Category: Funny Business

Perhaps – if I can avoid illness, venomous snakes and stepping in front of a bus – I’ll live long enough to be a very old person.

And if I should reach that milestone (for the purposes of this column, I’ll define “very old” as 90), I vow to get my ass out of the checkout line as quickly as possible when I’m at the supermarket.

Let me explain.

I understand that many very old people are slow, and therefore it takes them a while to get up enough momentum to gather speed. That’s absolutely fine.

I have no problem walking behind a very old person, because, darn it, they’re very old and should be congratulated for still getting out there and being active Sure, there have been times I’ve wanted to leap over them gymnastics style, but I don’t.

I’m a good person and good people don’t leap over very old people unless it’s absolutely necessary.

However, I do have a major issue with supermarket check writers and – I hate to stereotype here – every one I’ve encountered in recent years fall into the very old range.

This is the kind of slow I simply cannot abide.

Yesterday, for example, I made a quick trip to the store to get a handful of items. I won’t name the store, other than to say it sounds like Publix.

So I grab my items (bananas, dog treats, baby bella mushrooms, table tennis balls, rubber dinosaur toy) and get in the aisle that has only one person in front of me.

That person was a very old woman, I’d guess between the age of 90 and 137, dressed smartly in a long sleeve white shirt, black pants and those weird looking black shoes that I always thought would be perfect for kicking field goals (if straight-on field goals was still a thing).

The best part, though, was her shopping basket had only eggs, milk, a loaf of bread and baby powder.

(I like to guess what people do with their groceries and, in this case, I assume she wanted to make sure her butt was cool and dry while she made French Toast).

But …

She was a check writer.

While most of us cool kids use either a credit or debit card for purchases, this very old person did not.

“That’ll be $12.54,” the cashier said.

“Oh … alright dear,” said the woman, reaching into her giant purse.

She carefully fingered through its contents before pulling out a billfold, and after slowly opening the billfold and laying it near the unused credit/debit card swipe terminal, she produced a checkbook.

Her next fishing trip into the bowels of the purse resulted in a ballpoint pen, which she grasped in her left hand while sliding the purse over with her right.

Next, she cracked open the checkbook – again very, very slowly, as if to raise the lid of a vampire’s coffin at twilight – and prepared to put pen to check.

“Who do I make the check out to?” she asked.

“Just make it out to the supermarket that sounds like Publix,” the cashier said.

“How much is it again?”

“It’s $12.54.”

“You said $12.54?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“The baby powder is expensive.”

“Yes ma’am, I guess it is.”

“It’s worth it, though, to keep my butt dry.”

Now this ordeal is bad enough, but supermarket check writers don’t just write checks, they also record the transaction right there on the spot.

So by now the milk has curdled, the bread is molded and the eggs have gone bad, but the very old person is still writing away, making sure to add $12.54 for “groceries” on the line below the $169.95 for “Willie G Skull LED Fuel Gauge” she spent at the Harley dealership.

I’m convinced that by the time she had grabbed her plastic bag of groceries and set out for her bike, the woman I saw come in earlier with the baby in the stroller left with a kid sporting a pornstache and bad attitude.

Now to be completely clear, I love very old people … I truly do. I’m advancing in age myself, and I pray that when I get to the stage where I wear pants up to my teats, younger people will take that into consideration before they trample me.

However, even if I make it to 90, I vow to always go the debit or credit route when checking out at a grocery store that sounds like Publix.

Life’s too short, and none of us are getting any younger.

Waiting rooms are among the most uncomfortable places on earth for me, and I blame my mother for making me feel that way.

But before I get to those mommy issues, a bit of context is required.

On Thursday, from 10:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m., I spent quite a bit of time in a waiting room while my spouse was having a couple of tests done. That meant I had the better part of seven hours to worry, sit, fidget, worry, stare at my iPhone, worry, sit, avoid contact with other people, and worry some more.

The good news is that my favorite human came through her tests even better than expected. That made the day a huge win because it’s always a victory when you leave a hospital or doctor’s office feeling happy.

