Category: Funny Business

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.

 

 

 

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.