Category: Funny Business

Ah, Valentine’s Day.

For some, it means giving or receiving a beautiful bouquet of roses marked up 400 percent and then spending the evening listening to love songs by that guy in “Independence Day.” (And to be clear I’m referring to Harry Connick Jr. and not Will Smith, although “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It” does set a certain mood).

Perhaps the focus of the occasion is a delicious Whitman’s Sampler box, one featuring a delectable variety of assorted chocolates that are really good except for that cherry one that sends you into a sugar coma with one bite.

Or you might go all out and have a romantic dinner at a fancy place like Red Lobster. Think how cool it would be to tell your kids about the time you proposed to mom by hiding her engagement ring in a Cheddar Bay Biscuit. (You could also put the ring in butter dipping sauce but, really, that’s just ridiculous).

I guess one of the more extreme Valentine’s Day celebrations was held in 1929 at a Lincoln Park garage in Chicago when seven members of the North Side Gang were treated to a pair of Thompson submachine guns.

Far be it from me to judge how one marks such a special day, but shit …

Point being, this is the one date above all others when Cupid breaks out his bow and arrow and takes aim at your tender regions.

So how did this whole Valentine’s Day thing get started, anyway?

It’s an interesting story.

St. Valentine was a third century Roman saint who got his start as either a priest or bishop – Wikipedia doesn’t seem to know for sure. Also, he apparently had no first name so I’m going to call him Bobby.

Now, Bobby Valentine is also the name of a former Major League Baseball manager who is currently an athletic director at Sacred Heart University, but this isn’t him. Back during St. Valentine’s Day there was no baseball. The ancient Romans basically spent their leisure time wrestling, boxing and racing. I think miniature golf was also pretty big back then, too.

So going forward, if you see the name “Bobby” or “Bobby Valentine,” know that I’m talking about the old one who played miniature golf and not the modern one who had a .523 winning percentage as an MLB skipper.

Anyway, there are a lot of legends surrounding St. Valentine but no one really knows the exact details. Some say he performed Christian weddings in defiance of Emperor Claudius, which makes him a hero among romantics and caterers.

Others say he would – for no apparent reason – cut little hearts out of parchment and give them to soldiers and persecuted Christians. (He would’ve probably also passed out Sweethearts candy as well, but the New England Confectionary Company was not in business at the time, so the best he could do was give the soldiers and persecuted Christians what amounted to construction paper).

The weird thing to me, though, is that St. Valentine had no pookie of his own. One would think that a legend of love would’ve found love himself, but if you Google “St. Valentine’s girlfriend,” “St. Valentine’s boyfriend,” or “St. Valentine’s Match.com,” you just wind up going down a bunch of rabbit holes.

Sadly, most accounts agree that not only did St. Valentine not have a significant other, but he was beheaded for defying Claudius. Adding insult to injury, his execution took place on February 14, which happens to be Valentine’s Day.

That’s a helluva coincidence if you ask me.

Thankfully, Bobby’s sacrifice did not go unnoticed and ultimately served as the catalyst for modern Valentine’s Day celebrations.

I assume at a marketing meeting held to monetize it the pitch went something like this:

“OK, let’s brainstorm gang – we need a holiday designed around romance that makes people want to spend money. Go.”

“How about Romance Day?”

“Nah, that’s a little too on the nose. Good try though, Karen.”

“I’m thinking Bomp-Chica-Pow-Wow Day where everybody gets naked and throws money at each other.”

“Yeah, clever Stan, but not too family-friendly.”

“Karen, I see you have your hand raised again. Do you have another idea?”

“I do – Valentine’s Day! That was the day that priest and/or bishop got his head cut off for marrying people and passing out construction paper. We could convince stores to sell big, red hearts, or red flowers – roses, maybe – and tell consumers it’s the day when they should spend money on their significant others. I guess we could also push the sale of guillotines, but I’m not sure we want to deal with the liability issues there.”

“I love it, Karen! Let’s make it happen.”

The next thing you knew a beautiful, romantic tradition was born and the rest is lipstick-covered history.

Obviously, there are many different ways to mark February 14. Mary and I plan a cozy evening at home watching a rom-com (either “Pet Sematary” or “They Live”) while dining on the finest peanut butter and Ritz crackers.

But if you should find yourself snarfing up a Cheddar Bay Biscuit and happen to bite down on something hard, don’t worry … It could be an engagement ring.

Of course it could also be the tip of Cupid’s arrow, so be careful.

You might chip a tooth.

I’ve never had much use for New Year’s resolutions.

They sound good when you make them on December 31, but by January 2 you’ve sobered up, found your pants, identified the parlor where you got your scorpion tattoo and forgotten many of the promises you made. Thus, you move on and fall back into old habits.

