Category: Funny Business

I think it’s safe to say that Mary and I have fully adjusted to quarantine life.

While millions of our fellow Americans seem content to pretend COVID-19 is no big deal, we’re erring on the side of science, following recommendations from immunologists, and using common sense. This means we’ll stay home as much as we can – at least until our sentient ape overlords take control of the planet and give us the all-clear signal.

When we do have to go out, we wear masks and stay as far away from people as possible. But in order to steer clear of harm’s way we buy up a bunch of food during our trips and try to make it last. This has been a learning experience for me because I’m ashamed to admit I used to be pretty wasteful when it comes to grub.

Take loaves of bread, for example. As you know, they come with “end pieces” or “heels.” In the past, I considered end pieces the children of a lesser flour god and never thought about eating them. Not only do they look vastly different from the other pieces of bread, but they also get abused every time you open the package. Since they serve as the first line of defense before you get to the cool-looking slices, the heels get touched and nicked and quickly start to look like Leatherface from “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

When I would get down to the two end pieces, I’d thoughtlessly put them in the garbage can. (One time I allegedly threw them at our neighbor across the street, but my lawyer has advised me not to comment on that situation until we find out if the CCTV footage is admissible in court).

Well friends, those days are over. Now, the heels of bread are honored members of our diet, serving as wonderful vessels for spreads such as peanut butter.

Speaking of which …

We go through a nutload of peanut butter, and did so even before the pandemic. Give me a peanut butter and fig preserve sandwich (possibly served between end pieces) and I feel like I’m eating like Queen Elizabeth – providing Queen Elizabeth eats peanut butter and fig preserve sandwiches.

There was a time, however, when I would often toss the jar of PB away while it still had stuff inside. It was easier to simply open a new jar instead of scrounging for remnants.

I shouldn’t have done that.

Nowadays I scrape and scratch and dig for every last bite of butter – right down to going full Winnie the Pooh and sticking my nose and tongue in the jar.

(The next time I’m faced with that situation I’m going to put on a red shirt and take off my pants to get the full Pooh experience).

We’re also big into fruit bowls – not the container itself but bowls filled with actual, edible fruit. Mary will dice up cantaloupe and pineapple and mix the pieces in with blueberries and that makes for a nice snack, especially during the summer months. Thing is, after a couple of days the cantaloupe gets bored and turns translucent.

There’s nothing really wrong with it – it just loses some of its flavor and is a tad off-putting from a visual standpoint. In the pre-COVID era such chunks would be chunked, but now even the see-through pieces of cantaloupe get gobbled.

And finally, there’s the potato chip issue.

A staple of my diet since I was a child, I used to take great pleasure in opening a bag and carefully pulling out a large, unbroken crisp. None were ever completely round and often came in interesting shapes. I remember one back in 2014 that looked like former Soviet Union President Mikhail Gorbachev’s head, although I sometimes wonder why I’d remember the shape of Gorbachev’s head 23 years after he left office.

Anyway, I would eat all of the whole chips before finally consenting to nosh on the half chips, but once I got down to the quarter chips, I’d throw the bag away.

Not anymore.

I now devour every last piece of chip dust to the point that – when I’m done – there is nothing remaining in the bag but the bag itself.

One day – maybe five, 10 years down the road – the coronavirus crisis will hopefully pass, but I’m confident the lessons learned from quarantine will stick with me.

Going forward I’ll continue to respect bread heels, enjoy peanut butter to the last drop, and leave no chip behind.

Oh, and I’ll probably still stay away from most of you people. It’s nothing personal – I just don’t want to have to share what’s left of my peanut butter.

Ten years ago today, I smoked my last cigarette.

I realize you probably don’t care, but I’m going to write about it anyway because going an entire decade without sucking on a lung dart is a pretty big deal to me. Keep in mind, I was not a “casual” smoker or “social” smoker – I was addicted to the point of being obsessed. My entire day was built around filtered menthol cigarettes.

