Mrs. Cranky's Schwinn

THE SCHWINN

 

Twenty-two years ago my wife got a brand new ten speed Schwinn for her birthday.  Mrs. Cranky is not a bike rider, her husband was, and he obviously hoped she would join in his hobby.  It didn’t happen.  The bike went in the garage and was never ridden…never…ever.

Recently Mrs. C’s ex sold his house.  He had no room to store the Schwinn and so Mrs. C brought it to our townhouse. 

“What the hell do you want with that, you’ll never ride it?”

“Casey (step-crank) says old Schwinn’s are worth a lot.”

“If it was made in the USA, yes.  That bike was made in Taiwan.”

“Still, it is ‘Brand New!’”

“We don’t have room in our garage; I'll trip over it every time I use my car!”

“I’m going to sell it!”

Mrs. Cranky put the bike for sale.  She posted a flyer by our community mail pick-up.  She was asking $65.

“Sixty-five dollars?  You can buy a brand new bike at Target for $65.”

“Not a Schwinn.”

“A Schwinn that is 22 years old.”

The asking price stayed.  I wanted to list it for $30 and sell it for $20, just to get rid of it.  I hate selling stuff to strangers.  I hate haggling over a price.  I hate how the buyer picks on every little flaw and tries to drive down the price.  I just hate the used item resell dance.

We got a call; someone was interested in the bike. 

“They are coming over in an hour, could you straighten out the handle bars and blow up the tires.”

I went to the garage to clean up the bike and got a good look at it for the first time.  The bike was 22 years old and did not have a scratch.  It was a perfect ladies pink, gears and chain still lightly oiled.  It was 22 years old and looked like it just came out of the box.  I straightened out the handlebars, and filled the tires to 50 pounds pressure. 

I had to give it to Mrs. C, the bike was pristine.

“I’ll tell you one thing, you are right about the price; I refuse to haggle.  If they want to pay anything less than $60, I’ll pay it.  I could use that bike to go to the mail box or WaWa’s.”

“I told you.”

The buyers came over to see the bike.  The wife wanted to take up riding.  They lived in our townhouse community.  Mrs. Buyer took one look and stepped on it for a trial ride.  I told her she looked good on the bike (she looked real good on the bike.)

Mrs. B rode down the driveway made a sharp turn and hollered to her husband,

“Pay the folks, I’m going home.”

She rode away with a huge grin on her face.

“That’s $65 right.”

We should have listed it for $75.  

No Hablo Espanol?

No Hablo Espanol?

 

My school of higher education required two years of a foreign language in order to graduate with a Bachelor of Arts degree.  Why two years of studying a language that I could only stumble through would be of use to me in the years to come, I still do not understand.  Learning to read and write in proper English made sense.  Taking a semester in Logic was logical.  A year of studying different religions and cultures was probably a worthwhile exercise.

The foreign language thing did not make sense to me, but then neither did a semester of calculus (Not your engineering major’s calculus, but calculus light.)  I still don’t even know what calculus is.  I think it is some kind of math which involves deriving an actual number from a formula which contains only letters…and yet I passed with a high “D.”

If I was going to study a foreign language I decided to not study Latin, the language I studied in High School.  I already knew “Tempus fugit,” and “Omnia Gallia in tres partes divisa est" and that was hardly ever  useful.  I was told that many languages used Latin as their base and everyone should learn Latin, but I knew that was a crock.  Latin to people in my day was today’s students cursive; nice to know, but worthless.

Anyway, if I had to study a language I decided to study a language that lots of people spoke.  I decided to study Spanish.

I passed the first year of Spanish with a “D.” I still don’t really understand Spanish.  I think it is some kind of language where you have to derive an actual number from a formula which contains only letters.  Whatever, one year down, one year to go.

