Category: Funny Business

For most of my life, I’ve hoped that one day I’d transform into a werewolf. Now, however, I’m about ready to give up on the dream.

I mean, if it didn’t happen yesterday, it probably ain’t ever gonna happen.

Friday the 13^th … harvest moon … there was absolutely no better time.

Ever heard the expression, “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity?” It’s attributed to Seneca. (I actually thought late football coach George Allen came up with it, but that’s beside the point.) The point is, I’m not lucky because I have spent decades preparing myself for a metamorphosis and the perfect opportunity came and went.

Do you know when the next full moon pairs up with a Friday the 13^th?

August 13, 2049.

I’ll be 89.

I guess I could still be alive, but my best werewolf days will be behind me. Oh, I might be able to foam at the mouth – a wolf man cliché – but that’ll probably be more a function of age or acid reflux than lycanthropy.

I already drool a little, anyway.

Now, before you think I’m some sort of nut, I realize that it would be extremely difficult for me to turn into a werewolf. I have not been bitten by a werewolf nor do I carry the gene. And even if I could shift my shape, I have no desire to be the kind of monster you’ve seen in movies like “The Howling” or “An American Werewolf In London.” I don’t want to hurt any animals or other human beings. About the worst thing I’d do is wrestle a nut away from a squirrel, or steal some kale from hippies.

As the world’s first documented vegetarian werewolf, basically I’d just want to get hairy and run around in the woods while wearing tattered clothes. I’ve always thought that would be a good look for me.

My obsession started when I saw Lon Chaney Jr. play “The Wolf Man” in the classic 1941 film.

It’s responsible for the first poem I memorized …

“Even a man who is pure in heart
and says his prayers by night
may become a wolf when the wolf’s bane blooms
and the autumn moon is bright.”

 Dude just sat down on a chair and before I knew it, hair sprouted all over his face, he developed an under bite and – dressed smartly in a long sleeve, button-down shirt and slacks – jumped out a window and wolfed out all night long.

I thought that was just fantastic.

I remember seeing it late at night one weekend and then coming to school on Monday and excitedly asking my teacher what she knew about werewolves.

She didn’t know shit, and that disappointed me.

But being a precocious little fellow, I learned all I could on my own.

One big takeaway from my studies is that “lycanthropy” has two definitions.

The first is, “the supernatural transformation of a person into a wolf, as recounted in folk tales.”

I like that one. It speaks to my soul.

The second is, “a form of madness involving the delusion of being an animal, usually a wolf, with correspondingly altered behavior.”

That’s disturbing, and takes much of the fun out of the fantasy. Plus, you might wind up contracting rabies or have to get a tetanus shot should you happen to rip your legs on barbed wire while trying to capture and eat chickens.

But before I discovered sportsball, I spent many a day on the playground pretending to be a werewolf. As I think I’ve told you before, I even carried a tube of toothpaste with me so I could put a dab in my mouth and create foam.

It was kinda gross, but I had the freshest breath in second grade.

I still miss those carefree days, but realize if I did that now the manager at Publix might think I stole the toothpaste, and it’d make for an uncomfortable situation for all involved.

It might be worth the risk, though.

So here we are, on Saturday the 14^th, and there is no evidence whatsoever that my dream came true the night before.

No tattered clothes.

No mud on the floor.

Nary a wolf’s bane corsage to be found.

I’m sorta depressed about it now, but as time goes by and 2049 draws closer, I might build up for one last shot.

Either way, I’m bringing my own toothpaste to the assisted living facility.

My playground days aren’t over until I say they are.

Having two dogs and two cats share my world means that my world is often in a state of chaos.

Steve Rogers, the Chihuahua, spends an inordinate amount of time menacing Thor, our jittery ginger tabby.

Bane, our full-figured, fluffy gray tabby, enjoys dining on anything wicker or leather and violating my personal space whenever possible.

And Charlie, our Sheltie, tries to steer clear of it all because he’s a dog of peace.

A lot of times when Mary and I leave the house for lunch or to run errands we’re exiting what appears to be a petting zoo gone wild, and I admit it’s nice to have just a little bit of “us” time.

Invariably, though, when we get back home all the critters are nice and calm, causing me to wonder what they’ve done – and what they talked about – while we were gone.

A typical weekend day sees us head out for the afternoon, and I kiss them all on their heads and tell them I love them. I also leave one in charge because I like to show I trust them with responsibility.

As I get in the car I glance up at the window and Steve – standing on a stool in the den with his front paws on the window sill – is looking out at me.

Then we drive away, and out of sight.

Here’s what I think happens once we’re gone …

“OK, they just rounded the corner,” says Steve, his tail wagging furiously. “Man, I hope that lady comes back with chicken. I love chicken. Chicken is a thing that I can eat any time and every time. You like chicken don’t you, Charlie, huh? Huh? Huh?

Charlie stretches out on the hardwood floor and sighs.

“Yes,” he says. “I like chicken.”

Steve continues looking out the window and wagging.

“Hey, Bane,” Steve says, “Do you remember that time that lady left the chicken in her purse and you knocked the purse over and all that delicious chicken fell on the floor?”

Bane, chewing on the edge of a wicker trunk, looks up briefly.

“Indeed,” he says.

Steve jumps down and heads toward Bane. He bites the cat’s ear but is swatted half-heartedly.

“Me and Charlie made quick work of that chicken, didn’t we?” Steve says. “I think you got some, too, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Bane says. “Now leave me alone for a while. I’m trying to destroy this trunk.”

