The final poem of April...

Never Ask Your Neighbor to Save the Environment when he used to be the Vice President

He doesn't recycle
There's no compost pile
He blacktopped his driveway
Shoot, he probably spit in the Nile

He stands in his yard
Spraying an aerosol can
I even saw him yesterday
Dumping out his oil pan

He turns up the heat in the winter
And the A/C in the heat
His carbon footprint is like
Sasquatch with swollen feet

But I'll keep my mouth shut
I will say nothing more
It's tough to talk to
A hypocrite like Al Gore

Thus endeth National Poetry Month...

The sunscreen people love this kind of thing...

It has become popular for some people to protest by getting naked.

I have a few thoughts on this.

First, it is cost effective. Why pay for posterboard and markers when you can just disrobe?

This method of getting attention for your cause would limit your protesting to summer, I think, especially in Minnesota or North Dakota.

It might make for conversation during the protest…such as, “hey, when did you have your appendectomy?”

Where do you keep your wallet or car keys? Unless you live across the street from the protest site, you need these things.

Finally, it really seems pretty useless. If I were to see a large group of naked people out in public, I wouldn’t immediately ask myself, “I wonder what worthwhile cause they are supporting?”

As is the intelligence gap...

The Sleep Gap is narrowing in our house.

The Sleep Gap is the amount of difference in hours of sleep the kids need to function versus the adults. Up until recently, the kids went to bed at 8 pm or so and were fast asleep. I would then stay awake until 11 pm, go to bed and be fresh as a daisy with a kind word for everyone when they woke up, be it 6 am, 6:30 or whatever.

Now it seems that the kids aren’t asleep until around 8:30 or 8:45 (they still go to bed at 8 pm, they just tell knock-knock jokes and giggle until about 8:45 on some nights) and they still get up between six and seven o’clock where I greet them fresh as a daisy with a kind word for everyone.

So somewhere I’ve lost about 45 minutes and when you add to the fact that I am now in bed around 10:30, that means we’ve lost about an hour, on average, but still I am fresh as a daisy with a kind word for everyone.

Finally, I would like to remind you that I am still fresh as a daisy with a kind word for everyone each and every $%(#()@ morning.

Another day, another poem...

Regretting many missteps
And years paralyzed by fear
Better I should have relaxed
And just drank more beer

Wound too tight to enjoy
Always in high gear
Better I wasn't so paranoid
And just drank more beer

Worried about money
Thinking disaster was always near
I should have merely trusted God
And just drank more beer

After 40 years of stress
Always checking to my rear
Better to look ahead with hope
And just drink more beer

And then it ended in a flaming crash of salami and ham...

The "diet" was called a fast
But it wasn't going to last

No sugar, no fried, no dairy, no meat
And no bread to go with nothing to eat

We found day one was easy to do
But only compared with excruciating day two

Day three saw delusions and dreams of a ham
I admit I sprayed my rice cake with butterized Pam

We ate lettuce for day four and day five
And finally realized we might stay alive

But day six changed when we went to the store
And we realized we couldn't take it no more

We changed up the plan with a new goal in our sights
And then I ate a sub sandwich in only four bites

The comedic stylings of Grace and John

The curtain opens.

Grace: How many elephants can you get in your house?
Me: I don’t know
Grace: Five or Seven.

(Cue laughter)

John: My turn, my turn, Daddy!
Me: Okay, go ahead
John: Knock, knock
Me: Who’s there?
John: A Cow
Me: A Cow who?

(Cue laughter)

Grace: My turn!
Me: Okay
Grace: Why did the chicken cross the playground?
Me: I give up
Grace: To get to the other slide

(cue laughter)

While on the Guantanamo Bay Diet...

I walked up and down the aisles like a crazed person, looking at labels…my head was pounding and I craved, well EVERYTHING, I saw on the shelves.

The labels I read were filled with things that are NOT on the list of approved things to eat, additives, cottonseed oil, etc…and the things I could eat just didn’t fit my deepest gut feeling of what I needed. The deli in the back had the largest pile of fried chicken I had ever smelled.

I had a box of raisins in my hand, but I’m an hour and fifteen minutes from home and have to be on the air doing a baseball game for two hours before that…that means almost four hours before I could get home. Raisins therefore, were not a good idea. I also put back the box of prunes.

I left the store without making a purchase and drove toward the ball field, passing the Dairy Queen, Wendy’s and (this is the one that killed me) the A&W Root Beer stand…I stopped at a convenience store…no luck there…just water and pistachios were on my list. And I’d just heard on the news that someone’s pistachios were tainted or something.

