Hilarious comic-tary on news, views, and attitudes. Every Saturday morning.
I used to write a fair amount here on my blog, but then I got lazier and now I only manage to write over at The Nudge Wink Report once every month or so. I only write there because of assigned deadlines and my unflagging allegiance to a woman I've never met but love anyway, the lovely Blogdramedy herself. My current profile there is a 30,000 word run-on-sentence and ends up keeping people from scrolling all the way to the comments section. As any blogger will tell you, posting without getting comments is like kissing your first cousin - and not in a hot, West Virginia sort of way. I'm hoping this little blurb can take the place of the other profile and allow people to actually reach the comments section.
If you’re like me, you’ve seen these dopey things and wondered WTF? I guess I need to be more specific. After all, there are any number of dopey things out there in this big old world. I’m not referring to a politician, a reality TV personality or even a narcissistic lunatic. I’ll let everyone else in the world do that. Instead, I’m interested in discussing the “Keep calm and (whatever) on” message found all over T-shirts, bumper stickers and occasional tramp stamps.
As usual, I’m probably late to the party to be wondering what the deal is with these things, but you’re reading this on a blog and not a Tweet or looking at it on a picture on Instagram, so I’m guessing you may be behind the times a little yourself.
If my 45 seconds of internet sleuthing is accurate, the original slogan was “Keep calm and carry on”. It was on a poster the British government came up with way back in 1939. This would explain the presence of what always struck me as a mysterious crown in the middle of the message. It seems the British government was pretty sure that they were going to be bombed by evil forces once WWII picked up more momentum. They put the posters up in buildings in areas which they anticipated were likely targets for attack. There is no evidence to support that the original poster idea was “I say old chap, if you can read this, you bloody well may want to get out of here.”
Most things which have been adopted by modern society have subsequently been butchered or diluted beyond all recognition. There is little if any connection to between the “stiff upper lip – bollocks to Jerry!” tone of the original message and the latest incarnations which run the gamut between “Stay calm and keep carpooling the kids to soccer practice” to “Stay calm and keep doing crossfit”.
One I’ve seen but was too embarrassed to look into read, “Keep calm and chive on”. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t a chive an herb best suited for topping the sour cream on a baked potato? How the hell does someone who’s chiving have any stress at all? Even the busiest of line cooks would agree that putting the finishing garnishes on spuds isn’t exactly a high pressure aspect to their work. (turns out Chive refers to a website which purveys humor and does some sort of good charitable work – so I’ll leave them alone).
Anyway, now that my Keep calm mystery is solved, I’ll move onto the next annoying cultural sesame seed in my metaphorical dentures…See you kids next time.
Good news, I found the G-spot. Turns out we’ve been looking in the wrong place, it’s actually located at the intersection of Route 206 and Monmouth Road just outside of Mt. Holly, New Jersey! For the record, “topless” is not spelled “t-a-p-a-s” – Boy, was that ever an embarrassing discovery!
First, a quick hats off to Carrie Rubin of The Write Transition for bringing this nugget of medical news to my attention. Apparently, a physician in Poland claims to have located the exact location of the infamous “G-spot” of an 83 year old deceased woman during the dissection of her remains.
OK – now go back and re-read that last sentence over again and explain how any card-carrying wise-ass could fail to find at least 20 good jokes in there. To Ms. Rubin’s credit, she merely used the G-Spot reference as a teaser to get lots of us readers all…
There is a player on the Cavaliers who believes the earth is flat. His name is Kyrie Irving and he was born on the other side of what he must see as giant pizza box in a place called Australia. One might be inclined to imagine that anyone who thinks the earth is flat must have had a sub-par education. Kyrie went to a prestigious prep school in northern New Jersey, and later attended a place called Duke University. Either those two institutions are guilty of not providing their star athletes with the most basic of educations, or Kyrie chose to ignore the astronomy portion of his curriculum. Kyrie may be one of the only Duke alum who thinks the earth is flat, but he’s far from alone.
Perhaps Kyrie and the others only believe in things which they can see with their naked eyes. Despite the likelihood that he’s spent more time at thirty five thousand feet than the rest of us, he’s been unable to see any curvature of the planet below, and therefore, it is flat (except the Rockies, which are bumpy). It’s interesting to wonder why there’s never been a fail video on YouTube featuring someone falling off the edge of the planet, excuse me, I meant plane.
