?!? Are you a bit twisted, just enough that you would enjoy this political pissing contest just a little bit, if it included the possibility that John Boehner, President Obama, Harry Reid and – please, please, please – Nancy Pelosi could possibly … just maybe … go SPLAT at the bottom of the shallow end???

Hmmm … But that would leave Joe Biden in charge.

Well, this is hypothetical; so let’s push that thought way, way back into that Dark Space we reserve for the Zombie Apocalypse, IRS audits, and Nicki Minaj.

Where was I?!? Oh yeah … cliff diving …

Full-length burka only

Anyways, cliff diving competitions use of method of score-keeping that emphasizes style, creativity, and a difficulty factor in lieu of how many jumps you make before going SPLAT or the number of broken bones should you survive.

That’s the way I would score it. But remember, I also like a good barrel-jumping crash!

Now, regardless of where you stand on the impending Thelma & Louise act (Obama as Susan Sarandon’s Louise, of course) currently being played out on the cliffs overlooking Washington, D.C., it’s best to be prepared when it’s your turn to Follow-the-Leaders over a perfectly good cliff.

Frankly, I really could not care less about the Fiscal Cliff.

My long, long-standing federal employment never required me to pay into or rely upon Social Security (Thank God!). So not only did I NOT benefit from the Bush tax cuts, which were applied to Social Security taxes, I will not suffer from their expiration either. And maybe … just maybe … we actually NEED this to happen. Afterall, 51% of the Electorate did not give a rat fart about the Economy during the November election, so why worry about it now?!?

Yes, in that regard I am a bit selfish.

The reality is that BOTH parties would probably benefit from a hand-holding cliff dive, no doubt screaming “WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” all the way to the bottom. President Obama could then brag that he faced down the terrible Republicans, who realize that raising taxes in a bad Economy is a really stupid idea. (Apparently so does The President, since he couples his demand for increased marginal tax rates on the wealthy with a $50 billion stimulus package.)

The Republicans – on the other hand – can claim they never gave in to the anti-economy, income-redistributing Democrats. (Is there really any other explanation for taking from the rich with one hand and pushing out a stimulus with the other when the “real issue” is supposed to be deficit reduction?) All told, The President’s proposal amounts to a $1.6 TRILLION in new taxes and spending, and $400 billion – or 2.5% of the total $16 TRILLION of National Debt – in deficit reductions!

As one critique described it, “Four hundred billion in spending cuts is like forgoing the monogrammed towels in the 16th bathroom of a 52,000 square foot house.”

So, if you too are willing to embrace the possibility of becoming a mushy piece of fiscal fish food, now is the time to consider your approach to Taking the Dive. Will you scream like a teenage girl on the Tower of Terror? Will you stick out a stiff upper lip and leap with resignation and a modicum of dignity? Or will you dive with flair and style, performing a triple flip with a full twist while singing Madonna‘s classic, “Material Girl (Guy)” all the way to the bottom?

And if you’re wondering how it all came to this, to ridiculous deficits, to abject failure in Leadership for addressing the excess in deficit spending, to the notion that raising taxes on 2% of the population – as if forgoing the monogrammed towels – is a “solution”, then simply check out the story this week coming out of Detroit’s City Council.

Hey, $200 million here, $200 million there … What’s the BIG DEAL, right? At least we now know why Detroit voted Obama … To bring home “the bacon”!

Tocqueville, South of France (1992)

As historic French cliff-diver, Alexis de Tocqueville is rumored to have said,

“A democracy cannot exist as a permanent form of government. It can only exist until the majority discovers it can vote itself free stuff * out of the public treasury.”

(* OK … He actually said, “… largesse …”. )

With that in mind, allow me to recommend the following in cliff-diving hints and suggestions:

1. Never hit the water head-first, as dives above 85 feet can result in concussion. (How high exactly is a $16 trillion dollar stack of Benjamins?!?)

B. Select a spot along the cliff with an unobstructed view all the way down to almost certain Death.

4. No Speedos for men. Women? Topless, of course.

iii) Poise precariously on the smooth rock of Economic Sanity; time the incoming wave of debris from the Eurozone; and push away violently from this amazing fustercluck.

p. Immediately assume the simple pike position; feet wisely pointed down; and extend the middle digits on both hands as you sing the following verse from Sarah Johns’ The One in the Middle:

And now I’m giving you the one in the middle,

The one that’s a little bit longer.

And I have another one on the other hand,

So I can say it even stronger.

Pomegranates Eating Tasty Anthropoids

Posted on November 19, 2012 by Mike Shortall

Every so often on my way to work, as I enter Philly via Cheltenham I come across a red Prius – a Hybrid no doubt – sporting a red bumper sticker that states

Usually I just get a chuckle out of it; shake my head; and move along. That’s just my first reaction however. I might also ponder what reason or purpose these creatures would serve, if not those so clearly expressed on the back of my favorite red Toyota Prius hybrid. How might I classify such purposeless creatures?

