Things Guys Never Do

Things Guys Never Do

Men and women are different.  That is not an earth shattering observation.  They are not just different in their plumbing and their instincts to nurture; these are obvious differences that aid women in child bearing and care, their original and once traditional place in the family unit.  There are also differences that are universal, but defy explanation.  These are things that almost all women do that almost no man would ever do.

When a woman is surprised she instinctively covers her mouth with her hands.  For some reason a woman does not want to show an open mouth when they are surprised.  A man puts his hands out and yells “No friggin way!”

When a woman is touched by something she clutches her heart and says “Aww!” A man just yells, “How friggin cool is that?”

When a woman is overcome with emotion, happy or sad, she fans her eyes.  They do this whether or not they have eye makeup.  When a man is overcome with joy, he will clap his hands, or high five his buddy, if he is pissed off, he will break something.

When a young woman takes a selfie, she either sticks out her tongue, or puckers her lips kiss like.  When guys take a selfie they wave their arms and holler.

Women somehow are able to hold in a fart.  Men will ask you to pull their finger.

Women somehow are able to hold in a belch.  Men will try and burp out the alphabet.

When women get a present they neatly unwrap and save the paper.  Men tear that stuff off, roll it in a ball and then try to hit a three pointer in the wastebasket.

Women will call a friend just to say hello; they can say hello for hours.  Men will only make a call if they have to, and a call seldom lasts more than two minutes.

Women will commonly ask another woman to accompany them to the bathroom.  Men only go solo; if they run into someone they know, conversation is discouraged. “Dude” or “How’s it going” is considered conversation.

That’s it, otherwise we are completely alike.

SPEAKING OF FUNGUS…JOHN McENROE

SPEAKING OF FUNGUS…JOHN McEnroe

Years ago I used to watch tennis.  In the eighties it was all the rage.  It was difficult to find time on the public courts in our town.  Today the courts are mostly used for skateboards.  When tennis was really popular, the big names in men's were Jimmy Connors, John McEnroe, Bjorn Borg and Ivan Lendl.  

Of this group, Connors and McEnroe were brats.  Among Connors and McEnroe, McEnroe was the biggest brat.  He was a spoiled little shit who moaned and complained at every call.

I get it, a call for or against you in tennis can cost you a match.  Emotions run high especially in a big tournament, but McEnroe was the worst.  He argued almost every close call that did not go his way.  In the eighties human discretion was the only way to call a match, today they may use sophisticated technology to make the close calls; I don’t know and I don’t care anymore, I couldn’t name more than three pros today and have no idea who won the last major tournaments.

I have to admit, one of the reasons I found tennis popular in the eighties was that McEnroe and Connors made a stuffy old snobby rich man’s game more human with their shenanigans.  Still, John McEnroe was over the top.  He complained about the calls.  He berated the linesmen and head official.  He pouted and threatened to stop play.  He was full of himself.  He was a big baby, a whiny ass bitch in a snotty ass sport.

McEnroe was famous for his tennis skills (He was one of the best ever) and his whining tantrums:

“Are you kidding me?”  “You cannot be serious!”  “What are you even looking at?” “Unbelievable!”

Oh, I watched.  I watch train wrecks, but I still hated the little shit!

What happened to John McEnroe?  After he retired he had a failed music career, made a few movie cameos, had a failed try as a game show host and is a TV tennis commentator.  I imagine he is still quite wealthy, but his newest gig gives me great pleasure.

The great John McEnroe, the spoiled tennis bitch, is selling a foot fungus product.  In the commercial, he capitalizes on his old complaining persona.  He announces a tennis match between “Toe Fungus” and his “Toe Fungus Product.”

We see John calling the match, “Unbelievable, Toe Fungus?” in his old whiny manner.

Way to go John, you’ve come a long way from the best tennis player in the world and a whiny brat, to a huckster using your old brat persona to hawk about “Toe Fungus!”

“Toe Fungus? Seriously!”

GIVE HER A STEERING WHEEL

GIVE HER A STEERING WHEEL

Some of my posts may give the impression that Mrs. C can be a difficult person.  That is far from the truth.  At least in terms of how she deals with other people.

Mrs. Cranky does not like to tell other people “No.”  She often does things or goes places she does not want to do or go because she has trouble saying “No.” I tell her it is easy, simply put your tongue against the roof of your mouth, make your lips in an “O” and say it.  Na…O…no.  It is easy.  She doesn’t get it though.