Spanish II was even harder than Spanish I and was made even more difficult because the instructor, Senior Arboleda, a short balding gay man, hated me.  He hated me with a passion.  I’m not sure why he hated me, but from day one he hated me.  What made it even worse was Senior Arboleda spoke Castilian Spanish, a strange dialect which can turn a straight man gay.  In Castilian senior is not senior, it is thenior.  Esta is ethta, Espaniol is Ethpaniol and so on.

I had enough trouble with Spanish, Thpanith was way too difficult.

On my midterm exam I managed a 57.  Senior Arboleda motioned me to see him after class.

“Thenior Hagy, you do not theem to underthtand thith language.  I mutht they, if you ethsthudied eight hourth a day for the retht of thith year I do not believe you could path thith courth.”

I agreed.  I did not go back to another class, I did not take another test and I accepted my “F” without further effort.  I could have simply dropped the course, taken and incomplete and avoided an “F” but unfortunately I did not know that. 

In order to eventually graduate I still needed that final year of Spanish.  That was never going to happen in Thenior Arboleda’th clath, so instead I enrolled in summer school at Rutgers.

Smart people do not take summer school.  Summer school is for dumb kids who need credits that they could never earn in competition with intelligent students. 

Thank you summer school.

At every class in summer school we learned to interpret ten sentences in Spanish.   We had ten sentences in English and had to be able to recite or write them in Spanish.  Each week we had a test which involved those exact ten sentences.  

Even I could memorize ten sentences a week. 

Our final grade was based upon those weekly tests, 50%, and a final exam, 50%.  The final exam simply consisted of knowing the same sentences we learned each week. 

In order for my school to accept the summer school credits, I had to get a “B.”  My final summer school grade was a “B.”

Grasias summer school. 

Adioth Thenior Arboleda.

THE ORIGIN OF PHRASES - a cranky re-run

THE ORIGIN OF PHRASES
This Monday's rerun is from May 2011
Once again, I think I've mellowed since 2011
 

There are many phrases which we use every day.  We know what they mean, but what is their derivation?  The derivation of many phrases is obvious.  The derivation of some is completely different from what most people believe, and the derivation of others is a mystery; until now.

Spin a yarn –

          Definition – to tell a story, often embellished.

Derivation – When women made yarn from wool it was done with a spinning wheel.  As they spun their yarn they often told stories and gossiped.  Eventually the telling of stories was associated with “Spinning a yarn.”

The whole nine yards –

          Definition – The whole thing, go all the way.

          Derivation – In 1924, Notre Dame was playing Army for the national football championship.   With eight seconds left to play, Notre Dame was behind by three points; the ball was on the Army nine.  When asked if he was going to try to kick a field goal for the tie, Coach Knute Rockne said, “Let’s just go for the whole nine yards.

Pissed off –

          Definition – Very angry

          Derivation – The Pizdoff family of Scranton Pa. was noted for their lack of composure.  One day a stranger in town noticed Mrs. Pizdoff arguing violently with her husband.  The stranger asked a local what was the argument all about.  The local replied, “oh, it’s nothing, there just Pizdoffs.”

Fuck you –

          Definition – Go to Hell!

          Derivation – Someone got a really bad lay.

The cat’s pajamas –

          Definition – The best, the ultimate.

          Derivation – From the roaring twenties, nobody knows, nobody cares, and nobody ever uses this expression except to describe a zoot suit.

Dumb as a stump –

          Definition – Someone is really stupid.

          Derivation – Most people believe this refers to a tree stump not being very smart.  Actually it originally came as a reference to an Akron Ohio resident who was known to be the stupidest man in Ohio; Thomas A. Stumb.

Smart as a whip –

          Definition – Pretty fucking smart.

          Derivation – Ever been hit with a whip?  It Fucking SMARTS!

Did a Trionfo –

          Definition – Acted like a really big prick.

          Derivation – OK, this is a bit colloquial, but if you knew the guy, you would understand!

The real McCoy –

          Definition – The actual thing.

          Derivation – The real Goldblatt just never caught on.