But since the last time I saw the aforementioned bumper sticker, it has been tugging at my brain like a persistent 3-year-old. I simply can’t shake the nagging question of what exactly such Tasty Animals were intended for, if not Exploitation by Man. With another Thanksgiving approaching, a holiday when many a stately bird is sacrificed in the name of the National Family Holiday, it seems to be an appropriate time to consider this problem.

Two’s a secret; three’s a conspiracy …

It’s an interesting conundrum, with many little twists and turns that really make you think about the ecosystem Man inhabits and his effects on said system. But in the interest of Full Disclosure, I have to be honest in admitting I really, really, really love a good ribeye! Especially one done on a very hot barbie, where the fat cracks and sizzles as it melts and adds that unmistakable flavor to moist, tender beef …

Geez, I’m sweating …

Anyways, I’m always struck by the compassion and sensitivity of the Meat is Murder (MIM) crowd. They are passionate. They are committed. They are plainly speaking from the heart for those species that cannot speak for themselves, that cannot lobby their rights, that are truly at the mercy of Man.

But let’s think about that one … Would it be any different if Man wasn’t the dominate species?

Pomegranate-enslaved humanoid

In researching the subject of Meat is Murder, I ran across the following argument, “Suppose a species larger and smarter than man existed on Earth.”

What if the Pomegranates were perched at the top of the food chain?

(I know … pomegranates?!? Bare with me.)

My guess is that a lot of us would be lying low in the weeks running up to Thanksgiving, should our sweet human meat enjoy the status as the National Foodstuff of Master Pomegranate’s Black Friday Eve. But if that were the case, it would – most likely – be a condition that developed over the course of Nature’s millennia.

Unless of course, we speak of an alien Pomegranate species from another galaxy, roaming the star systems in search of good fertilizer and moderate growing temps; pillaging this Big Blue Marble; and feasting on local populations.

In either case, the Pecking Order would have been established – as it always is – based entirely on which species was stronger, more adaptive, of greater intelligence, and possessing the more highly developed kitchen cutlery. The Stronger hunt and kill; they domesticate the Weaker species; some they would eat; some they would ride; some they would use for clothing or entertainment.

Pomegranates: proficient breeders whose offspring are capable of forming intricate designs in the wild

Of course, from our point of view this situation would suck. It would especially suck if it happened at the hands of alien Pomegranates that supplant us at the peak of the Big Blue Marble food chain. All of us turkeys-in-waiting would be cursed with the KNOWLEDGE what was at steak.

Sorry … Couldn’t help myself.

But let’s not kid ourselves, if Pomegranates took a page from the Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, they would do what they wanted with us. This is until we stopped them. No touch-y feel-y existentialism would likely alter the end result – Cranky Giblets! (Just in case, here’s how to avenge Humankind.) This is – not surprisingly – what our REAL, current carnivore competitors do TO US when we wander into their oh-sh*t-where-the-hell’s-the-truck/boat territory.

Survival of the strongest …

Now the MIM crowd would argue that Man – as the more intelligent species – should be much more sensitive to the plight of the lesser animals. Perhaps we were back when Man was still living in caves and limited to eating nuts and berries.

I tend to believe that the definition of Animal Husbandry changed dramatically and irreversibly when that first caveman found out what fire roasted meat tasted like. From then on, the over-riding quest became finding the best way to roast, grill, bake, or broil the perfect piece of meat.

Don’t let this …

And as anyone who has tried to go back to the Nut ‘n Berry route after years of steaks and breast meat can tell you, it ain’t all that easy trying to put THAT genie back in the bottle!

And while we’re at it, why would The Line be drawn at Animal/Vegetable by the MIM crowd? What about the feelings and sensitivities of our plentiful Plant life?!? Nope, the MIMs don’t want to go there! How could they possibly push BOTH concepts of “Meat is Murder” and “Salad is Murder”???

Yet there are numerous studies on the intelligence, reactive capabilities, and even communication behavior of plants. But the MIM crowd doesn’t want us marching down that road … Recoiling at the screams of the Chick Peas as they are conveyed in the millions towards the HummusMasher 8000!

… or this happen to YOU!

No … No … Picking among species we are “allowed” to eat would defeat the purpose, because no truly sensitive, well-adjusted, in-tune with Nature being should be able to do that! So, we are left to our own devices in determining the whys and hows of an Animal/Plant line of demarcation.

But here’s the Key Point …

You can be certain that if the Pomegranates truly ruled The Planet, and along the way developed a taste for Human spareribs; we’d all be hiding right next to the turkeys in the weeks leading up to Black Friday Eve!