Recently I made the observation that when Mrs. C is driving, she is a different person.  Apparently everyone else on the road is an idiot.  She hollers at other drivers all the time.

“Move the frig over you asshole!”

“Dude, do you have a clue what the hell you are doing.”

“Get off my butt you jerkoff!”

I can hardly believe this sweet lady I know as my wife can be so abusive and tough in the car.  It then dawned on me, when she needs to be tough, when she needs to put her foot down and just say no; no to a phone survey, no to dinner with someone she hasn’t seen in six years and never liked, no to a salesman, no to her kids, no to anything she does not want to do or no to going anywhere she does not want to go…give her a steering wheel.  She is comfortable telling people no or even telling people off when she has a steering wheel in her hands.

Of course it is hard to carry a steering wheel around, and people do look at you funny.  Instead, when she is on the phone and I know she wants to say “No,” when she is talking with someone and I know she does not want to get hung up in a long conversation,   I hold my hands like I was driving a car and give her a look.

“No” I pantomime. 

So far it doesn’t work.  She just shoots me a glance and lip synchs back “Shut the fuck up…jerk.”

With me she doesn’t need to be behind the wheel.

WHAT MAKES A CRAP BEER?

WHAT MAKES A CRAP BEER?

A couple of weeks ago I posted about beer.  Stupid post because I don’t even like beer that much.  I posted how when I do buy beer I buy Miller High Life.  I also made fun of Mexican beer because it is brewed with (I assume) Mexican water, something everyone who visits Mexico is warned not to drink.

Several readers came to the defense of Mexican beer, and truth be told I often drink Corona.  

One reader actually had to inform me that Miller High Life is crap!  Wow, my personal preference in beer is crap...who knew?  I wasn’t told that true connoisseurs would not rank Miller as one of the finer beers, but I was told straight out that Miller, my preferred beer is CRAP!

This got me to thinking, what makes a beer good and what makes a beer crap.  I decided on three criteria:

Taste/ Does it make you sick?/ Cost

Taste, regardless of what any reader or connoisseur may tell you, is personal.  If you think it tastes good then gosh darn it, it tastes good.

If it tastes good, but you have a miserable hangover in the morning, or it makes you barf, it is crap.  Regardless of what any reader or connoisseur may tell you, if the beer gives you a miserable hangover and or makes you barf, it is crap beer.

If you like the taste, and it does not give you a hangover or make you barf, I say it is a good beer.  If it costs $20 a six pack, it is crap.

In my life I have probably sampled about 200 different beers.  Only two have made me barf or given me a worse hangover than consumption would have dictated.  I have never sampled any beer that cost $20 a six pack.

In my mind, beer is either good, or crap.  There is no great beer, just the beer that you happen to prefer taste wise that doesn’t make you sick and doesn’t cost an arm and a leg.

I remember when Coors was not available in the east, and it was featured predominantly in a book and later a movie “North Dallas Forty.”  Coors became “THE” beer.  When it became available in limited supplies back east, it was in great demand and overpriced.  If you scored a case it was a big deal.  Everyone gushed about how good Coors was.  Coors is now readily available all over and it is a good beer, but nothing special, and it is sold at the same price as most other good beers.

Corona was all the rage for a while.  People liked the lime in the bottle thing, very cool and sophisticated.  Turns out the lime thing was because in Mexico it kept the flies out of the bottle…not so cool and sophisticated.  Still, people will not drink a Corona without the lime garnish.  Any other beer, a lime is not requested.

There is a new beer advertised lately, “Blue Moon” that is served with an orange slice as garnish, because it complements the beer which is brewed with orange zest or something.  What bull shit! But it has made drinking Blue Moon with an orange garnish very popular.

We went to a sports bar for dinner tonight, and they served 78 different beers.  There were four different Samuel Adams brands, because apparently the brewers of Samuel Adams take extra pride and care in brewing their beer.  There were three different varieties of Blue Moon, served I’m sure with the bull shit orange garnish.  They did not offer Miller High Life, the Champagne of bottled beer.

I had water.

All the other beers are crap!

ADDITION BY SUBTRACTION - a cranky rerun

ADDITION BY SUBTRACTION

This cranky re-run is from July 2011...I believe it marks the first time Mrs. Cranky calls me a jerk in my posts.

My wife has a problem.  Well she has two problems, but other than me her problem is she just can’t throw stuff away.  Now she isn’t ridiculous about it, we can move through the house without stepping over things, but once something is stored, it will stay stored.

