I can’t believe it’s Monday again

Tried to type “Olive Garden” in a cell phone text message the other day. The auto-complete feature wanted to change it to “Oligarch Garbage.” Either way, I think the recipient of my message would’ve known which restaurant I was talking about.  


I’ve written before about the fundamentalist aunt who didn’t bother to get the oil changed in her car because she felt the Rapture was at hand. I’m developing a similarly apocalyptic view with regard to my diet.  

It now seems likely that between global warming, terrorism, a devastated economy, earthquakes, rogue asteroids, and the rise of teen sensation Justin Bieber, the end of the world is truly around the corner. If such is the case, what is really the point in eating sensibly? Are clogged arteries or dangerously high blood sugar ever going to be a match for a fiery holocaust?  

I suppose I could wait until the End Times are actually upon us to begin to gorge, though I can’t imagine the new Triple Chocolate Muffin at Dunkin Donuts will taste quite the same with a bloodstream full of adrenalin.  


Is sympathy and caring that’s planned ahead any less sincere?  

I ask this question as I help my son through his current illness. When I go to bed earlier than he does, I’ll awake during the night and want to know how he’s feeling. I’ll typically do this by sending a text message from my room to his, so neither of us are stirred too much that we can’t return quickly to sleep. I’ll ask “doin ok?” and he’ll answer “yep” and we can both resume our rest reassured.  

I’ve learned that I can also pre-load “quick note” messages in advance into the memory of the phone, then call them up and send them with even better chance of getting back to sleep quickly. If I keep asking “doin ok?” every night, it’ll be obvious that his dad has essentially turned into a robo-caller, and he’ll next have to listen to me make him an unbelievable credit card offer. So I can mix it up a little: “feelin ok?”, “r u alright?”, “r u ok?” Then I only have to push a single button to make my concern known, instead of several.  

No, that just doesn’t seem right. Not only is the programmed nature of the concern ring phony, but the truncated spellings add to the air of insincerity.  

I think I’ve got a suitable compromise. Since there’s a hefty 140-character limit to these messages, I can type out a lengthier inquiry in advance, which will adequately simulate the nearby presence of a caring parent.  


Not known for its literacy or for its appreciation of sobriety, my home state of South Carolina has come up with an innovative way to direct poorly schooled drunks to the nearest liquor store. Giant red dots are painted on the exterior of the building.

You don’t need to read, and you don’t have to be sober enough to have retained most of your sight, in order to stumble down the street to find your favorite hootch. Even a thick bank of fog will be no obstacle to the poor alcoholic in search of a snoot-full. Just focus on the bright red dot and soon you’ll be swimming in sauce.

And for those who want it, there’s even an opportunity to improve yourself and your reading skills in the bargain. In addition to the dots, these stores display a giant “ABC” sign, originally to further identify the store as an outlet of the Alcohol Beverage Control board, but also to allow the semi-literate to practice their mastery of the alphabet.

And you wonder why we keep electing such outstanding public officials like Gov. Mark Sanford…

Just follow the dots...


When I paid cash for my breakfast at IHOP on Saturday morning, the cashier handed over my change but fumbled a coin down the side of her podium. It was obvious it would be difficult to retrieve. She gave me an exasperated look as she contemplated how much of a cheapskate I would be.  

“Oh, it’s probably just a penny,” I speculated. “Don’t worry about it.”  

“No,” she said, “I think it might’ve been a dime.”  

Now what am I supposed to say? If my losses are ten times what I thought they’d be, is that acceptable, considering that we’re still talking about a truly negligible amount in today’s inflated economy? Can we laugh off a dime even though I’d make her get down on her hands and knees for a quarter, and crawl through a sewer if she ever dropped my dollar there?  

“That’s okay, too,” I finally said, after what I’m sure was too much of a pause. “The cleaning crew tonight can consider it to be my tip.”  

I could tell she didn’t care for that response, but I figure I bought the right to be a jerk.  


News reports out of the Czech Republic told of a puppy born on the shore of a polluted river that had three heads. I think two heads make a touching political statement about the rape of our environment. Three heads, however, is just showing off.  


An astute reader pointed out last week that I had two consecutive posts where I used the word “vagina.” I’d like to apologize. At least for one of the vaginas.  

Regular followers of this blog will note that I refrain from trafficking in vulgarities. They present the opportunity for a cheap, easy laugh and I’d rather not be funny at all (mission often accomplished) than be dropping f-bombs left and right. I felt at the time that each reference was appropriate in its respective context: in one case, the word was used as an example of a seven-letter “bingo” in Scrabble, and in the other it was part of a joke about a game show in which celebrities decide the route through which a child is to be born.  

I believe now that there are other seven-letter words I could’ve used (“pointed,” “restrain,” “pollute,” etc.) to make the point about Scrabble. There are, however, no other birth canals available, and I stand by my use of the word in that reference.   


In my opinion, having a grown woman say “I’m going to the potty” does little or nothing to lessen the horrifyingly disgusting nature of the act she’s about to perform.


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2 Responses to “I can’t believe it’s Monday again”

  1. planetross Says:

    You are thinking too much again. hee hee!

  2. S Fox Says:

    Large red dots to indicate an alcohol outlet. Hum, me likey!

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