He’s got a bug up his ass –

          Definition – He is very irritated.

          Derivation – Come on, it’s a BUG UP YOUR ASS!! That would make anyone act like a Pizdoff.

STUPID HEADLINES 042714

STUPID HEADLINES 042714

It is time once again for

Wait...WHAT!
Thanks again Squeak

 

STUPID HEADLINE SUNDAY

 

This week’s stupid headlines and my stupider sophomoric and sometimes offensive comments.

One headline is completely made up, guess the fake and win a mention and a Whoop-tee-do.

 

__________________________

Spain town with 'Kill Jews' in name mulls change – Town will vote on new name, “Massacre Muslims” or “Crucify Christians.”

Head injury during bar fight turns 'ordinary' guy into math whiz – Only whiz I ever got from a bar was the need to whiz.

Strip Club Doubles As Church – Can I have an AMEN!

Best Credit Cards of 2014 - #1 has the name William Gates on the front.

Man Fakes Kidnapping But Mom Won't Pay $200 Ransom – Mom offered $500 to keep him.

Naps linked with higher risk of death – I quit smoking, I quit drinking, I am not giving up my naps!

Tennessee teen arrested with loaded gun stashed in her vagina – She was charged “with gun possession and introducing contraband into a ‘penal facility.’” Is that what the kids are calling them now…‘Penal Facilities?’ Some stuff you can’t make up…thx Scott P.

Jeb Bush: ‘I’m thinking about running for president’ – Because out of 200 million people, we can only find a Clinton or a Bush to be qualified to run the country.  Damn, aren’t there any Kennedy’s around?

Obama: “Japanese robots a little scary!” – You just know he wanted to say “Arigato Mr. Roboto!”

Man sues doctors for mocking him while he was unconscious – If you can’t mock someone when he is unconscious, when can you mock him?

Massachusetts teacher who had chair thrown at her by student won't face punishment – Well then how is she ever going to learn her lesson.

California man finds his own message in bottle after 40 years – He found the bottle in his basement, message ordered two quarts of milk, a pound of butter and a dozen eggs.

Holder cancels graduation speech amid protests – Maybe we should just teach our higher education students to go “Na na na na nana…CAN’T HEAR YOU” instead of complaining about every non-plain vanilla commencement address speaker.

Kentucky Senate candidate scrutinized for cockfighting comments – The candidate responded to criticism, “Oh…Chickens!  Never mind.”

 

____________________________

Last week’s fake headline was:

Man trains his dog to use a toilet – Turns out it is really the Portland reservoir.

It was a tough week, only two winners:  

 

Sandee

Well, there's a bunch of weirdness today. The gummy bear one had me laughing out loud. Okay your comments crack me up.

I'm going to guess training the dog to use the toilet. I've never known a dog that would go for that.

I must point out that if you've heard of it, it would not be worthy of a headline.  Once again women's strange logic reaches the correct answer. 

Check out Sandee @ http://comedyplus.blogspot.com/ today is her “Silly Sunday” Got a funny joke or story? Submit it to her Sunday blog hop!

 

Hilary

Yeah, like Susie, I so wanted to just type the words "the dildo is fake - in more ways than one" but since she more or less did, I don't have to.

I'm thinking the toilet trained dog and the grumpy 70 year old men are just not headline worthy (as if gummy bear sex is.. but I've seen that story). So if I have to pick just one, I'll go with the potty pup.

Again! 

Hilary is on a hot streak, visit her @ http://thesmittenimage.blogspot.com/  Everyone else does.

Visit and congratulate our winners, and come back next week for more

STUPID HEADLINE SUNDAY!!

WOMEN AND SPORTS

WOMEN AND SPORTS

A Cranky Opinion

For

CRANKY OPINION SATURDAY

The following is the opinion of a cranky old man.  Opposing opinions are welcome…I will ignore them, but they are welcome, and please, no name calling, and that means you…you big stupid head!

