Posts filed under ‘Humor – Commentary’
Good Bad Stupid
Good Being a Steeler.
Bad Being a Raven.
Just Plain Stupid A Steeler mouthing off in a way that makes Ray Lewis seem lucid and polite.
Good The Second Amendment.
Bad Glorifying violence.
Just Plain Stupid Posing half-naked with guns on a magazine cover while calling yourself a hit man, when others in your industry and from the very town you live in have died tragically and recently by gunfire.
Good Being a supportive teammate.
Bad Being mean to your friends.
Just Plain Stupid Ripping on Rashard Mendenhall for something other than his tweets.
Good Being a great linebacker.
Bad Being a great disappointment.
Just Plain Stupid Being a great big ass.
Good Having fans who are so loyal and sport savvy that they will pay your fine in a way that is both supportive and funny.
Bad “Egregious and elevated hits that violate rules.”
Just Plain Stupid Slamming teammates.
Good Playing football for a living.
Bad Being on strike.
Just Plain Stupid Not being able to find something constructive to do with all of your money and free time.
Good Looking both ways before crossing the street.
Bad Peeing in public.
Funny but Just Plain Stupid Saying, to a reporter, that you wouldn’t cross the street to pee on Goddell if he were on fire.
Good Not sucking up to an unqualified commissioner.
Bad Calling said commissioner names in public.
Just Plain Stupid Talking like an insensitive, uninformed school boy when you’re supposed to be a professional.
Good Being fair minded.
Bad Being overly critical of someone who makes a mistake.
Just Plain Stupid Saying “It’s just James being James.” as if that makes it acceptable to be astonishingly mean, preposterously self-centered, a stinky teammate, and an embarrassment to the entire city.
Good Being candid.
Bad Lying and blaming others when you’ve made a mistake.
Just Plain Stupid Telling everyone a reporter twisted your words when you know damn well the dude was recording it.
Good How a fan feels about cheering for a team with respected ownership, a proud legacy, a lot of talent, and a belief that their heroes are the good guys.
Bad How a lot of Steeler fans feel right now.
Just Plain Stupid James Harrison.
Dear Proud Parents of Nathan Lavezoli
[To follow-up on my previous post, I discovered that the reason I could not access my network is because a neighbor had “stolen” it. Amusingly enough, he named the stolen network after himself—Dumb Ass—so I was able to figure out who the thief was and get his address in about 15 seconds. What follows is the letter I mailed to his parents today. Enjoy.]
Dear Proud Parents of Nathan Lavezoli:
I just wanted to thank your son for hijacking my wireless network. After about a week of having no internet access and spending many frustrating hours trying to figure out why, I finally spent a real fun Friday night on the phone with my ISP to figure out that Nathan was to blame. Then, I got to spend another hour (and $50) with the manufacturer of my wireless hub to get things back to normal.
First and foremost, I am so glad he used his own name when he stole my wireless and made it his own. That made it so much easier to be able to send this note!
I had been told by a professional that my wireless was secure, so imagine my surprise when Nathan proved that wrong. I am very appreciative that Nathan demonstrated this error to me in such a creative way.
Please thank your fine son for taking the time to steal my network. Had he not done what he did—had he simply used my wireless signal to get onto the internet whenever he felt like it—I would have never known.
By the way, I write this assuming you are aware that Nathan has had internet access. (But, if not, don’t worry, I’m sure he has just been using it to donate money to charity or buy school books.)
For now, I have decided not to report this incident to the police because I value them and the work they do, and I think they have way more important things to do. But, if this or something similar happens again (or if I discover that anything more than my wireless has been hacked), I will count on Neighbor of the Year Nathan to be available to help with the investigation.
I’m also not asking for reimbursement. To do that, I would have to provide my name and address. And, while I assume that Nathan is just a dumb kid who did a dumb thing and I assume you were unaware and I assume that a letter to his parents is all that’s needed to set him straight . . . if any of those assumptions were wrong, I wouldn’t want anyone in your household to have my information.
I have also, after some deliberation and against the advice of friends, decided not to leave a flaming bag of poo on your doorstep. With the mailing of this letter, I consider the matter closed.
Snow Is Stupid
Sitting on that road for nearly an hour = Stupid!