We can assume that Kyrie does not believe in the existence of atoms either. The building blocks of our world, in his mind, are small grains of sand – there’s nothing smaller. Wait until he gets old like me and his eyes go bad, then the smallest particle will be a poppy seed. Photosynthesis? Nope. The wind should also not exist. When the snow is hitting Cleveland sideways off the lake, it’s because gravity must have shifted.
Santa Claus, on the other hand, is very real. He’s easy to spot at any shopping mall around December, and down at the liquor store once in a while buying blackberry brandy and scratch offs.
On a more serious note; is believing the earth is flat any more or less ludicrous than believing that global warming is fake news? Surprisingly, many flat earthers do believe in global warming, they just prefer that you refer to it as Planar Heating
Perhaps you’ve seen the commercial for Movantik, the special medicine for opioid induced constipation. For those of you who might not be in the know, one of the unfortunate side effects of opioid use is constipation. If the advertisements are to be believed, the usual laxative choices are simply inadequate for sphincter-cement due to OxyContin. To put it bluntly, milk of magnesia is no match for milk of the poppy.
A wiser path to regularity for opioid users might be to stop taking them and eat a balanced diet with sufficient fiber. Of course, that advice is complicated by a more well-known side effect, known as addiction.
I know what you’re thinking; this is a humor blog, and while (someone else’s) constipation is worth a chuckle or two, opioid addiction is no laughing matter. You’re right of course, and I’ll try to stay off the addiction aspect of this and focus on other things. Take for instance, the recent public service outreaches from New Jersey’s Governor Chris Christie. The man who allegedly forced massive traffic snarls as petty retribution for a political slight and who regularly goes on rants about professional sports teams and their fans – has suddenly taken interest in giving drug users somewhere to turn instead of overdosing. Many believe Governor Christie has a food addiction problem, so it’s understandable that he might have sympathy for others struggling with Chunky Monkeys on their backs.
Here’s a thought; instead of helping people deal with opioid induced constipation, maybe the pharmaceutical industry could work on getting people off of opioids in the first place. A more cynical blogger might point out that getting people off drugs doesn’t help drug company profits. Everything comes back to the almighty dollar. If it’s not about money, why would US troops in Afghanistan be guarding poppy fields? Perhaps they’re just defending the poppies rights to freely elect their own leaders and to not grow up to hate America.
You were right all along – aside from the photo of C.C. in a rather snug baseball uniform, there’s no funny here. Maybe next time.
Subway is now portraying themselves as purveyors of natural, wholesome sammiches. The ad agency must be banking on the American public forgetting all about their clients having used a material commonly found in yoga mats in their bread. One can’t blame the ad agency, after all, they’re dealing with an American public which is generally thought to have the attention span of a caffeinated flea.
By the same token, I know people who haven’t been swimming in the ocean since seeing “Jaws” in 1976. They just can’t forget about it. If they dare to wade in past their ankles, they start hearing that music; “Duhhhh-Dumm…duhhh-dumm…DUMM DUMM DUMM!” Next thing you know, they’re back to baking themselves on the blanket and considering a walk up to the boardwalk to get some curly fries. They may well have read about the risks of eating fried food and how getting sunburns is more dangerous to you than a great white, but they’ve conveniently forgotten about it.
I had a particularly unpleasant experience a couple of years ago. Many of the perpetrators are no longer around, but still, I can’t forget about it. Part of me knows that I need to let it go, but part of me is much more stubborn about it. I tell myself that never forgetting will allow me to keep my defenses up and avoid ever having to deal with any such witch hunt again. My logic may be well intentioned, but I wonder sometimes if I’ll be sitting in a rocking chair at Sunnyvale Convalescent Care someday rambling on about it to some poor soul who thinks Nixon is in the white house.
I had a great idea of how I could wrap this post up in a neat little somewhat humorous bow, but true to form, I forgot it. I do still recall the jingle of a commercial for the International House of Pancakes from the early 70’s, but that doesn’t really help me just now. If the ending comes to me, I’ll try to remember to put it in the comments section below.