I haven’t been too badly beaten up lately, so it’s time to throw in a rant against women. 

First let me make the necessary politically correct acknowledgement that this rant has many stereotype comments, all women do not fit my complaint, and blah, blah blah.  Why I even have to say that on a rant that is obviously partially tongue in cheek I don’t know, but in this day and age it seems necessary.  To all the lady sports fans out there I apologize and you really do not need to defend yourself…I get it.

Now on with the rant.

I understand most women do not like sports.  They do not get into sports with the same vigor and fanaticism as men do.  They may not understand sports, they may get bored watching sports, and they just do not care about sports.  That is fair, I’ll give you that; you don’t really care about sports. 

Fine, but what I don’t get is when women actually get angry about sports.  Some women actually get pissed off at sports.

“Oh do we really have to watch that stupid National Basketball Championship Game?  It is so stupid.  Dribble shoot, foul shoot, the end takes forever and who really cares, it is just a stupid game.”

“I hate football what is the big deal?  Up the field, down the field, it is just dumb.”

“Baseball!  God it is so boring!”

“Golf…half of them don’t even look athletic.”

“Soccer…wait what team is that?  I love those uniforms and they all have such cute butts!”

OK, one sport women can get into.

You know what is dumb?  Shopping is dumb!  Buying shoes is stupid.  Jewelry is expensive and ridiculous…who cares?  A diamond bracelet…how stupid is that? You won’t hear me say that out loud.  I may think it, but I understand these things make some women happy.  I don’t like them, they don’t make me happy, but they don’t make me angry.  Shopping does not piss me off.

Soap operas like “Revenge” and the incredibly stupid “Once upon a time” I don’t watch, but I don’t bitch and moan all the way through about how stupid and annoying they are…ok, a little bit I do.  Bad example.

Figure skating, dancing, ballet, opera; I don’t like any of them, but I can understand why some people like them and so I don’t hate them, they don’t make me angry, and I don’t have to put them down to the detriment of your viewing pleasure.

It is easy to hate and put down that which you do not understand or enjoy. 

Golf is just hitting a stupid ball into a hole / Yeah, and opera is a fat lady singing a stupid story in a foreign language.

Baseball is just hitting and catching a dumb ball / Well then dancing is just spinning and kicking to music.

Football, so much hitting and violence / Shopping is so boring and expensive and wasteful.

My point is ladies, men like sports, we like the competition; we appreciate the skill and the tactics.  We get excited…is that so bad?  We love to watch and talk sports…is that wrong?  Look, if you don’t understand or like sports that is fine, but don’t ruin it for us, don’t try and figure out why we like them, just be happy we have something that brings us joy just as you have your things.

I don’t mind that you don’t like sports.  I don’t mind that you don’t understand sports.  I do mind when you put down my enjoyment just because it is not your thing.  It is something in our DNA, we are different, and it is our thing.  You have your things, sports is ours.

Don’t like sports, Don’t watch.  Hate sports? Please don’t tell us.

And for God sake, at the very least, sports should not piss you off.

 

The preceding was the opinion of a cranky old man, and definitely not that of management…Mrs. Cranky (who does allow me my sports.)

 

WALK AWAY

 WALK AWAY

 

Just a little cranky therapy, move on, nothing to see here.

 

One of the things about Mrs. Cranky that I love is she lets me be me.  I am allowed to flirt with waitresses, make wrong turns and get lost, forget stuff, and not always listen.  It is wonderful to be allowed faults. 

This was not always the case in a previous life.  In a previous life faults were punished, and punishment was severe.  I tried to filter my thoughts and comments and opinions.  I tried to not get lost, I tried to remember stuff, and I tried to always listen.  I was not always successful.