I understand saving some things, but there comes a time when space is more valuable than stuff.  This is especially true when the stuff is stored behind other stuff.  Worthless stuff hidden behind worthless stuff is worse than worthless, it becomes a liability.  I would pay to not have this stuff stored.  Getting rid of this stuff is called addition by subtraction.

We had to clear out the garage the other day to make room for a new door to be installed.  I have never heard so many reasons for keeping crap. 

1.  Tupperware is gold.

My wife’s mother sold Tupperware, and she has been indoctrinated into the belief that everything Tupperware is gold.  I picked up a useless toy that shoots a ball in the air and enables you to catch it in a basket.  “Can we throw this shit away?” I asked.  “NO!!” She responded in near panic.  “That cost $20.” (It was 20 years old and has never been used) “And” she stated with end of story attitude, “IT’S TUPPERWARE!”

I replied with a bit of sarcasm, “What a concept, a plastic ejector and a plastic catcher.  I guess kids can’t play catch with a ball and two hands anymore!”   I then continued to argue with logic/sarcasm.  “If Tupperware made dog shit that looked like dog shit, and smelled like dog shit, would we have to store it in perpetuity?” 

The discussion was ended with Mrs. Cranky’s usual response when she knows I am right, but she does not care, “You’re a jerk!”

2.  If stuff is old, it must be valuable.

I asked, “Can we please throw this old baby carriage away?”

“NO!!  That carriage is twenty-four years old!  I’m saving it for Casey!”  Casey is my twenty-four year old step-daughter who I guarantee when the time comes and she is offered this cob web covered garage smelling carriage will respond, “EWWWW!” 

I explained this to my wife and she responded, “You’re a jerk!”

3.  It can be sold at a garage sale.

Maybe, if we remember where this crap is stored, we can drag it to the yearly town garage sale, sit in the sun for six hours, haggle with strangers who want to pay 75 cents for something instead of a buck; maybe we can come home with thirty dollars; if we are really lucky.

Two people, sitting in the sun for six hours earning thirty dollars….that’s what, $2.50 an hour?  “How about we work at McDonalds for the six hours, throw that crap away, and earn $84?”

“You’re a jerk!”

4. We might need it, besides it used to be her children’s.

We have carpet remnants by the yard stored – “We might need to replace a rip or a stain.”  We have clay handprints stored – “Peter made those when he was five.”  We have smelly blankets in boxes – “The kids slept in them.”  Need some old smelly stuffed animals?  We got’em.  How about twenty year old work manuals for operating electric typewriters and Xerox machines? We have them too.  Wait, you can’t have them.  We may need them, because….well….you never know!

I know.  I’m a jerk!

STUPID HADLINES 072615

STUPID HADLINES 072615

Well yeah, until that detective caught him he was a nice friendly loan shark

It’s time again for

STUPID HEADLINE SUNDAY

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

No fake headline this week, guess the headline submitted by Val-the-Victorian and win something…maybe a whoop-tee-doo…we’ll see...Whatever.

_______________

New era in ties begins as Cuba raises flag at embassy in US – Seems to me ties are less popular than ever and recognizing Cuba won’t change that trend at all.

Zack Johnson wins British Open Championship – Really? Or did Chandler Bing turn pro?      

Chandler Bing from "Cheers"

                         



Zack Johnson...or is it?

Feds spend $125,000 studying sexist adjectives – “Stupid Bitch” and “Dumb C*nt” are offensive and sexist.  That should cover about 10%; can I get a check for $12,500?

Archaeologists find 'very significant' 4000-year-old home in Ohio – It was listed as a “Fixer-upper.”

Lorenzo Lamas' wife gives birth to his grandson – Wait…WHAT?

Celebs with mega-mansions outraged at 'giga-mansions' rising around them – Waa! Just one more reason why celebrities suck!

Google reveals your location history in Maps – With this, security cameras, and phone and text messages kept in memory, how does anyone get away with anything these days?

The 'eat like a pig' slimming device that will turn your stomach; pumps users' stomachs after food binges – Wouldn’t the old finger down the throat work just as well?

Doctors save man’s hand by grafting it to his leg – So when he is running a little late, now he can really shake a leg.

Donald Trump: As president, 'I'll change my tone' – Will it help if he insults people in a lower octave?

Milwaukee neighborhood on edge after report of lion roaming streets – “Do I take a left or a right at Kalamazoo to get back to Detroit?”

Arctic expedition to study global warming put on hold because of too much ice – It’s climate change, get it right…too much ice is the result of climate change brought about by carbon dioxide trapped heat!