I was once told by a very wise man, that I “thought too much”. Sadly, he didn’t stick around this earth long enough for me to let him know that he was onto something.
I’d love to say that I’ve managed to get my over-active brain under control, but that’s not happening. Despite all the magic elixirs the distillers of America, Scotland and Mexico can muster, I still have a tough time putting my gray matter into sleep mode. As if I didn’t have enough things to worry about with the world, I’ve been bombarded with an onslaught of political propaganda for the past six months to drive almost anyone cuckoo. The “green” candidates alone have filled my mailbox with enough paper campaign flyers to reforest Utah.
Despite my raging-yet-ragged brain, or perhaps because of it, I’m not going to waste your time giving my opinion on which candidate deserves your precious vote. I’m not a political expert, nor am I particularly media savvy. I certainly don’t wish to use my massive blogging platform to give either candidate an edge just because of my fickle opinion.
Instead, I’m going to let you in on my plan. That’s right, I have a plan. In spite of my scheme being the fruit of a hyper-active cranium, it’s admittedly vague and riddled with flaws. That being said, it’s still something, and its existence might just be enough to get me through the next week or more.
As much as I’ve tried to ignore the political nonsense, it’s had its effect on me. I’ve become convinced that the end of the world as we know it is just around the corner – like say around lunchtime Wednesday, possibly as late as Happy Hour over at the Blue Monkey. The prospect of having to choose between Trump and Clinton may be just enough to make a sizable portion of the population say something along the lines of:
“Fuck it! We had a good coupla hundred years, amiright? Hell, even if you count the Great Depression and the time the NFL went on strike – this country rocked! All good things come to an end though, just like ‘Breaking Bad’ or ‘Gilligan’s Island’. Let’s just torch the place and maybe make some smores with the kids while we watch it burn.”
Having co-existed with my brain for over half a century, I knew better than to give credence to such outlandish fantasies without a little more evidence. Perhaps a sign of the coming end-of- days would solidify my fears. Then the Chicago Cubs won the World Series. I’m hardly a baseball fan, but I know a harbinger of doom when I see it. When you combine the win with Vladdy Putin being buddies with Steven Segal and Kim Jung Un having diplomatic meetings with Dennis Rodman, it’s time to act.
So I went out to Walmart and bought a water purification gizmo, a flint for starting fire like they do on “Survivor” and a few hundred feet of something called “para-cord” (It’ll come in handy if I need to lash something to something else, or hang some clothes to dry after washing them in a drainage ditch). I splurged on a multi-tool which looks even cooler than my original multi-tool but doesn’t have a corkscrew.
As residents of suburbia, it’s doubtful my wife and I will be able to escape to the wilderness where we could eke out a meager existence in a hut made of sticks and para-cord. There’s simply too much urban blight between us and the mountains. Yeah Philly, I’m talking about you (Please don’t tell Camden we’re here). More likely than not, we’ll just hunker down in my modest home and wait for looters. I don’t have any firearms but I do own a nearly complete set of kitchen knives and a whiffle ball bat, so the interlopers will have to be pretty close before I’ll be able to filet any of them.
Food is going to be an issue, as my wife is a vegetarian. She’ll probably be a little fussy about eating the dog when the time comes. We’ve got a few bags of dried beans laying in the back of the cabinet from the last time I thought the world was ending. If we were hungry enough we could resort to making quinoa – by that stage we wont have to worry about sharing it with the dog.
Having lived through Hurricane Sandy, I’ve got a ton of flashlights and three or four AA batteries. I’m thinking that rechargeable batteries and a solar charger would be good to have. There’s a good chance my wife will kill me for buying all of this crap before I ever get a chance to use it.
I’ll have to make sure I show her how to use the flint to start a fire before she sees the Amazon bill.
I’ve tried to be a good blogger, I really have. I’ve struggled to come up with something interesting to write about, despite my fairly mundane existence. I’ve really made an effort to not be one of those lazy shits who can’t bothered to come up with an original idea and just re-blogs old crap….but dammit, Anthony Weiner can’t help himself and I had this post written months and months ago…and well…I’m sorry, I’m just gonna go ahead and do this…just this once…forgive me boss-lady….
Here’s my exclusive interview with Anthony Weiner’s weiner, again. Click on that link, you probably won’t catch anything.