In my current life things will happen that make me shudder.   Mrs. C will ask what’s wrong and I respond that I just did something that she thought was funny, or didn’t even notice which would have possibly caused an extreme reaction in years past.  I say possibly, because it all hinged on whatever hormonal/ sugar imbalance or anxiety attack was affecting my ex-spouse at that time.  The inconsistency of a reaction to a flaw is what makes a life of walking on eggshells so difficult.

I cringe when I think of the verbal abuse which sometimes rained down on me.  There is no arguing, discussing, or even apologizing to a woman obsessed with giving you a verbal beat down.  I describe it as being the ball in a pinball machine.   No matter your response you will be bounced back and forth from a current transgression to a slipup of  years before.  When you think you have finally escaped, a flipper bangs you up and you start the back and forth battering all over again.

I always used to reach the point where I just had to leave.  Walk around the block; take a drive, anything to just get away.  Most of these batterings ended with my being told, “That’s right, walk away, that is what you always do.”

I think that in many ways, Dr. Phil is a bullying quack, but today he said something that made me feel good. He said,

“There is never, for any reason, anyway, any excuse ever for a man to abuse or hit a woman…never, ever, no way.  If nothing else, you need to just walk away.”

So now I feel the need to say, that what you believed was a weakness every time I refused to take your abuse any longer, my walking away was the only choice besides telling you to just shut the fuck up and or belting you into submission that I had to end your abuse.  You made me feel like a wimp, but know that I was being a man.  Just as I refused to physically retaliate and only fended off your feeble attempts at hitting and or kicking me I also chose to walk away from your verbal abuse.

I forgive you for your insanity, I’m not sure you could control yourself, but please know I was never a wimp.

It takes a man to walk away. 

DON’T COVER IT

DON’T COVER IT

 

I don’t understand women and their obsession with keeping things perfect.  Back in the day, women would cover new furniture with plastic slip covers.  That old couch would be as good as new under the plastic, but it looked like crap and was weird as hell to sit on over the plastic.

At some point women learned the error of their plastic slip cover ways. I don’t think anyone would invest in the slip cover industry today, but that old “slip cover” instinct is still alive, at least for Mrs. Cranky.

Every new electronic device today comes with a thin film of plastic to protect that device from being scratched before it is sold.  Mrs. Cranky insists on not removing this plastic film in order to continue the scratch protection.

This drives me crazy.  In a short period of time this invisible film becomes very visible.  Air bubbles develop which makes the film more distracting than any scratch could possibly be.  The edges of the film start to peel and just scream, “Rip me off!”

“Can I just rip that crap off, it is driving me crazy?”

“No, it protects the cover from ugly scratches.”

“But the protective cover that guards against ugly scratches is ugly!”

“It is scratch free underneath, leave it alone.”

We are caught in an OCD hell.  That bubbled film is like flaking skin after a sun burn.  It is just screams to me, “Tear me the frig off!”  Mrs. C’s OCD sees only the pristine plastic under the film and it screams to her, “Don’t touch me!”

I lose this battle every time.  Once the film is off there is no turning back and when the underneath subsequently gets that inevitable scratch I would never hear the end of it.  I am forced to endure the ugly bubbled-up, starting-to-peel protective film on every DVD and CD player, every cable box and every electronic control panel in the house.

Maybe someday, the protective film will go the way of plastic slip covers.  I would like to see manufacturers sell their products with built in scratches instead of that ugly protective film.  Hell they could even advertise it:

“Our new control panel comes already scratched for your convenience so there is no need for ugly bubbled up protective film!”

I’d buy it, and I look forward to that day.  In the meantime I will just have to buck up and fight off that film tearing urge.

Maybe if I can fight the tearing urge, this summer I can leave that sunburned dead skin unpeeled.  Mrs. Cranky hates that.  I know it will drive her up the wall.

“Will you just rip that ugly dead skin off!”

“What, and let that new skin underneath get scratched?  I don’t think so.”

“Jerk!” 

NO NEED TO YELL!

NO NEED TO YELL!