But with 2020 just a few hours away, I figured I’d give resolutions another shot. I mean, the 21st century version of the “Roaring Twenties” is a special occasion, and I should do my part to make them special.

So here are my New Year’s resolutions for the next 365 days:

I’ll devote more time to Batman.

As you probably know, aside from Mary, my animals, Celtic FC and the Canadian Football League, few things are as important to me as the Dark Knight. He’s been the object of my obsession since the mid-1960s.

However, he got lost in the shuffle a bit in 2019.

With the release of “Avengers: Endgame,” “Captain Marvel” and “Spider-Man: Far From Home,” I was up Marvel’s butt for much of the year.

Throw in “The Mandalorian” – which features both the adorable Baby Yoda and equally adorable Apollo Creed – and I wasn’t nearly as attentive to the needs of the Caped Crusader as I should’ve been.

All that changes starting tomorrow.

While many of you will be watching bowl games, I intend to view Christopher Nolan’s entire “Dark Knight” trilogy while wearing a Batman tee shirt.

In fact, I’ll set aside at least one day each week to the World’s Greatest Detective, whether it be watching films, reading comics and/or graphic novels, or simply wearing a cape and cowl and growling, “I’m Batman!”

It’s the least I can do for the masked man who has given me so much.

I’ll be less antisocial

There was a time – not many years ago – when I would cheerfully answer the door when I heard a knock and engage the knocker in whatever topic they chose.

Now when I hear someone approaching my house, I gather up all the animals, grab my survival pack (this usually includes a can of baked beans, sleeve of PEZ candy and a hammer) and head to the panic room upstairs.

I lock the door and wait up to 24 hours to make sure the threat is over.

Even I can see that’s a bit of an overreaction.

Going forward, I’ll no longer flee when I get a visitor. Instead, I’ll open the door, scream, “Go away, damn you!” and throw pebbles at the person.

It might not seem like much, but it’s a start.

I will eat a green thing every day.

Eating healthy is something I take great pride in, and as someone who has always loved vegetables it’s never been difficult for me to do. And if you’re like me, you’ve probably been told how important it is to “eat something green.”

Maybe it’s broccoli, green beans or kale.

Or maybe – just maybe – it’s a frosted strawberry Pop-Tart.

Believe it or not, the frosting on these Pop-Tarts have green flecks.

I don’t know what they are and I don’t care. I just know that eating a frosted strawberry Pop-Tart every day is something I’m willing to go all-in on.

I will not curse.

And by “I will not curse” what I mean is that I will not, as the dictionary suggests, speak “a solemn utterance intended to invoke a supernatural power to inflict harm or punishment on someone or something.”

I simply don’t have the ability to do such things, although I wish I did because there’s a shitload of you bastards I’d love to smite.

(Cussing, of course, is something I’ll continue to do at an alarming rate).

I will not bash anyone in the head with an oar.

Several years ago I worked with a guy who I simply couldn’t stand. That’s probably more a reflection on me than him, but regardless, he had a punchable face and made me want to puke.

Any time he started to talk, I had the urge to grab a boat paddle and whack him in the side of the head with as much force as I could generate.

I know, that’s terrible, but that’s how I felt.

Fortunately, we’re not a nautical family and have no boats. And since we have no boats, we also have no oars.

So, even if I see this guy – and I hope I don’t – he is in no danger of receiving the business end of a boat paddle from me.

I do have a shovel, though.

I’ve got no qualms about hitting him with that if provoked.

I will not speak ill of the dead, as long as they were decent human beings while they were alive.

All my life I’ve heard that I shouldn’t say anything bad about the deceased, especially when their passing is still fresh.

This seems hypocritical because dying doesn’t suddenly make you a good person, it merely makes you a dead person.

So, I’ll show the same respect – or lack of respect – for the departed as I would have if they still walked among us.

Abraham Lincoln, for example, was a great man overall and you’ll never hear me say anything derogatory about ol’ Honest Abe.

But Andrew Jackson?

Andrew Jackson can kiss my ass.

I will not spank my monkey.

I have no monkey, and would never raise a hand to one under any circumstances.

That being said, if I did have a monkey his name would be Cornelius and I’d dress him like Roddy McDowall.

(If I had a female monkey her name would be Jo March and she’d wear Little Women-style clothing).

Happy New Year!

 

If you’ve made as many trips around the sun as I have, your holiday gathering experiences have run the gamut from wonderful to unbearable.

There are times when getting together provides great comfort and joy – the chance to relive childhood memories, regain the closeness with your siblings that perhaps you’ve lost over the years, and reconnect in a Hallmark Channel kind of way.

Other times, however, you wish you had a chainsaw so that you could cut through the drywall, race to the nearest vehicle, hotwire it, and then head to parts unknown.

Once you’re several states away you start a new life, and ultimately join the federal witness protection program.