Smoking was my first official act of any given morning.

The alarm would go off, I’d cough profusely, reach for my glasses, then reach for my lighter, then reach for a cigarette, then light it and take a drag, then cough profusely again, then take another drag.

After I finished my first one I’d have another with my starter cup of coffee, then a third one with my second cup of Joe.

My fourth was smoked when I took the dog out, and what’s interesting here is that for years I didn’t even have a dog. Still, I took him out anyway because I needed to get some fresh air while I burned one.

I’d even smoke in the shower – I kid you not. I mean, how sad is that?

Basically when I shower I wash my hair, rinse, lather my body, rinse, then use a wash rag to give my bits and pieces the ol’ dust and shine. This is not a long process and I think most people could’ve made it through without a cancer stick.

Still, there was a period in my life when – after the hair wash and rinse – I’d peek my head out from behind the shower curtain, dry my hand, and fire up a smoke that I would furiously puff on before the hot water started to run out.

It sounds ridiculous, but it’s no less true.

And going to movies was a real chore. The whole time I was watching “Halloween 4: The Return of Michael Myers” I was hoping he’d just go ahead and kill everybody so I could leave the theater and light up.

Damn, that was a long 88 minutes.

By the time I reached the end of a day I’d gone through at least two packs of cigarettes and would’ve smoked more except doing so proved to be difficult while I slept.

When you build your world around gaspers the coughing gets worse and you develop yellow teeth and yellow fingers. But as glamorous as all that sounds, at some point (hopefully) you realize smoking is not a good decision.

I reached this point in June of 2010.

Mary had begged and pleaded with me to quit and I kept saying I’d try, but I wasn’t trying nearly hard enough. Despite the fact that I would get out of breath walking from the couch to the kitchen and wheezed like Muttley the cartoon dog, I kept smoking like I was getting paid for it.

Then – on June 10 – it came to a screeching halt.

While reading about the adverse effects of smoking I came upon a photo of dogs and monkeys being forced to inhale cigarette smoke during laboratory tests.

I had tried a nicotine patch before (it gave me vivid nightmares), nicotine gum (it was merely a shot to my cigarette chaser), and stop-smoking pills (a side effect was cranking up my depression level to 11), but the desire to smoke never truly ceased.

I even considered hypnosis, but was afraid I’d wind up like those sleeper agents from the movie “Telefon” who are activated by a code phrase and then start blowing up shit.

When I saw that photo of animals being abused, though, I decided to never put a cigarette in my mouth again.

Anyone who knows me knows that overall I prefer critters to humans (not you, though – you’re terrific), and seeing this kind of cruelty was a real “scared straight” moment for me. I couldn’t and wouldn’t support an industry that supported this.

I called Mary and said, “If I ever smoke another cigarette, hit me over the head with a 9-iron.”

Turns out, she never had to whack me, because I have yet to fall off the wagon – and I see no scenario where it might happen.

I find the smell of wafting cigarette smoke extremely unpleasant, and when it’s on people’s clothes it gives off the scent of a wet goat that stuck its butt in an ashtray.

To know that I once smelled like this is embarrassing.

Now, this is not intended to shame anyone; I tried to quit many times before I was finally shocked into going cold turkey.  Depending on who you are there are varying degrees of difficulty, and you have to make a commitment and find a quitting plan that works for you.

But 10 years later I don’t cough unless I’m sick, I don’t wheeze at all, I have real dogs to walk, and I can walk for miles because my lungs don’t hate me anymore.

If I can quit, anyone can do it.

And be honest – you don’t want to smell like a wet goat that stuck its butt in an ashtray, do you?

In an effort to not make others sick or get sick ourselves during the COVID-19 pandemic, Mary and I have taken the whole “Stay At Home” initiative quite seriously. Except for necessary (and brief) runs to the grocery store every couple of weeks, we’re staying put.

Naturally, changes to your routine can be unsettling regardless of the situation, and there are some people who are dealing with this by bitching and moaning.