 

What is the dynamic that allows some people to act like giant dicks without repercussion, while others who are gentle and compassionate sometimes are held to a higher standard?

In the northeast, specifically the New York City area, we have many people who are abrasive, abrupt and seemingly self-centered.  I think it is a weather thing.  Survival in a cold over-populated climate requires a person to be a bit self-centered.

For instance if you live in a large family in a cold climate, you need to elbow your way to the fireplace for warmth, and fight for seconds at dinner.  Gentle compassionate family members go cold and hungry.  Other people in this climate understand this and aggressive people are accepted, they are the survivors, gentle, compassionate people are perceived to be weak.

People from warm weather island climates seem to have a gentle compassionate personality, perhaps because instead of racing around and fighting to stay warm, they are used to slowing down and setting a steady pace in order to keep from overheating.  Their culture does not need to fight for food; if they are hungry they just pluck fruit from a tree, or pull in a fish from the sea.  (Yes, I know this is loaded with ridiculous generalizations, just go with it OK.)

In another lifetime when I was expected earn an income; my place of work was in New York City, the epicenter of aggressive, abrupt, self-centered people.  (In actuality, when push comes to shove these people are the salt of the earth and will in fact show compassion, but in ordinary day to day affairs are in general as I describe them.)  One of the managers at my office, Frank, was from a warm weather island climate.  Frank was extremely competent, but was also easy going, gentle and compassionate.  He did not seem to have an angry bone in his body.  He never had a bad word to say about anyone.

One day, as part of his supervisory position, he was required to reprimand one of the clerical staff that reported to him.  This person made a minor error which cost the company maybe $50.  The firm but fair Frank said calmly and in the manner of instruction,

“Mary, you have to be careful when you see this situation, you probably should have asked my advice before you matched this trade.  Fortunately this error only cost $50, but it could have been quite significant.”

Keep in mind, a New Yorker manager may have handled it like this,

“Yo Mary, what the fuck, are youse stupid or what? You screw up like this one more time and you’re going to be standing in the unemployment line…capeesh?

And that disciplinary rant would have been accepted without comment.

How did Mary react to Frank’s gentle instruction?

“OK, I get it, you don’t have to yell!”

Frank turned to me somewhat startled and asked,

“Joe, was I yelling?”

I mulled it over for a bit before I responded,

“I gotta say, Frank, for you that was yelling!”

FLASHLIGHT TAG

FLASHLIGHT TAG

 

A lot of my readers seem to like nostalgia posts.  Well that is not exactly true, but the ones who do like them always leave fun comments on stuff from their childhood, and I enjoy reading those comments.  I was thinking back to stuff we did “In the day” and I recalled Flashlight Tag.

Flashlight Tag wasn’t really tag; it was part tag and mostly hide-n-seek.  I think we only played it at around age 11 or 12, the year when parents gave us a little slack at night, and before girls started affecting strange emotions.

It was generally played with a fairly large group of kids, one with a flashlight, and six or eight hiding.  Everyone wore dark clothes, so hiding in the dark was pretty easy.  I think that is what made the game fun, hiding basically in the open and often only yards away from the flashlight seeker.

I think there was a home base involved, and counting and hiding.   If you were caught in the light and identified, you were it and the hiding started over again.   If you made it to home base you were safe, but I don’t believe there was any “Alli-alli-in-free” save. 

The funny thing about kids and games is years later when my own were around eleven or twelve I was asked if it was alright for them to play out after dark.   I asked what were they going to do outside at night and was told, “Flashlight Tag!”

Same name, same game, same rules.  I never told them of this game. I never mentioned rules or anything.  How was it still called the same thing.  It wasn’t called “Midnight Tag,” it wasn’t called “Night time hide-n-seek,” it wasn’t called “Dodge the Flashlight.”  It was still called “Flashlight Tag.” 

Was this game carried on from 12 year old to 11 year old, year after year for 30 years, or are 12 year olds so similar that they naturally invent the same game and call it the same name?