Thing is, you don’t know from one visit to the next whether you’ll remember it for all the right reasons or all the wrong ones.

It’s a crapshoot, depending largely on your mood, the mood of those around you, and how long the gathering lasts.

So with Thanksgiving over (mine was great, thanks) and Christmas coming soon, I’ve decided to put together a list of four “holiday life hacks” for your next meeting with kith and kin.

I’m not saying I’ve utilized all of them in the past, but I’m not saying I haven’t.

CHOOSE THE TOPIC OF CONVERSATION

You probably already know that it’s never, ever a good idea to discuss politics or religion at get-togethers, especially when you’re confident your feelings do not align with many others in attendance.

That being the case, it’s important to control the narrative. I’ve found that discussing the Paedophryne amanuensis is a good way to steer the conversation in a non-controversial direction.

For example:

“Hey, Scott,” screams Aunt Willadeene, who hasn’t seen me in 43 years. “Lord, I haven’t seen you in 43 years. You’ve grown!”

“Indeed I have, Aunt Willadeene,” I say. “But you know who hasn’t grown? The Paedophryne amanuensis.”

“The who?”

“The Paedophryne amanuensis.”

“Is that your wife?”

“Oh, no, my wife is Paedophryne Mary. Paedophryne amanuensis is a species of frog from Papua, New Guinea. It’s less than half an inch long and generally considered the world’s smallest known vertebrate.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep. It was discovered in 2009 by a herpetologist and his assistant … the helpertologist.”

“Well, I’ll be. Changing the subject, but I just bought a 50-day survival food bucket from that TV evangelist, Jim Bakker.”

“You know what doesn’t need much food to survive? The Paedophryne amanuensis.”

At this point Aunt Willadeene will move on to the next relative, and you can be sure she won’t be sharing the story of Paedophryne amanuensis. Thus, you can tell it all over again when Uncle Leonard waddles your way.

PASSING THE TIME

At good family gatherings, you have so much fun you lose track of time.

At bad family gatherings, time stands still.

When you’ve run out of things to say and are bored to tears, you have to seek out other options.

Back in the old days I’d smuggle a book in, which serves a couple of purposes. One, you have something to read and two, if there are children around it gives you a chance to gather them in one spot and have story time.

I still remember the looks on the little ones’ faces a decade or so ago when I read them excerpts from Sylvia Path’s “The Bell Jar.”

Fortunately most of us now have smart phones, so if the evening gets too mind-numbing you can do everything from watch a ballgame on your sports app to argue on Twitter with someone you’ve never met and never will meet to buy a used couch on eBay.

But always make sure your phone is charged before you go to any party because if it runs out of juice, you’ll have to figure out something else to do until it’s time to go.

Once when my phone died, I stared at a painting of a duck for more than an hour.

KNOW WHEN TO GO

How long to stay? This has been cussed and discussed since the first Neanderthal family picnic 40,000 years ago when the Jones side of the clan cut out early because they promised to take the kids skull bowling. You don’t want to be rude and leave too quickly, but you certainly don’t want to hang around for hours and hours.

In some instances, I don’t see anything wrong with walking in with your own go box, making a plate, waving at everyone, and then leaving. Less is more, in my opinion.

For some reason I’ve had trouble convincing others to get on board with this, so I find myself staying much longer at any given party.

Two to three hours is the standard minimum I’m told, but in virtually all cases you’ll find couples who’ll “signal” each other when it’s time to go. Perhaps it’s a wink or a tug of the earlobe, or maybe you’ll just ease your way to the exit and then apologize for having to leave so soon.

My signal is to get in the car and drive away.

It’s abrupt, but efficient.

BRING YOUR OWN TRASH CAN

It’s unconventional, but it can be your best friend.

When you arrive at the gathering you might be bringing food, gifts or both, so sometimes if you’re seen with a small trash can people won’t even notice.

For those that do, all you have to say is, “Well, there’s gonna be wrapping paper everywhere and so many paper plates, I just figured we’d have another place to put the garbage.”

But that’s not what it’s for – not at all.

No, sometimes family functions are so full of dysfunction that nothing you can say or do will save the day.

So once Aunt Willadeene starts arguing with her daughter about religion and Uncle Leonard begins yelling at his son about politics you simply drop some paper into the trash can and toss a match onto the paper. This starts a small, contained fire which creates a diversion that startles everyone. Those who are arguing will immediately quit so they can tend to the blaze.

Once it’s doused you’ll be long gone because you slipped away during the chaos.

I hope your next holiday gathering is the best ever, and there’ll be no reason for you to utilize any of these hacks. But they’re available if you need them, and I hope you’ll consider them my gift to you.

Yet if you only remember one, make it the trash can.

When dealing with families, sometimes you have to fight ire with fire.