We are not those people.

Instead, we’re doing what we can to make the best of this unique and challenging time.

How?

Thanks for asking.

Using my child-like imagination and middle school-like maturity, I have created five games that many of you might find fun and interesting. Some are not for everyone, but every one is for some – or something to that effect.

Anyway, here’s a quick guide to my stay-at-home fun:

PLAY DRESS-UP

If you’ve got clothes, you can play dress up.

During a quarantine you’re in danger of falling into a rut and wearing sweatpants and a tee shirt – or in my case, a cape and cowl – all the time. But sometimes it’s nice to put on “good” clothes even if all you’re doing is walking back and forth to the mail box.

Last week I wore a sports coat and tank top while vacuuming, and just yesterday I did laundry in tube socks, a sweater vest and bicycle shorts.

If you have a feather boa in the closet (and who doesn’t?), pair it with a snappy pair of capris and take a stroll around the block.

Mix, match – just have fun. No judgment here.

MORON GRASS CUTTING

I’ve always enjoyed cutting the yard because it’s a way to spend some quality time with myself. But to increase the fun factor during the pandemic, I now pretend that I’m participating in a competitive sport.

As a member of the Mower Operator Racing Organization Network (MORON), I square off against other international grass-cutting stars in an effort to win the Jug O’ Gas Trophy, the award reserved for MORON’s champion.

On Friday I was running on fumes but still managed to hold off my friend and biggest rival, Canada’s Geddy Lee.

(I realize Geddy Lee is also the name of the guy in Rush, but this is a different Geddy Lee. They’re probably related, though. I’ll ask him when I see him at the pre-race Media Day next week).

SOCKLESS SOCK PUPPET SHOWS

I’ve always found sock puppetry entertaining, but I learned pretty early on that it was just hands inside socks. So, I simply do sock puppetry barehanded.

Really, it’s more entertaining this way.

You can make your hands look like dogs, sharks or even just talking hands if you don’t want to think too much. And the show lasts as long or as short as you’re comfortable with.

By next weekend I’m hoping to perform a sockless puppet show version of “The Godfather,” although I can’t quite figure out how to do the scene where Sonny gets ambushed on the Jones Beach Causeway.

IN-HOUSE BED AND BREAKFAST

I’ve never stayed at a bed and breakfast and, obviously, won’t be going to one in the foreseeable future. That doesn’t mean I can’t turn my own abode into one.

And the best part is it’s easy because all you really need to do is just rearrange the furniture.

For example, in our den the futon is against the wall and there are rocking chairs in the corners of the room. But, if I move the futon into the center of the room and put the rockers on either side, the feng shui is dramatically altered.

Once this is done I go out my front door and then re-enter, where I’ll say something like, “Oh, Mr. Adamson, what a lovely bed and breakfast you have. I look forward to staying here and watching your sockless sock puppet show.”

Then I’ll go to bed, wake up, eat a Pop-Tart, write myself a check to pay for my stay at the B&B, and drive around the block.

This will give Mary enough time to put the furniture back in place so that when I return I can come inside and say, “That B&B was nice, but I sure am glad to be back home.”

WITNESS PROTECTION GAME

Finally, I give you my favorite activity – one in which I change my appearance and assume a new identity to protect me and my family from the Mob. (As far as I know the Mob isn’t actually after me and/or my family, but it’s part of the fantasy and sometimes your past catches up with you).

A few weeks into the lockdown my hair got thick and long and my beard grew scraggly. Luckily for me Mary is a pretty darn good amateur cosmetologist and she thinned out my locks and gave me a short, tight cut.

Afterwards, I shaved off my beard.

The difference in my look is pretty startling, especially since I have a very small mouth. In fact, when I pucker, I look a bit like an anus with eyeglasses.

So, for the purpose of this week’s Witness Protection Game, I have been relocated to Gresham, Oregon, and now go by the name “Guy Assface.”