(Normally, I would just buy the pistachios and throw caution to the wind, but I was already nauseous and had a headache…so I wouldn’t know if I gotten a bad batch or not…unless I died and I’m not quite ready to die…not quite)

I hope I feel better tomorrow.

The rehab clinic for poets presents...

Hello, My name is not given
I'm an alcoholic you see
Today I'm with my friends
The people who accept me

You never have been judging
Or told me I've been wrong
It's that damn evil liquor
That sings it's evil song

I've lost my steady job
And beaten my pretty wife
But it's that Colt 45
That's screwed up my life

Now, instead of screaming while on a drunk
I just rage while straight
I guess the booze is still in my system
I'm a victim, I tell you, this is my fate

No booze, no hooch
No beer of any kind
I'm still a jerk, sure
But I'm sober so one seems to mind

Hello, My name is not given
And I've been sober for almost a year
It's pretty cool what I've accomplished
And to celebrate, I'd like a beer

Roses are red, I need a pepsi

Milestones...

It’s day twenty of the poetry challenge…write one poem per day for the month of April. The moderator gives a subject everyday for the participant to follow. If you are interested go here:

http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/April+PAD+Challenge+2009+Rules++Blahblahblah.aspx

Anyway, it’s become somewhat annoying that the guy has problems posting the subject every day in a timely fashion. But, who can expect discipline from a poet?

*****

It’s day two of the Guantanamo Bay diet (aka the Daniel Fast), in which subject eats only vegetables and fruit for 21 straight days or until the people with the straight jackets arrive, whichever comes first. The kids (who are not participating) ate chicken last night and I was tempted to lick their napkins after they finished, but I managed to keep myself pure.

No sugar, no alcohol, no fried foods, and no soda. But the problem isn’t what we can’t eat…it’s the availability of what we can eat. With out diet, our local grocery store would be the produce section and the aisle only the looney, tree huggers shop for things like wheat pasta and lemon grass. And you can forget anything on the checkout aisle, except for the Soap Opera Digest.

Hopefully, today’s poem will be about self-denial.

A lament for the unorganized....

I’m sorry, where was I?
I’m busy, I have to admit
I’m going to tell you now
Now what was it?

It’s written on this envelope
In this manila file
Wait, I’m going to show you
It must be in this pile

I had it just right here
All planned and just so
I wrote it down so I’d have it
Now where did that thing go?

You’ve got to understand
I’ve been under a lot of stress
No, actually I’m very organized
It’s just right now that looks a mess

Oh, wait, I’ve got it
It’s right here in this sack
No, that’s my lunch
Hey, wait, stop…come back!

Only 13 more days to go...

What's on my mind...a medical explanation...

The yips is an expression describing an apparently baseless sudden loss of ability in one of a number of different sports or brings them to the realization they never were any good in the first place.

Professional or amateur sportsmen affected by the Yips sometimes recover their ability, sometimes compensate by changing technique, or may be forced to abandon their sport in order to run a radio station and take cooking classes.

In golf, the yips is a movement disorder known to interfere with putting, chipping and the overwheling desire not to look like an idiot with a vanity handicap. The term yips is said to have been popularized by Tommy Armour — a golf champion and later golf teacher — to explain the difficulties that led him to abandon tournament play. In describing the yips, golfers have used terms such as the jerks, hurling, choking, staggers, jitters, complete lithium-head mental breakdown and twitches.

(Wikipedia contributed to this content...you think I made this up?)

The yips affects between one-quarter and one-half of all mature golfers and 100 percent of the writers of this blog. Researchers at the Mayo Clinic found that 33 percent to 48 percent of all serious golfers have experienced the yips. Golfers who have played for more than 25 years appear to be most prone to the condition, but some begin "throwing up" at the most inopportune times before reaching the 25-year benchmark.

It is very common for sufferers to practice without experiencing the yips, only to step on the course and want to yak every time they have to chip or putt.

Although the exact cause of the yips has yet to be determined, one possibility is that, in some golfers, the condition may result from biochemical changes in the brain that accompany aging. Excessive use of the involved muscles and intense demands of coordination and concentration may make the problem worse. Owning more than 15 putters and changing every round of play doesn't help the condition, although it doesn't seem to hurt it, either. Focal dystonia is mentioned as another possibility for the real cause of yips.

Focal dystonia can be cured, but only by firing squad.