Sitting on that road for nearly two hours = Stupid!
Me deciding to make the right turn onto that road (instead of going my normal route) last night = So Stupid!
Stringing the jumper cables between a vehicle in the northbound lane and a vehicle in the southbound lane to effectively block traffic in both directions instead of pulling off to the side of that road = You’ve-Got-to-Be-Kidding-Me Stupid!
Running in the car lane on that road last night = Amazingly Stupid!
(Note: I don’t think this person was actually jogging but what the heck was she doing?)
Jumping out of your slid-to-the-side car on that road and standing with your back to traffic completely unaware that a less experienced driver than me who had less than my brand-new tires would not have been able to avoid running you over = Stupid.
Cutting in front of me from the left-hand turn lane to turn onto that road and then immediately making an unbelievable clusterf*ckian U-turn in the midst of complete and utter gridlock with no turning radius = You smart bastard.
Announcing on the radio at 4:10 p.m. (with traffic already at a dead stop) that there might be some snow in the area later = Stupid!
Running commercials about how great and amazing and vital your Awesome Major Weather Storm Predictor Six Thousand segment is, while I’m desperately seeking a morsel of info about today’s weather and commute: Stupid Stupid Stupid Stupid Stupid Stupid!
Tailgating in this kind of weather = Stupid #%*! ##!^ **!!!! Stupid.
Driving 70+ on 279 this morning = Darwin-award-winning stupid!
Winter = Stupid!
Snow = Stupid!
Groundhog = Stupid!
Gloves, boots, hats = Stupid-Stupid-Stupid!
Salt on my car = Stupid!
Shoveling my driveway = Stupid!
Having a day off when your job is snow removal = Totally the Most Stupid Stupid-thing Ever in all the Stupid History of Stupidville!
Isn’t It Romantic?
Yes, friends, it is Valentine’s Day. I am in the camp that you shouldn’t need a special day to express such a thing but what the heck. It is what it is. And, more important, it is what you make of it.
Here’s my tip to the guys out there. A simple sincere expression means a lot more than two weeks of grumbling followed by . . . well, anything. And, if you are in a relationship that “requires” you to cough up diamonds on Valentine’s Day, well, you know, if ya ask me, it’s not the holiday that’s stupid.
As a single woman who genuinely likes men as well as dive bars and watching football; who knows how to put the seat down if it’s up without having a fainting spell; who has never understood the desire to drag a man to the mall (nor understood a man’s willingness to do so); who doesn’t care what kind of car you drive or what your job title is; who can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan dressed like a naughty secretary, I just can’t feel a whole lot of pity for guys who whine about being in a relationship with some gold-digging, annoying, unaffectionate witch.
Some days, I wonder where people get their bad ideas about love. Other times, like today, clues appear. On the way to work, a local radio station was running a contest. Who can name the movie selected as the number one most romantic movie of all time on the blah-blah list of yada-yada. The answer: Gone With the Wind.
hmmmm
Guy falls for girl he barely knows. Girl treats guy like dirt while pining over somebody else’s husband. Girl finally gets desperate enough to need guy and marries him but withholds marital affections and continues to treat him like dirt. He finally grows a pair and walks out.
Uh, yeah. Gone With the Wind is an epic story and a cinematic feat, yes, but the number one romance? Where did they do their polling, outside of a marriage counselor’s office?
Now I don’t claim that real romance should or could ever be measured by movie romance, but c’mon people. Surely, we can aspire to do better than the trainwreck that was Rhett and Scarlett.
For example:
Moonstruck
The Philadelphia Story
L.A. Story
Desk Set
Princess Bride
It Happened One Night
A Walk in the Clouds
Moulin Rouge
The Wedding Singer
Roxanne
Boy, that was easy. Here are ten more.
Brigadoon
My Big Fat Greek Wedding
When Harry Met Sally
The African Queen
Shakespeare in Love
To Catch a Thief
The Sound of Music
Emma
An Officer and a Gentleman
The Goodbye Girl
Feel free to add some of your own to this list in the Comments section.
But.
I beg you.
Don’t say An Affair to Remember ’cause that would make me laugh so hard I might get distracted and step into traffic and then we’d never see each other again because my opinion of you—love of my life!—is that you are very handsome but you are shallow and hate cripples.