Still, it was an object lesson in just how out of place I am in such situations. In fact – if the dictionary is correct – I’m what’s known as an ambivert (an extroverted introvert).

An ambivert is someone who is either “on” or “off,” and that sums me up rather nicely.

Back in my paid journalism days, I enjoyed interacting with fans, players and coaches because we were all part of the same “tribe,” even though we had different roles in the village.

And while you can argue that in waiting rooms we constitute a tribe because we’re all there to wait and worry, I much prefer to keep to myself and speak only if spoken to.

Instead of cheerful and confident, I’m shy and reserved.

So after Mary was wheeled away and I was relegated to the waiting room, I found myself “alone” with six other people.

There was an elderly man, who was either sleeping or praying, or possibly praying for sleep.

Two middle-aged women were apparently a package deal, sitting together and talking about their recent trip to Hawaii.

One young woman was wearing ear buds and completely immersed in her smart phone.

And the other two people were, I’m guessing, a grandmother-grandfather combo, with granny rocking short blue hair and a running suit, and grandpappy proving once again that polyester britches never go out of style.

Now, had I not spent many years taking my mother (rest her soul) back and forth to the doctor, I might be the life of the waiting room party today.

Chances are I would’ve jumped into the Hawaii conversation, even though my only knowledge of Hawaii is the two-part Brady Bunch episode that featured Vincent Price and Don Ho, and a tarantula that crawled up Bobby Brady’s shirt.

And if any of the other waiters had made eye contact, I’d have returned the gesture – and probably worked up an almost-sincere smile.

But thanks to mom, I learned not to engage.

See, she was what I call a “Conversation Fisher,” someone who would just plop down and start chatting about whatever was on her mind, hoping someone would take the bait.

What was worse, though, is that she often tried to make me the center of her fishing expeditions.

For example, while in college I worked part-time for a hypertension center. I was majoring in journalism, but this was a job I could do around my class schedule.

Basically all I did was take blood pressures at supermarkets, and when I was “in the field” I was required to wear a lab coat.

Naturally, my mother thought this meant I was training to be a medical doctor.

I’ll never forget sitting with her in the waiting room at one of her checkups and hearing her bellow, “My son, Scotty, is making a doctor.”

There were many things wrong with that sentence, not the least of which was being called “Scotty.” Also, for those of you unfamiliar with southern expressions, “making a doctor” means going to medical school.

I was not making a doctor.

I never had any intention of making a doctor.

(I did once hope to “make a nurse,” but she just wanted to be friends and we never even kissed).

Point being, having mom belt this out to the other waiters was highly embarrassing. Invariably, someone would say something like, “Oh, that’s nice,” or “What are you specializing in?” and I’d have to mumble through an explanation that I was simply taking blood pressures in order to make beer money.

That mattered not to mom … if I was wearing a lab coat then I was, by god, making a doctor.

Finally, after spending many years as a newspaper sports editor, she finally accepted the fact that I was, in fact, a journalist.

She just never quite knew what I did or where I did it.

Jump ahead to another doctor’s office visit. All is relatively quiet and then suddenly, “My son, Scotty, runs the newspaper.”

Nope.

I was head of the sports department at a few papers, but never came close to “running” the whole operation.

Then, when some poor soul would decide to take part in the conversation and ask where I worked, before I could answer mom would say, “Oh, he works at that one where they do all the sports. He’s head of it all.”

Lord, I wanted to crawl under a rock. I loved her and know she meant well, but I reached the point where I dreaded having to sit with her because I knew something awkward was going to happen.

One time – I swear this is true – we were in a waiting room and she tried to engage a deaf woman. Mom didn’t know sign language, so she just made freestyle hand gestures in an effort to communicate.

That was as close as I’ve ever come to setting a trash can on fire just to create a diversion so I could jump out the window and run away.

And now you know the back story of why I tend to lay low while in waiting rooms.

Of course, I did smile when I thought what it would’ve been like had mom accompanied me on Thursday – especially since I was wearing an Avengers tee-shirt.

“My son, Scotty,” she would’ve said proudly, “is one of earth’s mightiest heroes.”