I heard a fly buzz as I watched ESPN

The world ping-pong champs
Hoisted their golden ball
That was to signify
They'd beaten them all

They had their interview
And thanked mom and dad
And told of learning to play
When they were but a small lad

They thanked their sponsors
They said it "hadn't sunk in"
They teared up a bit, reflecting
On the "once in a lifetime win"

I watched the whole thing
And here is the why
The remote wasn't in reach
And my wife hadn't walked by

This was their moment
Their day in the sun
And because I have ESPN
I got to share in the fun

Today's poetry exercise was the change the title of an existing poem. So I did. I'm writing a poem a day in hopes of getting in touch with my feminine side. I'll let you know how it works out. I'd write more, but I have to go arrange some flowers.

The Second Tuesday in April...

Time now for the *Real County Music lyric of the day…

Cruising in my station wagon trying to keep my muffler from dragging
Sometimes it seems so defeating as I’m trying to make it to the Cub Scout meeting
Ooh I dream about Mexico Where all the pretty people go
We’re on a budget that just won’t budge, not much money but a whole lot of love

Living that domestic life, happy children and a pretty wife
Our cocker spaniel’s always having puppies, how can anybody be so lucky
See me mowing my domestic yard, lord I owe my soul to Master Card
But it seems to suit me to a tee, that domestic life’s all right with me

Our neighbor’s names are Fred and Ruth; he wears a lot of leisure suits
She sells Avon and Tupperware too, we’re always ducking all the bull they shoot
Ooh I’ll never be president and we never seem to save a cent
But things are looking better everyday, hell I’m sergeant at arms of the PTA

And unfortunately, no time for anything else…

*The Real Country Music lyric of the day are real lyrics heard on the radio station of my employment. We occasionally hear The Streak and Foggy Mountain Breakdown, too. Who'd have thought?

The only thing the NYT is good for...

Greek letter fill-in
Nice way to say thanks
A cigar ending
Brand of vault used in banks

It’s the guy that wrote Billy Budd
Hot-shooting Basketballer Pete
It's the old-style grape drink
And an Abrev. of what you are when you're on your feet

Jazz singer James
Who lived at Green Gables
Belgic type of beer
An old writer of Fables

Med school subj.
Seed from an Oak tree
The constellation with a belt
And the Middle name of Robert Lee

The answers to these Crossword clues
Are found in lines underneath these
I don't have time for this anymore
I'm too busy learning Chinese...

(well, actually not, but I'm tired of looking at this)

It's Tau, Merci, Ette and Wilson
Melvin, Maravich, Nehi and Ped
It's Etta and Anne, Bock and Aesop
And Anat, Acorn, Orion and (who could forget?) Ed

Nothing rhymes with ex-cathedra…

As a wee small lad
In freezing Minnesota
We had neighbors whose church
Adhered to ex-cathedra

And it seemed that all year long
On Fridays they only ate
(Not merely for Lenten days-mind you)
Fish from their dinner plate

They usually cooked it in oil
Or we went to Mickey D’s
I remember Filet-o-fish and a side of fries
Balanced on my little knees

I didn’t have the internet to help
So I was alone to decide
But it seemed obvious to me
The first part of the day sounded like Fried

(I also figured my parents got married on a Wednesday)

Later on, I learned that the name
Had nothing to do with Fry
Because 15 minutes ago
I googled and read the reason why

(And it’s a good thing…)

Because now that frying has become evil
And renders the body weak
I’m afraid if the Democrats got their way
There would only be six days in the week

*If it really does run…we won’t go catch it, I promise

My TBR (To be Read or in my case to be experienced) for April

Don’t Forget the Dumpster on Highway 125 is the story of a man who lives outside the city limits and therefore can’t get garbage pickup at his house. He is forced to put the garbage in the trunk of his car to take to various clandestine sites around the county.

I Should Have Bought a Truck, Too is the sequel to Don’t Forget the Dumpster of Highway 125. In this story, the man wishes he could get the huge plastic drainpipe off his property.

Well, Just Stand with Your Head Cocked to the Side is about a guy who is tired of arguing that the curtains are just fine and not crooked.

There’s Got to be a Way to Kill This is a story of a man who wishes he didn’t own 1.67 acres of land, complete with growing grass. It is a follow-up to But I Don’t Want to Own a Lawn Mower, a story that appeared in the March 15, 2007 issue of the Wall Street Journal.