Are You Ready?
It’s a Legend. An Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Coming over the next 28 Days. An entire city stricken by the same affliction.
It’s about to happen. You know it is.
The little hairs on the back of your neck sense it. And those goosebumps that slide down your arms like the snow and ice that cover the landscape. There’s a chill wind. I pull my scarf a bit tighter around the collar of my black jacket, which I bought to go with the scarf and not the other way around. And I observe this super-natural town.
A normally well-groomed friend has begun to wear the same shirt regularly—and will not wash it.
A dear and respected friend of the family who had to be coaxed and “feeling good” to dance even one dance at his son’s wedding has begun to leap about, executing an intricate pattern of steps, an interpretative voo-doo dance meant to curse.
Serious businessmen, street-wise policemen, and the most faithful folks of the cloth have turned superstitious. Even the roughest men from the mills are not immune to changes, oddities, mysterious charms.
Certain words and phrases are hereby banned from speech. Loud people have gone quiet. Quiet people will get loud. Strangers will become comrades. Knuckles will crack. Nails will be nubs. Breath will be held. Teenage children will borrow clothing from their parents.
Keep your head up. Pay attention. You’ll see the signs. Above roadways. On the fronts of buses. Above tunnels. On storefronts. On Church letter boards. Car washes. Burger joints. Front porches. Flagpoles. Vehicles. In people’s yards. In their windows.
And in their eyes.
Get ready. Stock up. Pull friends and loved ones close to you. Huddle together. Because it’s about to get a little weird in this town.
Screams will be heard. Pacemakers will pulse. And towels will be waved.
The playoffs are about to begin in Pittsburgh, PA .
Here we go Steelers. Here. We. Go.
Got a playoff superstition? What is it?
Happy Tree Day
Yesterday was Christmas Tree Day at my house. Probably my favorite part of the holiday season. In honor of this sacred, beautiful, annual life-preserving, and often ornery rizzle-fratzen ritual, a few tips:
1. First thing, don’t think about the price. Just take a deep breath, put a wad of cash in your wallet for a tree, and think no more of it.
2. Inspect the tree’s trunk, top to bottom. Avoid those with a big bend.
3. If you can clearly see the tree’s trunk, top to bottom, to know for certain if there is a bend or split or other oddity, look for another tree that has more branches and cross your fingers about straightness.
4. You will never find a perfect tree but you will always find a perfect tree. This is a rule of Christmas magic and ornament camouflage. (So, you know, just pick a tree, any tree. It’ll be okay.)
5. Conversely—and critically—not every tree stand is a beautiful thing. No matter how much effort, patience, sweat, or cuss words you put into it, there is, and I cannot emphasize this enough, no single thing more important to maintaining the joy of Tree Day than your choice of Christmas tree stand. With 40-plus years of experience in this matter, which include (1) all the years of watching my Dad’s legs sticking out from under the tree as he patiently turned those three stupid screws with the rest of us shouting contradictory directions from strategic vantage points around the living room; (2) the year the tree fell on me, muting my happy caroling, squashing my naivete, and suffocating the joy of my first tree in my first apartment, which kept falling until I managed to rig it with a nearby wire hanger and my belt to hold the goddamn thing upright; and (3) the years I had my first gadget stand, which required an engineering degree, four hands, the strength of a long-haired Samson, a screw driver, a mallet, plus some fishing line nailed to the wall just in case, I completely and enthusiastically, yes, fanatically, recommend the Krinner Click Fix Tree Stand. Seriously. Your tree will be up, straight, and solidly standing without loss of blood or goodwill in about 15 seconds. No lie.
6. Christmas carols on the stereo are the perfect accompaniment for tree decorating. It is often the first time I will listen to these annual spirit soaring tunes. I recommend you get the potentially annoying stuff (stand, lights, and 104 trips to the sink for water) out of the way before you hit play.
7. Trees look smaller and shorter in the outdoors. Keep in mind that it is highly unlikely that your own height has changed since you left your house.