Thor then creeps out of the bedroom, looks at Steve and switches his tail.

“I hate you, you little bastard,” says Thor, immediately retreating.

Steve laughs.

“C’mon, T,” Steve says. “You’re a cat, I’m a dog … it’s like the circle of life from that movie.”

“What movie?” Thor asks.

“You know, that circle of life movie,” Steve says. “Escape from New York.”

Bane, who has now completely removed a corner from the wicker trunk, shakes his head.

“The Lion King,” he says.

“What?” Steve asks.

“The circle of life reference is from The Lion King,” Bane explains. “It’s a song by Sir Elton John. Escape From New York is a John Carpenter film set in a dystopian America, circa 1999.”

Steve looks confused.

“Yeah, I don’t know nothing about no circus in 1999,” Steve says. “I’m just trying to explain to my orange friend that fightin’ and feudin’ is what we’re designed to do. We’re like those famous families that fought all the time – I think their names were Cagney and Lacey.”

Bane rolls his eyes.

“The Hatfields and McCoys,” Bane says. “That’s who you’re talking about.”

“Were they in Escape from New York?” Steve asks.

Before Bane could swat him, Steve senses movement outside and retakes his spot on the stool. Once in position, he notices a man and woman walking a small dog on the sidewalk.

“Hey!” he barks. “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Get the hell out of here with that vermin. I swear I’ll jump through this window and jack all your asses up. ALL. YOUR. ASSES. UP! “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!”

Charlie chews his butt briefly, looks up at Steve, and says, “You make me nervous with your noise. Please don’t make any more noise.”

Thor mews slightly as he walks away, muttering, “I hate you, you little bastard,” under his breath.

After the danger passes – meaning after the man, woman and dog pass – Steve starts talking about chicken again.

I figure this goes on for roughly another hour, and then they sleep for, oh, a good two hours.

Steve – now on the futon with Bane and Thor while Charlie continues to snooze on the floor – perks up when he hears our car doors close.

We’re home.

“Be cool, guys,” he says. “They’re back. I just hope that lady has some chicken. Me and you like chicken, don’t we Charlie? Huh? Huh? Huh?”

Recently I wrote about “day dating” and mentioned that one of the perks is going to movies in the mornings or afternoons.

For the most part, you’ll either have the theater to yourselves or be among just a smattering of people who want plenty of elbow room.

However, our last trip to the local Cineplex made me think that perhaps my days of watching movies on the big screen could be coming to a close.

Why?

Assigned seating.

Yep, I had no idea this was a thing (and it wasn’t a thing when we saw “Avengers: Endgame” in April or “Rocketman” last month), but it is now.

We headed to the 9:30 a.m. showing of “Spider-Man: Far From Home,” paid our money, and then were asked to choose our seats.

The ticket-seller pointed to a seating chart that was attached to the glass partition by the transaction window.

“The open seats are in blue,” she said. “Just select whichever two you like.”

Even though I’m eligible for a discount at Denny’s and continually get mail from those killjoys at AARP who want me to feel old, I like to think of myself as young at heart and technologically savvy.

So I decided to press seats 1 and 2 on row O, which is the last row of the theater.

We like the last row because you’re up high and can plop your head back on the wall. You can also see the rest of the movie goers, so it’s easier to mock them.

Anyway, I kept pressing and nothing happened and was finally informed that it was merely a sheet of paper taped to the glass. Me pressing did nothing but provide some pretty prominent fingerprints.

This might’ve embarrassed someone else, but not me. I just told her I was kidding … I knew it was merely paper taped to glass.*

* I wasn’t kidding. I kept waiting for the damn numbers to light up.

Turns out I had to verbally announce my seat selection, so in this game of theater bingo I made my pick and was handed my tickets.

In this instance, it was no big deal.

I think we counted five people in the theater other than us, so even if we’d been seated next to someone who smelled of cigarettes, pickles, Bud Light and damp ass, we could’ve moved to several other desirable locales.

But here’s my worry: Matt Reeves’ “The Batman” premieres on June 25, 2021. That’s a Friday, meaning there will be Thursday night preview showings on June 24.

Obviously I’ll be at one of those (probably the midnight showing) and because he’s Batman, I expect all early screenings to sell out.

So … as soon as tickets go on sale (and they haven’t yet – I checked) I’m going to have to select my back row seats well in advance with no clue who I’ll be sitting next to.

And that’s gonna suck.

For one thing, the back row is the “Flatulence Zone.” I’m admitting nothing here other than to say gas events often take place there.

So if cigarettes, pickles, Bud Light and damp ass guy sits next to me – and recently ate a deviled egg – there’s gonna be a situation.

And even though there are numbers on the tickets you know as well as I do there’ll be some jackass who’ll sit in your seat.

You’ll then have to tell the person they’re in your seat, and things are bound to get uncomfortable.

If it’s a tiny old man – no more than 5-1, 130 and preferably suffering from asthma – I could probably just pick him up and put him in the aisle.

But what if it’s a big kid who could beat me up?

That means I have the option of telling an usher someone is in my seat (and still probably getting beat up) or taking someone else’s seat and continuing the cycle of chaos and potential bloodshed.

Nope, I don’t like this new system at all. Obviously the people who run theaters think it’s a good idea but it just seems to me like it’ll cause more problems than it’s worth.

Regardless, I’m already getting emotionally prepared for June 24, 2021, and dreading who my viewing companions might be.

I do plan on eating plenty of garlic before I go, though.

If I have to deal with cigarettes, pickles, Bud Light and damp ass guy, I want to be able to fight back.