![]() Good morning everybody! Happy February! Spring training opens this month, a sure sign spring is on the way. Pitchers and catchers start reporting in about two weeks! Hope everyone enjoyed their weekend. It was actually pretty nice around here. As I predicted in my Friday newspaper column, touting my ability as an amateur weather guesser, it was a pretty nice weekend. Oh sure there was a little wind, but it didn’t last. As for the local radio/sort-of TV “personality” (we’ll call him Grandad On-Air) who decided to take swings at me on Friday morning, I would appreciate you keeping your weak sophomoric comments to yourself. That old bit about whether Robin is a male or a female died out in second grade when I punched a kid for suggesting that it was a girl’s name. The comments tying me to Batman (third grade) were better…I kind of enjoyed that. The thing is, Grandad On-Air knows damned good and well that I’m a man. He’s met me…more than once. Most of his people know me or have at least talked to me over the phone…does my voice sound like that of a 40-ish female? It was suggested that he took my comments in the newspaper column about Lola Hall (channel nine weather girl) as a personal slam, since he does weather on his own lame-ass TV station with a stationary map and a pointer. Really? You’re that self-important that you think my mentioning Lola Hall was a slam at you? Lola Hall was way cooler back in the day than you’ve ever been or you’ll ever be. Get over yourself. There, I feel better. Oh, by the way, that column runs every Friday in the local newspaper that won’t let me mention their name in this blog. You should come by the office and pick up a copy of the Friday edition so you can read what this is about. Hell, I’ll even pay for your copy. Maybe you can make sense of what put the sandbur in the crotch of Grandad On-Air’s boxers. Went to the Elk’s Rodeo fundraiser Saturday night. I didn’t win anything, but the food was good and the crowd friendly. I really had my sights set on the auction for that Henry .45-70, but it went at a stupid price. Eh well, it was a great cause I suppose. This year, the Elks were donating money to a couple of food security charities here in Cosmic City. Unfortunately, I only had two tickets to the event and needed to get the Wife out of the house. Cousin Fred was most upset that we weren’t bringing him along. I didn’t mention to him that he is the primary cause for the Wife’s cabin fever. So the wife and I were there enjoying the evening, when I look over at the back door to the room, which was open to let a little air in. There coming through the back entrance, in a very sneaky manner, is Cousin Fred who is dressed to the hilt for the evening. He’s wearing a shirt that screams western wear, a pair of furry chaps with a matching vest (still trying to determine what manner of animal those were made from), a huge beaver fur 10-gallon cowboy hat with a turkey feather stuck in the band, and alligator boots with spurs. He was an anti-PETA ad on two legs. I figure the spurs were what gave him away. Beyond it being just plain low-class to wear spurs indoors, the “chink chink chink” sound as he walked was deafening in a room where the ambient noise level was close to that of a ’72 Ford V-8 pickup with no exhaust. When I last saw Cousin Fred, he was being carried back out the door he came in through by three largish, purple-shirted (their 2016 color, I guess) Elks who carried him down the lake and dropped him in. Such was the weekend here at the Compound…nice end to an otherwise weird, twisted week. Take for instance, an article I spotted on the Huffington Post site late last week that describes a funeral in Puerto Rico for a deceased who was an avid poker player. His friends decided it would be fun to have their friend play one more hand of poker as a wake. So they dressed Dearly Departed in his usual poker-playing attire complete with a New York Yankees jacket and ball cap, put largish mirrored sunglasses on his face to conceal the eyes and then propped him up in a chair. Yeah, I know, right? Creepy. One of his closest friends handled the cards for Dearly Departed, giving new meaning to the phrase, playing a dead man’s hand. Comments are closed.
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