The surprising exercise that can improve men’s sex lives – No comment, but I’ll bet a few of you are going to Google this one.

 Craigslist founder gives group $10,000 for composting toilet – “Right down the hall and to the right, but I gotta warn ya…”

TRUMP FOR PRESIDENT?

TRUMP FOR PRESIDENT?

A cranky opinion for

CRANKY OPINION SATURDAY

The following is the opinion of a cranky old man with little knowledge on the topic opined.  Opposing opinions are welcome but may be ignored.  Mean spirited comments will be deleted, and as always, no name calling, and that means you, you big stupid-head!

This is neither an endorsement nor a rejection for Donald Trump as President.

The Republican Presidential campaign is beginning to remind of those high school Class President elections of days gone by.

Every year there would be several candidates for Class President. 

There would be Troy, the captain of the swimming team who was on the honor roll, editor of the school newspaper and perennial candidate for class office.

There was Sara, the ever serious flute player in the school band, also on the honor roll.

There was Bob, the head of the debate team, a math/chemistry genius, and future Valedictorian*.

Finally there would be Vinnie, the stoner kid.  He was smart enough to make the honor roll, but did not think the honor roll was cool.  The stoner kid may not have done hard drugs, but he hung with kids who did.  He smoked cigarettes, played left field on the baseball team, was very funny and would do crazy stuff just for attention.

Every year there would be a class assembly where the candidates would make a short speech vying for votes.

Troy would claim he could bring in soda machines to the cafeteria, and organize the best prom ever.  His speech was always followed by polite applause.

Sara wanted to get newer instruments for the band, and she would demand longer lunch breaks.  Her speech was always followed by polite applause.

Bob claimed that as the smartest kid in school, he was the most qualified to be President.   He promised to work hard to make sure the senior year would be the best school year ever.  His speech was followed by light clapping and a few snickers.

Vinnie promised to allow smoking in school, there would be pizza every day for lunch, he would fight for shorter school hours, more recess time, and a break room for students with a pool table, ping pong table and free soda.  His speech was followed by wild applause, foot stomping, and a chant, “Vinnie…Vinnie…Vinnie!”

It was at this point that Mrs. Gromawitz, the Vice Principal would step to the podium and demand quiet.  We would then get “The Speech!”

“Students, this is a very important election that will determine how successful your final year of high school will be.  This is not a popularity contest.  You must elect someone who is serious, not a clown!”

Vinnie never won.  The students, properly scolded, would vote for Troy, Sara or Bob.

We never got soda machines in the cafeteria, the band had the same old instruments, lunch breaks stayed the same, senior year was no different from any other school year, and the prom sucked.

Donald Trump is campaigning by telling people what others will not.  He is saying things others are afraid to say.  He is being outrageous and the people love it.  He is the high school Vinnie.

The press and the political elite are Mrs. Gromawitz. 

“Trump is a clown, this is not a popularity contest, this election is very important and will determine how successful the country will be for the next four years!”

Trump won’t win the election; he won’t even win the nomination.  He is not a clown, he is a very smart dude, but he doesn’t want to be President and probably would not make a good President.  He upsets too many of the wrong people.  He will shake things up.  He will put some focus on topics others try and skirt because taking a position can cost you votes, but he will not be elected. 

Most politicians pussy-foot around an issue to try and make everyone happy.  Trump will not pussy-foot around any issue.  He will piss people off.  He will say what he means and not be apologetic for it.  He is not ashamed of being rich and successful, he is not a clown. 

But don’t worry Mrs. Gromawitz; "The Donald" is not going to get the nomination.  We will find someone who is very serious and knows how to say something without really saying anything. The political elite will disparage and marginalize whatever he says.

We will elect a politician.

The preceding was the opinion of a cranky old man, and not necessarily that of management…Mrs. Cranky.

*No offense Val-the-Victorian.

11:11

11:11

There it is again; 11:11. 

When I first met Mrs. Cranky she told me she always noticed when the clock was at 11:11.

“So?”

“That means good luck, or that spirits of our loved ones are watching over us.”

“Really, I have never noticed.”

Now I notice all the time.  It seems I constantly look up casually and see the clock at 11:11.  Not 11:12, or 12:11, but 11:11.  It is not a couple of times a week; it is more like once a day, and sometimes twice a day.  Maybe it is just because it was called to my attention and so I notice…but every day? What are there, 720 different combinations?  That is a lot of combinations to always see 11:11.

