Category: Funny Business

Science, the practice that has helped the smarter ones among us accept that the earth is round and a tomato is a fruit, is at it again.

This time, scientists are studying the age-old question of which species is smarter – cats or dogs.

And according to researchers at Vanderbilt University, dogs win.

You see, the number of neurons in the brain is associated with higher intelligence, and apparently pooches have far more than pusses.

“I believe the absolute number of neurons an animal has, especially in the cerebral cortex, determines the richness of their internal mental state and their ability to predict what is about to happen in their environment based on past experience,” neuroscientist Suzana Herculano-Houzel told ScienceAlert magazine.

While we once thought cats had the clear edge here, this study showed that dogs have 530 million cortical neurons to 250 million for cats. And I’m not about to argue with anyone wearing a lab coat.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have never given this much thought because, frankly, I never cared.
I spent many years of my life as a “dog person” and mainly dealt with cats on a supervised visitation basis only. However, cats have been a major part of my world the past 10 years, so now I’m also a “cat person.”

In fact, while the cast of characters has changed much over the years due to various Rainbow Bridge crossings (and don’t ask me to read the Rainbow Bridge poem because I’ll just start to cry, dammit), my wife and I are currently parents to one dog and two shelter cats.

The dog is Charlie, a 9-year old Shetland sheepdog; the ginger cat is Thor: God of Thunder, age 3; and our gray and white long-haired tabby is Bane: Breaker of the Bat. He’s just 6 months old.

Cats and dogs cannot talk, obviously, so I couldn’t ask them a series of questions to determine their intelligence. So I had to sit them at a table with pen and paper and get them to write down what was important to them.

Here are the results:

 

CHARLIE

Food in morning good.

Food in afternoon good.

Food at night good.

Olive that fall on floor good.

Dessert in sandy box for cats good.

Treats is good.

Butt of Baby Cat good.

Belly rub that makes leg move fast is good.

Man and Wo-Man that kisses top of head good.

 

THOR

Let’s see … where do I begin?

I sleep approximately 20 hours a day, utilizing various locales throughout the facility provided by Wo-Man and Man.

I do enjoy a good book, and am currently reading a biography of Nikola Tesla, best known for his contributions to the design of the modern alternating current electricity supply system. A truly interesting Man who I understand possessed a magnificent singing voice.

The sustenance is adequate as a cylinder situated on a high, flat surface is most often filled with crunchable food stuffs. On occasion a softer, more flavorful meal is provided, but I’ve yet to determine what actions on my part initiate this activity.

Dog is harmless and mildly amusing, while Baby Cat is a weird little bastard.

 

BANE

Oh, you think darkness is your ally. But you merely adopted the dark; I was born in it, molded by it. I didn’t see the light until I was already a man, by then it was nothing to me but blinding. The shadows betray you, because they belong to me. I will show you where I have made my home while preparing to bring justice. Then I will break you.

Ah. I’m just funnin’ with you. That’s from The Dark Knight Rises, which is a DVD Man plays a lot so I’ve had a chance to memorize a bunch of lines. I’ll sit on his lap while he watches, and occasionally he’ll give me skitches on the chin and kisses on the head.

Life is pretty chill here … plenty of eats.

Dog and I get along well. We play a lot and he licks my ears and butt. Not sure how I feel about the latter yet.

I love messing with Older Cat. He used to beat me up when I was little, but a couple of weeks ago I went Medieval on his ass and he’s a little scared of me now.

Wo-Man is cool. She combs me a lot and, like Man, kisses me on the head.

That sums it up. If you have any more questions shoot me a text and I’ll get back with you.

 

After reading these responses one would be inclined to believe that perhaps the research is wrong – cats do seem to be smarter than dogs.

As far as I’m concerned, though, all the science isn’t in yet.

After all, Charlie won a combined $367 from Thor and Bane playing poker last Friday.

I’m sure you know by now that England’s Prince Harry and California’s Meghan Markle are set to have a royal wedding in May.

What you may not know is that I don’t give a rat’s ass.

While that attitude makes me sound like a proper wanker, please know it’s nothing personal at all. From everything I’ve heard about Harry, he’s a good dude. And even though I’m not overly familiar with Ms. Markle’s work as an actor, she’s a committed humanitarian, and we’d all do well to undertake more humanitarian efforts – especially in today’s world.

They seem like lovely people and hopefully they’ll have a long and happy life together. I sincerely wish them the best, just as I wish all decent humans the best in all their decent endeavors.

Still, there’s the rat’s-ass factor.

Any time a “royal wedding” is announced hundreds of thousands of Americans get all excited, as though it’s relevant to their lives and they’re going to be invited to the event.

Guess what?

It’s not and you won’t, despite the fact that the bride is American (at least until she becomes the Duchess of Sussex).

The couple nuptials will get knotted at Windsor Castle in the 15^th century St. George’s Chapel.

This is not like driving to Gatlinburg and having some rent-a-rev perform your ceremony at a tiny house chapel in front of a bunch of hung-over friends.

Nope, this is a major deal, with so much pomp and circumstance that extra pomp and circumstance will have to be shipped in just to ensure there is enough to go around.

Windsor Castle, by the way, is one of Queen Elizabeth’s residences, which means it probably has a kitchenette and big screen TV. That makes the locale even swankier.

In the United States, it’s tradition for the bride’s side of the family to pay for the wedding (or in the deep south, pay at least one month’s rent on the trailer.) In the case of this royal affair, Ms. Markle’s folks can rest easy because Harry’s people will foot the bill.

