Category: Funny Business

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.

Funny how you can remember things that happened decades ago but can’t recall what you had for breakfast the day before.

This happens to me a lot, especially when my mind wanders back to grammar school.

I can still see Miss Baker’s hairspray-encrusted beehive – the light dancing off it as the sun beamed through the small window in the main door of my first grade classroom.

At that moment, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Matronly, yes, but it worked for her.

Then there was the time I was with my mother at a department store. We saw a janitor walk into the main restroom and quickly scurry back out, shouting, “Who done this? Who done this thing?”

And yet what I remember more clearly than almost anything else is the story of the first Thanksgiving, which I heard from my Uncle Dwight. He was the “funny” uncle, the one that would often show up at our house wearing a muddy, orange jumpsuit with stenciled numbers on the back. Plus, he always drank sodas from a paper bag.

Whatever the case, in keeping with the season, I’d like to share the story with you today. It might not be exactly how I remember it, but it’s how I want to remember it.

THE FIRST THANKSGIVING

As you know, Native Americans were already living in what we now call the United States at the time of the first Thanksgiving. Back then, it was just called Native America.

This changed when the Pilgrims, who were tired of living under the tyrannical rule of King LeBron James and Marie Antoinette, decided to leave for the new world, so they loaded up on three ships – the Nina, Pinto and Santa Lucia, and made their way to Plymouth Rock. Once there, and with the help of the Mayflower moving company, they unloaded all their stuff.

The head Pilgrim was John Smith, a soldier, explorer, governor (and later kicker for the New England Patriots). At first he was disliked by some of the Native Americans, and at some point they wanted to kill him because he talked a lot and was boring as hell.

But just as one of the Native American leaders was about to hit him in the head with a lacrosse stick, Pocahontas intervened.

Pocahontas was later portrayed eloquently – and I’ll go so far as to say accurately – in that Disney movie where she hung out with a talking hummingbird and Mel Gibson, who we now know is an asshole.

Not sure what happened next, but the Pilgrims and Native Americans finally started getting along, so much so that Smith and Pocahontas even dated briefly. (Things never got serious, though, and they stayed friends right up until she got married to a guy who dealt in tobacco. His name was, I believe, R.J. Reynolds).

The Pilgrims and Native Americans decided to celebrate their newfound friendship with a feast, and figured they’d hold it on Thursday in late November to coincide with NFL games involving the Detroit Lions and Dallas Cowboys.

The menu at the first Thanksgiving featured turkey, cornbread stuffing, sweet peas, squash casserole, green beans, mac and cheese, garlic mashed potatoes, tater tots, Vienna sausages, cranberry sauce (the good kind from the can), buttermilk biscuits, crescent rolls, Red Lobster-style cheddar biscuits, giblet gravy, sweet potato pie, pumpkin pie, Pringles and Easy Cheese.

Hot dogs were made available for the children.

(Vegetarians and vegans were out of luck because, in those days, neither the Pilgrims nor Native Americans went for that shit.)

Anyway, this was all held at the pavilion at the Plymouth Rock Community Center, and it was truly a special time for everyone involved. The kids jumped rope and played kickball together, while the adults decided that diversity would be their strength, even though the Native Americans were from Native America, and the Pilgrims were from Pilgrimia.

This ritual was held every year for decades, but lost some of its luster when Wal-Mart began having Black Friday sales on Thursday. And according to the literature, the town’s only Arby’s location was open half a day on Thanksgiving, so a lot of people ate there as a change of pace.

Needless to say, the holiday has changed much in the billions of years since the Pilgrims and Native Americans first broke bread.

But my hope to you and yours is that on this Thanksgiving if you break bread, someone is there to fix it.

Amen.