What does it mean?

If it is my loved ones connecting from Heaven that is a comforting thought…except sometimes I have looked up at a clock and seen 11:11 when I really would not have wanted my Mom or Grandma Hagy watching.

It is probably a coincidence or just because I was alerted to 11:11 by Mrs. Cranky, I just notice it where in the past I never would have.  Of course in the past with analog clocks it might not have been as noticeable; also in the past I have not had as many loved ones to be watching over me.

I’m sure it is nothing, just a silly superstition or old wives tale, one of those Italian traditions my wife semi –believes in…still, I see that time a lot.

Just last night while watching TV Mrs. C pointed it out…  “11:11.”

Of course 11:11 is one of those times I am always awake and generally watching TV, so I am more apt to notice it than for instance 1:11 when I am at sleep at night or doing something in the afternoon…yeah, that is probably it.

Then again, for the last two mornings at around 9:00 while making coffee, I have noticed the coffee maker time which has not been adjusted from a recent power outage; displayed 11:11 just as I pressed brew.

“Just making coffee Mom, glad to hear from you.  You might not want to check in on me tonight though…just in case I get lucky.”

Before I knew Him as Superman There Was Kryptonite

Before I knew Him as Superman There Was Kryptonite

A post by Rick at Life 101 http://www.rickwatson-writer.com/2015/07/a-picture-i-prefer.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+blogspot%2Fxague+%28Life+101%29  prompted this memory.

Rick posted a picture of his Dad at a time that he preferred to remember above his last moments with him when he was ill.  It made me think, of the many memories of my Dad, what stands out the most?

How do you pick a moment with a man who meant so much and did so much for me?

Strangely enough, the moment I remember the most was barbecuing chicken one summer probably just a few years before he passed.  I think this moment stands out because though I could never feel as an equal with my Dad, he was getting older, I was no longer just a kid and we were able to loosen up and speak man to man for maybe the first time.

Helping to loosen us both up and speak on a different level from father and son were several gin and tonics.  Dad was not a big drinker, and neither was I yet.  Several G and T’s while flipping (and probably burning) chicken and I heard stories from my Dad’s past that he had never divulged before.

To me my Dad had always been a superman.  He was a chemical engineer, built fiberglass boats as a hobby, he owned and flew a plane, he was an expert sailor, skin diver, inventor, a good golfer and a great father; learning stories of his youth humanized him for me.

I learned how he and my Uncle Jack built a hydroplane boat with a large converted auto engine. 

“To fire it up we had to first pour gas directly into the carburetor.  It created quite a bang and a flash when it kicked over, but that was fairly common in those days.  The boat was fast as hell, but we made one small mistake.  We did not build it with a keel (a board or blade in running down the center of the boat that gives it traction on a turn).  When we tried to turn the flat bottomed hydroplane it just spun like a top and kept right on moving in the same line.  Damn near killed us both!”

Then there was the boat he and friends sailed in a race to Bermuda in the thirties.  They were so late in finishing that they were reported “lost at sea.” 

“When we brought in into the harbor everyone was very excited to see we were alive,  we could not figure out what all the excitement was about, we were never in danger, just very slow.  

One year later we were painting that boat and a scrapper went right through the hull, the dry rot was so severe.”

On another trip to Bermuda with my Uncle Tom he told me how they both had a bit too much to drink and ended up racing those little scooters up and down the airport runway. 

“The people in charge were not happy.  We were invited to leave and told we should probably never come back…damn and I loved that island!”

None of these stories were parts of a man’s life that you might brag about, but they did make Superman a little more human in my eyes.

I MIGHT BE A PRICK!

I MIGHT BE A PRICK!

I might be a prick.  I don’t think I am a prick, but I just might be.  Why you ask, do I think I might be a prick?

I am not a wealthy man, but I can afford a buck.  Giving one dollar to a worthy cause will not affect my life style.  I should be willing to give a dollar to worthy causes, but apparently I am a prick.

Yesterday Mrs. C and I went grocery shopping.  When my bill was rung up, the cashier asked me, “Would you like to donate a dollar to the Something Something Blah Blah Blah FOR CHILDREN?”

I have no idea what this charity was for.  All I heard was FOR CHILDREN.  What cause that ends in FOR CHILDREN would not be worth handing over a single dollar?  Probably none, except apparently I am a prick.

“No thank you, I don’t want to give a measly dollar to the Something Something Blah Blah Blah FOR CHILDREN, because I am a prick!”