It’s Us Again, You Know the Address is the tale of a family that can’t seem to solve various plumbing problems including the toilet running* all the time.

The rhyming radio man...

With millions hanging on the edge of their seat...

Everyday I read the weather
Whether it be nice or it be fair
I read it with a tone of interest
It's my job to read it on the air

I read the chance of rain
And I read the low and the high
And I read mostly or partly
Five times as the day goes by

But the problem comes later
When I'm heading off to bed
Holli asks me what the forecast is
And I realize I forgot what I said

You should see what I originally wrote...or maybe not.

Long Island, NY -- A conspiracy was uncovered when a man and his wife were charged with child abandonment after authorities found out they had been dropping their child off at a government building where almost total strangers would raise them from 8:00 am to 3:00 pm Monday through Friday.

"We thought everyone was doing it," explained the man. "After all, the people in charge there care about them as much as we do, don't they?"

The scandal deepened when scores of other parents were found to be putting the children on public transportation (large yellow buses) to deliver them to the government building. In some cases, the children were seen bringing home propaganda and other materials they were to memorize in hopes of pleasing their daytime caretakers.

More on this as it develops.

10,435 and counting...

My creative juices today have been sopped up by the knowledge that I’m really not very bright.

And all because I have to go to Radio Shack today and I’m dreading it.

I need this certain cable, but unless it is lying on the floor two feet from the front door glowing in neon, I won’t be able to find it.

Then I will have to ask and I will then be asked a follow-up or a clarifying question and I won’t know the answer.

So then it will appear I didn’t have any idea what I was doing in the first place when I came in.

So I’ll buy the wrong thing or I’ll buy nothing.

And just knowing that one more person will think I’m an idiot (to add to the others) is what has killed off any witty thoughts that may have been there in the first place.

Wardrobe Malfunction...

I really hate my jeans
They don’t fit at a good spot
I looked and I looked and I asked
Is this style all that you’ve got?

(The socks, well, they’re just socks)

My boxers ride up on me
“It these damn jeans' fault!” I shout
But I’m not going back to briefs
And I’m not going to go without

(Well, yes, my shoes are fine, but I hate these damn jeans)

My shirt won’t tuck in my jeans
It can’t reach down that low
I didn’t know when I bought it
Where fashion trends would go

(And a belt doesn’t seem to help - you can't turn to alcohol for everything)

I don’t hate the younger bunch
I just really hate their taste
Their fashion needs a hit man
Or just more inches in the waist

Why tough doesn't rhyme with cough...

I’ve entered a poetry contest.

After I get in from deer hunting or changing the oil in my pickup, I like to sit down and crank out a few lines. I usually have a beer and a chaw of tobacco while I post it to the web.

Which brings us to the real county music lyric of the day
I drive a nineteen eighty-eight Ford Pick-up truck.

Girls don't break up with me
I break up with them first!

I don't shave the hair on my face
Because beards are tough.

I fart, burp, spit, when I want
Not caring who is nearby

Disrespect my momma
and I will punch you in the eye!

I am a Manly Man!

I’d write more about this, but Extreme Fighting Championship is coming up on ESPN.

Things they don't tell you at Harvard Business School...

I made a sales call today.

Before that, I went to Taco Bell. This may or may not be related to the fact that I wanted to throw up.

I asked to speak to the owner. Let’s call him Fred. Well, I’m going to anyway.

“Is Fred there?” I asked with tremendous self-confidence.

Well, Fred wasn’t in but James could talk to me, he’s in charge of advertising, not Fred.

James listened for almost two seconds (I got to say my name and half of the call letters of the station) and then lit into me.

“We ain’t buying no advertising right now, bud,” (he called me “bud”), “So I might as well save you some time.” And then he hung up on me.

(apparently the man in charge of advertising isn’t the man in charge of public relations)

As my wife will tell you, you can’t get rid of me by just hanging up on me once. So I called him back.

This time I did the talking to begin with. I told him I didn’t appreciate his attitude and we needed to start over. He agreed and said….

“We ain’t buying no advertising right now, bud,” he said, “So I might as well save you some time.”

This wasn’t the starting over I was hoping for, but he didn’t end it there. I then was treated to his two- minute rant about how he had 10 calls in the last 30 minutes for advertising (yeah sure) and he needed to be selling his product, not talking to me. It was like a tantrum thrown by a two-year- old who didn’t want to go to bed.

I couldn’t believe how childish he was.

So, I did the only thing I could.

I called Fred at home and tattled on him.