And they should.

Queen Elizabeth cleared $54.6 million in 2016, but a huge cost-of-ruling increase in 2017 upped her salary to $97.2 million.

That’s some righteous coin, especially since all she has to do is wave at peasants and occasionally hit somebody on the shoulder with a sword while dubbing them “Sir”.

And obviously, that kind of money means the rehearsal dinner will consist of more than just chicken wings and tater tots.

There will be fish and goose and veal and shrimp and duck and unicorn (along with chicken wings and tater tots, because they’re classics.)

And it’ll be held at a really nice place. I’m not sure they’ve decided on a restaurant yet, but if there’s a Cracker Barrel within walking distance of Windsor Castle, that’s where I’d have it. That way the royal kids could play checkers by the fire.

And my god, can you imagine the cost of Ms. Markle’s wedding dress?

Trust me, they don’t make ‘em like that at Dress Barn. Even as we speak, thousands of genetically enhanced silkworms are busy building it.

And of course, the event will be televised to a gazillion people around the world and millions of Americans will get up in the middle of the night to watch like it’s the World Cup or something.

And they’ll keep watching as the party shifts to Buckingham Palace, where an international Who’s Who of the rich and famous will gather for heavy hors d’oeuvres and karaoke.

I think I remember reading that at William and Kate’s wedding reception, Prince Philip brought down the house with his rendition of “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy.”

Still, I don’t understand the obsession.

For a nation that put so much time and effort breaking away from England and vowing to never again bow to any man or woman, we sure spend an inordinate amount of time getting all worked up when a prince or princess decides to get hitched.

But, whatever.

If that’s what tickles your nether regions, then go ahead and swoon over the Duchess of Sussex and Duke of Hazzard.

As for me, I’ll take a hard pass.

And cheerfully not give a rat’s ass.

 

When I was a little kid, I thought my parents were ancient.

My father was 43 and my mother, 34, when I was born, so once I was a teenager, Pop was already in his mid-50s and mom in her mid-40s.

I couldn’t imagine ever getting that “old.”

But guess what?

I’m 56, and on New Year’s Eve, I’ll be 57. If young people now look at me the way I once looked at people my age … well, they’re wrong.

The late, great Satchel Paige said, “Age is a case of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it don’t matter.” Forget for a moment that he’s dead, which negates the argument somewhat … that’s a really cool quote.

And now, it’s a rallying cry for me. Although I can’t stop you from thinking I’m old, I sure as hell can stop me from thinking I’m old.

Sadly, there are men my age who perpetuate the stereotype that makes us all look ancient and out of touch, and I’d like to address that if I may.

For starters, we should never wear “jorts” – at any time, under any circumstance.

Jorts, of course, are blue jean shorts. I’m pretty sure they were created as a joke, but enough jackasses took the joke seriously that jorts became a thing. I cringe every time I see some poor bastard running around in truncated denim.

You’re not Daisy Duke, buddy, so go home and change.

Then there are sandals (or mandals).

I, for one, never have and never will wear sandals. I think they look ridiculous on men. If you’re wandering around the Middle East healing people then I guess they’re OK, but otherwise nobody wants to see man toes.

And the whole socks worn with sandals thing is horrifying in its own way.

Mandals, I assume, exist to let the pigs breathe, so socks defeat the entire purpose.

Here’s a rule of thumb; if you wear socks with sandals, you’re going to look like a dumbass.

Remember the wisdom of Batman: “It’s not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me.” No one wants to be defined by wearing socks and sandals.

Also, don’t wear really bright white athletic shoes with really bright white socks, or dress shoes and dark socks with shorts.

The latter is more an issue with men in their late 60s and beyond, but I’ve noticed the former among my age group.

I can’t quite put my finger on what makes the bright white sock/shoe combo scream “old,” but it does.

On a related note, don’t call athletic shoes “sneakers” or “tennis shoes.” Both terms will result in getting at least one check on the old man box. In fact, just be aware of language in general any time you’re around millennials. For example, when they use the word “cornhole,” just know that it doesn’t mean what you think it means.

Music choices are also a sign of aging.

I’m proud to say I’m a fan of modern alternative music, and there is not a day that goes by when I don’t listen to the Ramones and AC/DC. So if you tend to skew towards 1970s “light rock” or “soft rock” or whatever they call that crap, we can never be friends.

Playing an Air Supply or Bread song calls for an ass-kicking … I’m just telling you.

And when you talk about the old days (mainly the 1970s and 1980s), do it either ironically or as a point of reference.

Don’t long for them.

When you say something like, “I remember back when there were only three TV channels and we didn’t have remote controls … we had to get up and change the channels manually,” no one cares.

There are also people who remember polio, Joseph McCarthy and a thin Orson Welles, but there’s no real point in bringing all that up now.

Look – I’m not running from my age. I get that I’m in the third quarter of the football game of my life. Still, I don’t feel old.

I’m in better physical shape now than I was 20 years ago.

My mind is still relatively sharp – I’ve yet to wander out onto the porch naked (unless it was planned), and I only forget to shower once or twice a year.

But more importantly, I don’t walk around in jorts and mandals, sing along with Neal Sedaka, or talk about how the 1970s were a simpler, better time.

I’ve gotten older, but I haven’t gotten old.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna crank up “Back In Black” as loud as it’ll go before watching “Matlock” and then taking a nap.