The thing is, I just don’t like being hit up for a charity when I am not expecting it.  I don’t like that the store hits me up when I am running up a credit charge.  I don’t like the fact that I won’t be able to declare my contribution as a tax deduction, but the store probably will.  I give a buck and one million other blindsided customers give a buck and the CEO of the grocery store gets his picture in the paper handing over a tax deductable check for $1 million dollars. 

It just bothers me…but then I am a prick.

I give to charities from time to time.  I give to charities I care about, charities that hit close to my home.  If I give a buck to the store, it is one dollar less I have to give to my charities; so I say no and feel like a prick!

“No thank you, I don’t want to give a measly dollar to the Something Something Blah Blah Blah FOR CHILDREN, because I am a prick!”

After the grocery store we went to “Boston Market” to take home our dinner.  Checking out I was asked,

“Would you like to donate a dollar to the CHILDRENS FUND for something something?”

Mrs. C immediately pulled me by the arm, said no thank you and dragged me out of the store before I went on a rant to some poor 17 year old cashier who was only doing her job.

The next time I am asked for a dollar while checking out of a store I am going to ask to see the manager.  When he shows up I am going to ask him if he would like to donate a dollar to the Lustgarten Foundation to find a cure for pancreatic cancer.  If he says no I will just shake his hand and say “Well let’s just call it a draw then.”

If he says yes, I’ll do the same thing.

At least then I won’t feel like a prick.

WHILE YOU’RE UP - a cranky re-run

WHILE YOU’RE UP

This cranky re-run is from July 2012

I came from a family of after dinner snackers.  It wasn’t that we were overeaters or had insatiable appetites; it was because we had a “depression mom.”  Mom wasn’t depressed, far from it, but she grew up during the depression.  Food was scarce and you had to stretch your meals while she was growing up.  While I was growing up food was not scarce, but mom still prepared dinners as if they were.

For a family of five (including three growing boys) there was never enough dinner for seconds.  Even the first round was barely enough to satisfy our large appetites.  The result of having a “depression mom” was sometime after dinner we were all starving and needed to raid the refrigerator.

The daily waiting game in our house after dinner, while watching TV,  was who could take the hunger no more and had to get up for a snack. 

Generally it was me.

AS I pulled myself out of my chair and headed to the kitchen I was assaulted with the same questions.  First my older brother Chris asked, 

“Where you going?”

“Ah…to the kitchen.”

“Whatcha getting?”

“PBJ”

“While you’re up could you make me one to?”

“Ah…OK.”

“You going to get anything to drink with the PBJ?”

“A milkshake.”

“Can you get me a glass too…while you’re up?”

“Sure.”

I hated to give up a glass of milkshake.  I was planning to drink the whole  Blender’s worth. 

Dad always wanted the same thing.

“Can you get me a liverwurst sandwich?  You know…as long as you’re up.”

“Sure Pop.”

I hated the smell of liverwurst.  It almost made me hurl.

“Oh and how about a glass of root beer…with ice…while you’re up.”

“OK”

Then the hunger pangs hit my oldest brother Jim,

“Hey Joe, can you heat up some chili from the can for me…As long as you’re up?  And a glass of milk.  While you’re up”

“OK, why not?”

I would miss an entire episode of “The Brady Bunch” putting together snacks because I was up, and I never learned.

I was always up first.

STUPID HEADLINES 071915

STUPID HEADLINES 071915

Republican "Fish Water" deniers disagree

I got nothing!

I’m taking it a little slower on this blogging thing.  Last week there was no contest and there was no fake.

OK, I lied,

Florida man scared by fake alligator in toilet bangs head against wall and is knocked out – I’d be scared too if I thought I just crapped an alligator:

Was fake.  I made the dude from Florida just to mess with Pixel Peeper

 who ignored the no contest claim and guessed wrong anyway.

Sandee also ignored the no contest claim and guessed anyway…correctly of course.

Florida man scared by fake alligator in toilet bangs head against wall and is knocked out is my pick. You don't find alligators in bathrooms all that often.

OK, here is a tiny whoop-tee-doo!

J  also failed to read the no contest claim and guessed none of the above anyway!

Val

Fresh from the success of not over thinking, I will take your word that all headlines are real this week. Unless, of course, that's to throw us off the track, and we're supposed to understand that your declaration of no contest is fake...nah. I'm not going to over think.

Over thought again!

That’s it, come back next week for some real STUPID HEADLINES!!

Maybe.