I want a Batmobile and, according to Moneysupermarket.com, it’s going to cost $18 million to get it.

I’m not asking you to give me the money … I’m merely asking that you believe with me that I’ll get it. And I believe the best way for that to happen is for you provide it.

Sound familiar?

It kinda is.

Recently, prosperity preacher Jesse Duplantis garnered plenty of attention when he said the Lord told him he needed a $54 million airplane to spread the good word.

And he makes a point of telling his flock he isn’t asking them for money (wink, wink), he’s just asking them to believe he’ll somehow come up with the necessary cash.

And he probably will, because ol’ Jesse has already got a pretty good gig going thanks to his pay-for-pray business.

The Cajun-spiced pastor lives in a 25-room house with a pair of two-car garages and has already had three jets at his disposal while running his lucrative “ministry.”

I guess while it’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God, Jesse figures if his plane is fast enough it can just strap the camel to the roof and blow right on through.

The sad part – aside from this guy being a shameless con – is that so many people are willing to be conned. I won’t be surprised at all if he gets enough money to score his cool jet, allowing him to stretch the reach of his gospel while stretching his legs and enjoying a cocktail in his spacious cabin.

And he’ll tell you that by helping him enrich his life, it’ll enrich yours.

(Spoiler alert: It won’t).

Still, I have to give Brother Duplantis a bit of credit for inspiring me to chase my dream, which brings me back to the Batmobile.

While there have been many rides for the Caped Crusader over the years – all outstanding in their own way – the one I want is the Tumbler. This is the sweet vehicle which was introduced in the movie “Batman Begins.”

It’s a prototype armored military tank designed as a bridging vehicle. It has state-of-the art weaponry and the ability to boost into a rampless jump.

Why do I need it?

I don’t.

But I want it because as much as I enjoy tooling around town in my 2013 Honda Accord, nothing would be as cool as commandeering the Tumbler.

Now, before you get nervous, I have no plans to use its weapons. There’s a slight chance I could fire off a short-range missile if the car in front of me refuses to immediately move forward when the light turns green, but beyond that, those features would go unused.

Also, I would not utilize the rampless jump; that would be showing off.

And I’ll be honest … me getting a Batmobile probably won’t benefit you at all. It’s a two-seater, so my wife would be the primary passenger and, most likely, only human rider besides me.

Other times I’d use the extra seat to transport my critters to the vet, or to store groceries.

See, while it’s important for Jesse to be able to fly nonstop from New Orleans to New Guinea, it’s important for me to be Batman.

I’ve come to accept the fact that I’m much closer to the Dork Knight than the Dark Knight, but having a Tumbler would make YOU think I’m Batman and, really, that’s all that matters.

So how can you help this happen?

Probably the easiest routes to take are 18 million of you sending me a dollar, or one of you sending me 18 million dollars. Doesn’t matter to me either way … work it out among yourselves.

However, those are hardly the only ways to put me in the Tumbler.

The makers of the vehicle could read this and send me one as thanks for all the great publicity I have given their product.*

* Dear Tumbler makers, if you decide to do that, please include the deluxe Sirius XM package.

Legendary Pictures, makers of Christopher Nolan’s Batman movie trilogy, could do the same. *

* Dear Legendary Pictures, if you decide to do that, please include the deluxe Sirius XM package as well as the butt-warming feature on the driver’s side.

Nolan himself, a man of great means and talent, could buy the Tumbler for me.*

* Dear Chris, if you decide to do that, please include the deluxe Sirius XM package, the butt-warming feature on the driver’s side, and a written explanation of how Bruce Wayne was able to escape The Pit and make it back to Gotham in The Dark Knight Rises.

I’m anxiously waiting to see how all this plays out. And if you decide to help me out, send a DM via Twitter and we can work out a payment schedule.

Then again, maybe I should just ask Jesse.

He seems to know how to get the most bang out of someone else’s buck.

Note from the Editor/Spouse:  Do not, I repeat, do NOT send him money to buy a Batmobile.  He already possesses tiny replicas of said vehicle, which much to my chagrin, are displayed throughout our home.