8. Tip the Tree Guy. Yes, the tree purchase is a very fleeting connection with a total stranger, and, despite tip #1, you just paid for the tree, so that price may be niggling at your brain a bit, but tip the Tree Guy. I don’t know if this is expected or common practice, but it’s what my Dad taught me. And, I love the Tree Guys. No matter what this person is like elsewhere, when helping me get my tree, he is chivalrous and strong. And his smile and handshake and friendliness in the purchase decision are sincere. If a Tree Guy, while on one knee, in the mud, connecting that bungee cord under the bumper of my car, looked up and proposed to me, I would say yes. (But, you know, I’m guessing he’d rather have the tip.)
9. I recommend that you buy a tree bag when you get the tree. Most tree places have them at the cash register area. They’ll help dramatically minimize needles on the floor and make it a lot easier to remove the tree when the holidays are over.
10. I recommend that you remember to position the tree bag under the tree before you do all the decorating.
So, have faith, have patience, have a sense of humor, and have a Happy Tree Day.
And, to those special few who celebrate it, today I also wish you Happy Alexmas! Happy Birthday, buddy.
Every Creche Has Its Jackass
If it is Valentine’s Day, and I don’t have a boyfriend, should I fight to ban pink hearts and bouquets of flowers?
If it is Veteran’s Day, and I never served, should I spend my days trying to ban parades?
If a total stranger has a Birthday or a non-Christian recognizes a holy day I am unfamiliar with, I have no issue. People that are not me are welcome to their own special day, and I truly hope they take the time to do whatever it is they want or need to do to commemorate, celebrate, and feel joy about that particular day.
Right? Yeah.
So, can anyone explain to me, why exactly some people have such a bug up their chimney when it comes to Christmas?
I’m not trying to be a smart-alec. I really truly logically emotionally thoughtfully confoundedly just don’t get it.
So, you don’t believe that Jesus was born in a manger. Okay. That’s fine; you don’t believe he was born in a manger. Why get so upset over somebody else displaying such a scene?
It’s not directed at you. It’s directed at those for whom it has meaning. Plastic wisemen cannot hurt you. The entire manger scene, complete with angels, a big ol’ star, and even a halo round a baby’s head, cannot—if you have conviction in your own soul, sincerity in your heart, or a brain cell in your head—change your own beliefs or alter your world view.
For you, the story of Jesus Christ is a fiction.
Do you run screaming for justice when you see a Spiderman movie poster in a store window? Should Shakespeare’s or Austen’s or Melville’s characters be banned? Are you offended by Snow White figurines?
Seriously, if you don’t believe in Christmas, what is the big honkin’ deal?
So, it’s not for you. Don’t celebrate it. Don’t put a Creche in your own front yard. There are certainly plenty of other takes on the holiday (Santa, reindeer, trees, cookies, cinnamon-crusted pecans, egg nog, champagne, stockings, candy canes, sparkle season, misfits and heatmeisers and grinches, good will toward men, and more). Maybe you don’t like any of that stuff. That’s okay, too. I don’t want to change your mind or send Jacob Marley to the foot of your bed. I don’t feel bad for you. To each his own.
December 25th is Christmas. It’s one day on the calendar. It’s a Federal holiday because it happens to be a day worth noting for a big chunk of the population. (We’re not doing it to upset you.)
Might I suggest that, before you call a lawyer, take a moment, settle in next to a roaring fire, down a chill pill or two, and see if you can’t think of something more deserving of your time and tears than having a hissy over Christmas decorations.
Shut up your shuttin’ up already and enjoy the extra day off. You’re welcome.
Do You Believe in Golf?
Yesterday I had my “Golf Final.” I passed. Let’s call it a C+ on nine holes, par 3. We didn’t keep score, my short-term memory is shakey at best, and I’ve read but not memorized the penalty stroke rules, so I honestly can’t tell you my score. But I got a couple of drives to the green and had a couple of very long putts that (nearly) went in. I also had a couple of terrible drives and on two, maybe three, occasions, had to pick my ball up and walk on due to the three drive/three putt limit.
I avoided the trees. I stayed out of the water. I didn’t hit the ducks on 2 or the cars near 9. More important, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. So, let’s add golf to the very short list of sporty activities that I can suck at but still have fun playing. (The others are darts and pool.) Most important, I took a step toward overcoming what I think has to be my biggest handicap: I don’t actually believe that golf is possible.