Whatever, this game is probably not played today.  Apparently it is not safe for 12 year olds to be out at night, and electronic toys have probably made our old games obsolete.

Computers and modern electronics are really cool.

So was Flashlight Tag.  

PHONE-A-FRIEND - a cranky rerun

PHONE-A-FRIEND

 I recently had an idea for a post involving a superman question, then I realized I had already written one so instead of doing it over differently this cranky re-run is from May 2013

I used to like the TV quiz show “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” until they changed the format.  The old format gave a contestant who didn’t know an answer the opportunity to “Phone-a-friend” to get help.  I always said my phone-a-friend would be my friend “Frog.”

Frog (named as he once wore glasses reminiscent of “Froggy” in the “Little Rascal Comedies”) is my friend all the way back to high school and he is an expert in everything, especially history where he has a Doctorate (almost) in American History.  I guess I should call him Doctor Frog.  Anyway, the only problem with Dr. Frog as my phone-a-friend is his tendency to ramble on with facts not requested.  I have a recurring nightmare where I am a contestant on the old format of “Who Wants to be a Millionaire.”

“OK Cranky, you are down to your final question worth ONE MILLION DOLLARS.  Ready?

“I’m ready Regis.”

“Here it is…”

What is the name of the Master Sergeant in the Civil War who before the battle of Squeak Falls said, “Five minutes till hell boys, smok’em if you gott’em.”

A.   Fred "Fast Freddie" James

B.   Martin "Fruitboots" Kurtika

C.    Roy "Catfish" Miller

D.   Gilbert "Bud" Shill

“That is a tough one Regis; I’d like to ask a friend.  I’d like to call Dr. Frog.”

“OK sure, we'll call Doctor…Frog?  Does he know history?”

“If he doesn’t know the answer, the answer doesn’t exist!”

“All right then we’re calling Doctor Frog…Hello is this Doctor Frog?”

“Ah…yup.”

“This is Regis of the Millionaire Show.  We have a friend of yours, a Mister Cranky, he is going for ONE MILLION DOLLARS and he needs your help.”

“OK, sure…go ahead.”

“You have one minute.  Here is the question”:

What is the name of the Master Sergeant in the Civil War who before the battle of Squeak Falls said, “Five minutes till hell boys, smok’em if you gott’em.”

A.   Fred "Fast Freddie" James

B.   Martin "Fruitboots" Kurtika

C.    Roy "Catfish" Miller"

D.   Gilbert "Bud" Shill

“That is an easy one Regis; it just happens that in 1974 I wrote a thesis on that very person.”

“Forty-five seconds.”

“Yes; the battle of Squeak Falls was very important.”

“Thirty seconds.”

“If the South won that battle, they would secure their supply lines for…”

“Twenty seconds Doctor Frog,”

“As I was saying, they would secure very important supply lines for their march toward…”

“Ten seconds.”

“Ten seconds?”

“Five now.”

“OK then, the answer is…”

“Oh, I’m sorry, time is up.  We had to hang up on Doctor Frog.  Do you have a guess Mr. Cranky?”

“Yes Regis, I’m going to guess that I will have to friggin kill Doctor Frog!!”

I always wake up in a cold sweat.

 

Actually, I was once the phone-a-friend for Frog.

Frog had an argument with his then girl friend, now wife, Hilary.  At 2 AM one morning I received a call from Frog,

“Jowles*, I need you to settle an argument.  I’m here with Hilary…”

“Hi Hilary, glad to finally meet you.”

“Never mind that, here is the question.  When Superman changes into his Superman outfit where does he put his civilian clothes?”

“That’s easy; he has a pocket in his cape!”

“THANK YOU!.…I told you so Hil! Gotta go Jowles, thanks!”

 

And THAT, Doctor Frog, is how a phone-a-friend answers a question!

*Old knick name…long story.