I find it incomprehensible that a person can hit a small ball a hundred yards or more and have it end up in that tiny little hole in the ground. And that’s not just a euphemism for the difficulty of the game. I mean I have never believed with my brain that it can happen.
I know that 2 plus 2 is 4. I know if I set a volleyball, a hitter will be able to take a good swing. I know if I take my vitamins, I won’t get sick. I know that, if I mix flour, sugar, brown sugar, baking soda, salt, egg, vanilla, and chocolate chips, some darn good cookies will come out of the oven.
But. That tiny ball that sits much too close to my feet as I fight the urge to back away. That far-away hole (which some talk about aiming for). That club that transmogrifies into a softball bat as soon as it leaves my line of sight on the backswing.
I just don’t believe it can be done.
For many years, that disbelief kept me from playing the game. Me not having a set of clubs didn’t help either.
Friends played a lot and I always felt left out, But I also had no desire to go out and make a total fool of myself and/or mess up their good time. So I did not play golf.
Then something changed. A very dear friend passed away, and a special group of friends began an annual golf outing to honor his memory. How could I care if I made a fool of myself for that?
So I blatantly warned some friends about my lack-of-skill level and put a team in. (And a very special thank-you to life preservers Steve and Nancy who put friendship above winning, not just that first year but each year since, i.e., even after seeing me play. I hope you know how much it means to me. Your kindness and humor and sincere tolerance—well, that’s exactly what that day is all about, isn’t it?)
At these outings, I discovered something. I actually enjoy this odd sport. So, this fall I signed up for lessons via CCAC, the local community college, and ended up at Denise’s Golf Academy. (If you’re looking for a great instructor, I recommend this place.)
Yesterday, the class ended with nine holes of par 3. It was a gorgeous day to be out and about. And on one or two occasions, I got that ball where it needed to go without feeling totally awkward or completely lucky.
I was feeling pretty good afterwards—excited by the lessons learned, uplifted by the gorgeous fall weather—and just not ready to be done. Instead of going home, I stopped at a driving range. Got a bucket.
And, let me tell you, the golfer on the next tee was so impressed with how I was hitting them that he exclaimed more than one loud and boisterous “Wow!”
He was five years old.
Got any golf tips for me?
Happy Columbus Day
[Note: Sorry for the double-post. I originally posted an old draft.]
I watched the History Channel’s “Who Really Discovered America?” over the weekend. They didn’t really answer the question except to say that Signore Columbus was definitely not the first to arrive.
The show reviewed theories of discovery by the Vikings, the Native Americans (er, um, Native Russians?), the Irish, One of the Lost Tribes of Israel, the Japanese, the Chinese, Polynesians, and others. Evidence presented included architecture, language, physical features, skeletal remains, fish hooks, weaponry, architecture, disease, art, and DNA.
Scientists now have DNA testing capabilities to examine and trace physical traits via genes back thousands and thousands of years—which they are now using to try to confirm genetic patterns to support (or disprove) some of the discovery theories.
The theory that went farther back than any other was that a group called the Solutreans arrived, from Southwestern Europe, in 22,000 B.C. (i.e., not just Before Columbus).
Really makes ya wonder how come Columbus got all the attention and is remembered well enough to close banks and schools on an annual basis more than 500 years after the fact.
(I’m thinking it could be because he’s the only one with a cool mnemonic device.)
In the end, the show concluded by saying that, the more we learn, the more likely that the question of Who Discovered America? will become Who Didn’t?
Although the show’s title remains a bit perturbing, especially for someone who does not like cliff-hanger endings, I think I’d find it much harder to believe that one person discovered America than to believe that people from a variety of cultures were sticking a foot in Alaska, California, Florida, and Connecticut all at the same moment.
Eenie, meenie, miney, moe. I say, take your pick.
What fascinates me more than that is the type of the human being who ventured out. Yes, the documentarians surmise that some of the voyages were initiated by a flight from tyranny or earthly disaster, but some of these folks? They just wanted to go find out.
As I get into my car and go buy groceries that have been grown, picked, wrapped in plastic, and stacked up to await my arrival at 2:00 in the afternoon or 2:00 in the morning; as I grumble about a 1/2-hour delay on a flight that will take me across the country in a matter of hours; as I recall the preparations, car problems, and pit stops of various vacations, I find it absolutely mind-boggling.
And also exhilirating.
Consider the imagination and spirit (and cojones) of these adventurers. Getting into hand-made boats, some without sails. Planning to catch their own dinner as needed. Pushing off from shore without checking the Weather Channel or turning on the GPS. Wondering just how many miles of ocean rolled and crashed beyond the horizon. Not knowing what—if anything—awaited them, but darn near certain it wouldn’t be a HoJo’s and a plate full of fried clams, hush puppies, and a Coke.
I don’t think it matters who got here first. I think what matters is that we are descended from explorers and trail-blazers, that we each have some guts in our guts. A deeply held memory of derring-do. A hint of faith that defies impossibilities. The twist in our double-helix.
And, whether or not the grade-school history lesson was completely accurate, I think this remains a day worth celebrating (and certainly a day for life preservers).
Happy Columbus Day.
(Or, Happy Solutrean Day, just in case.)
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 
A Superior Innovative Quality Post
Yes. I’m a writer. I’ve been studying, learning, practicing, and making a living with the English language for more than 25 years. But I am not one of Those People. The ones who spitefully note grammar or spelling errors in friends’ emails or facebook posts. The ones who can spend two hours arguing whether or not the phrase anal retentive requires a hyphen. I couldn’t care less if my friends know the difference between who and whom. I truly sincerely assure you, I am not one of Those People.
However.
If you are being paid money to communicate a message. And you bungle it out of what can only be stupidity or laziness. You. Annoy. Me.
Freakin’?
This morning, I heard a radio commercial that claimed its product was “freakin’ great.”
Yikes. How crass and unprofessional. Yes, I realize it’s not actually the F-word, but it’s a slang that exists only as a stand-in for the F-word. (And, let’s be clear, I’m not nearly as offended by the F-word as I am by bad writing.) If you can’t think of a better adjective than freakin’, you should probably change careers.
Word Choice Matters
The words less and fewer are not interchangeable. (Used incorrectly in a financial services ad couple of weeks back, which made it extra amusing.)
Every day and everyday are also not interchangeable. Although I admit this one’s borderline pet-peevian.
People n’ Things
When referring to a human being, the pronoun is who, not which or that.
The Apostrophe
Learn how to use an apostrophe. The Joneses will thank you. The Joneses’ cat, however, will not care.
Lighten Up, Frances
Must we really muddle meaning and/or mangle grammar simply to avoid using words like mankind? Really?
Interesting to note: The word mankind derives from the word humankind (not penis).
Hackneyed Smack Need
You do not offer educational solutions; you’re a college. I don’t want creative banking or innovative toilet paper. Buildings, paper products, shampoo, cars, etc., are incapable of being environmentally conscious. Or any kind of conscious. Can we all admit this kind of sloppy writing is a problem (and not an opportunity)?
Stop It with the Ellipses
And
Also on the annoying list are reviewers who high-and-mightily, completely aghastly, so-oh-oh condescendingly spout things like, You can’t begin a sentence with a conjunction!
Yeah. Okay darlin’. Why don’t you take that tone and your 1902 diploma and go ask your doctor to bleed you with leeches to ease your blood pressure a bit.
Which Reminded Me
I once had a client call a boss and complain that I was a bad writer because I used prepositional phrases. And the boss called me into his office. I expected a chuckle of commiseration and time spent figuring out how best to interpret the feedback and magically edit the text in question. Instead. I got a lecture on the importance of customer satisfaction, a dramatic portrayal of his disappointment in my skill as a writer, and a stern warning to stop using prepositional phrases forthwith.
Which, you know, meant I was thereby forbidden to say, “Up yours.”
Hire a Professional
If you need wiring done, you call an electrician. If your pet is due for shots, you go to a vet. If you want to communicate clearly and effectively to business-related audiences, if you want to promote a professional image, if you want to get the most out of your media buy, use a professional writer.
Speaking of, how about a shameless plug for fellow-writer Christine Hollinger of WordPlay Writing? She’s a long-time colleague, kind blog follower, situational grammar consultant, and supporter of sanity. In other words, a life preserver. And a darn good freelance writer.
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September 1, 2011 at 6:32 am 10 comments