Category Archives: Family

Diner Jokes

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Jokes piss me off.  I don’t care if they are profanity laced or offensive, I just find them to be a nuisance.  I don’t enjoy someone embarrassing themselves when laughter doesn’t follow, and I have the second worst fake laugh in the world.  My wife owns the number one spot in this category.

While visiting a local diner for brunch with my extended family,  we were accosted (that’s a little strong) how about assaulted not once, twice, but thrice by a bartender honing his lack of skills for the comedy club.

We were celebrating my wife’s grandmother’s 91st birthday and enjoying listening to her nostalgia filled with wonderful stories of her past.  Enjoying ourselves while preparing to order, a bartender (the only table available was located next to the bar) interrupted our collective conversation with attempting to provide our table with the gift of laughter.  A tad rude, but no big deal.  Once he began speaking, I diverted my eyes, because I could smell a joke coming which would probably be just as cheap as the dirty napkins at our table.  Sit directly in front of him, he gave most of the attention to my wife.  Now, that made me chuckle.   She has a exceptional sense of humor but also doesn’t care for jokes.  This was terrific for me,  because I knew she would be forced into busting out her outrageously ridiculous phony laugh.  That would and did make me chuckle.  Looking at me with distain, she turned her attention back to the mindless King of Comedy.  He delivered properly.  It was a wildly lame joke.  Insert wife’s fake laugh.  Her grandmothers stared at him and didn’t laugh, smile, or frown, even though she did think it was a bit odd.  She couldn’t hear a word of the joke anyway.  My mother in law laughed, because she is a very kind soul, and I think she enjoys corny and unoriginal jokes with no clever swagger at all.  I think that’s great.  We’re just different.

There was no harm done and when he completed embarrassing himself, we returned to our peaceful conversations.  Two minutes later, hop along joke dealer two graced himself  again for a second dose of pain.  Strike two.  That’s where I was a little annoyed.   Same scenario, similar crappy joke, and priceless fake laughter.  My father in law,  one the finest and nicest people I know, looked like he wanted to physically 86 the bartender from his own place.  Again, it ended without bloodshed, so all remained well.

I won’t bore you with next joke encounter of the third kind except for the fact my wife flashed me a look of “don’t” when she knew I was going say something like, “why don’t you take your colossally stupid jokes outside and make someone else miserable out on the deck instead of torturing us?”  Instead, I resorted to an eye and head roll.  My eye and head rolls are those of legend.  You can see me performing these rolls from different zip codes.  I think the jokester caught mine and did not return to our table.  End of Chapter.

Now don’t get me wrong, I think I have a pretty good sense of humor.  Some people think it’s little too dry.  That’s fine.  It is all subjective. And, I don’t expect others to have the same.  My wife and I are Seinfeld people, while others may have love the well deserved beloved Mash.  Both considered comedically magnificent in their own individual rights.  Mash just isn’t our style.

Let’s make this a little more colorful.  I believe it’s important in relationships to share certain things, one of which being a similar sense of humor.  I’m not saying it’s critical, but to me and my wife, important. I melt when I hear her genuine laughter whether I am providing the laughter or not.  Hell, I don’t even mind when she laughs at me.  I’m  extremely adept at doing stupid things or perhaps dancing when I shouldn’t.  My wife and I have known each other since we were 13 years old.  We made each other laugh then, and after a bit of a glitch, are still together today, laughing each day when we wake up and before we fall asleep.  But, let’s imagine a hypothetical situation.  It’s the year 2008.  I don’t know her and we are both at a bar, and I notice an empty chair next to her.  Although she looks dirty from working on an oil rig, I see beyond the dirt and the filth and approach her while she is paying attention to two television broadcasts.  One, is a Seattle Mariner baseball game and the other is CNN.  CNN is in the middle of its entertainment segment.  Upon reaching the bar to order a beer, I turn her and say, “Did you know the Seattle Mariners are a Major League Baseball team?”  My eyes would read that I was ridiculing their deplorable organization.  That would guarantee me a chuckle earning me that seat next to her.  I would then have her turn her attention to CNN, and I would say, “Do you see that guy Donald Trump right there?  He’s going to end up being President of the United States one dark day.”  That would earn me belly laughter and a date for Friday night.

I guess the joke’s on her.

 

Blow Me???

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After researching the phrase “blow me” at the pubic Seattle library on 5th and Cherry lane, I was blown away by what this means.  Forgive me for being a Saint.

Although being an over actor, I’ve enjoyed Mel Gibson in a very small fist of features.  My wife made fun of him once for him recommending that his wife should blow him.  Mel should have enough money for central air or even a fan.  I just didn’t understand why MG was so upset while screaming, as though suffering through an asthma attack, he required someone or something to blow on him.

My wife and I have struggled recently with text messages.  She doesn’t receive any of them.  The last time we texted, she just asked if would send her a quick message so she could reply.  Rather that texting a simple “hi”, I immediately tossed out, “you should blow me!!”  Accidentally, as usual, and grossly, the message was sent to one of my sisters.  Good grief.  All of my six sisters have terrific senses of humor, but this just came out,  flat out weird.

Ironically, the sister I sent this to has been married to an Australian for almost over 30 years.  She thought it was funny.

G’day.

Hitching Post 77

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Picking up hitch hikers is something my wife and I don’t ordinarily do.  In fact, after almost ten years of marriage, this was our first time.  I’d never personally picked one up myself and neither had she.  The only hitch hiker I shared a ride with was in in the 1970’s when my father picked one up while a man was thumbing a ride across the State Line of Idaho, a place where no one was thought to be crazy.  I was six, and my two older brothers in the backseat were ten and twelve.  My father was in his fifties driving with an open beer in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.   We were all in prime condition for hands on combat with a wandering weirdo.  Hand to knife?  No.  Hand to gun?  Negative.  I guess it turned out ok, because my father was a pretty good judge of character and maintained faith in the Lord.  Those were the odds my father held in his favor when potentially picking up a stranger with lethal weapons.  Are there any other kind these days?  Well,  I’m still here to write about this bold memory, and my wife are I are here cozily tossing and turning with the puppy who was there with us for our first hitcher.

Trying to locate a Veterinary clinic on a secluded island, our global positioning system went on the fritz, so we resulted to the ancient art of prayer to help us find our way.  Perhaps God’s GPS wasn’t working that day either, or He was teaching us a lesson for not attending church the week prior……or the week before that, or the week before that,  or on Easter and Christmas.  We were lost on a land with twisted roads surrounded by a sea of angry waves and AARP drowning victims.  We knew the majority of the island’s inhabitants were between the ages of sixty five and one hundred.

Our dog in the back was scratching her head trying to help us find our way.  She also had a terrible earache.  Seconds felt like hours before we saw a man gimping down the road in front of us with his arm straighten to the left and a thumb in the air.  We drove past him before my wife, the driver, felt a wave of island guilt pass within her after glancing in the rear view mirror.  Looking at me, she asked, “Should we pick him up?”

I responded, with befuddled fashion, “Seriously?”

She then began to tell me how she knew I had good judgement regarding these situations as though I drove around the streets of any city U.S.A. looking for hitch hikers with the sixth sense of knowing if I’d be hijacked or successfully helping a fellow man requiring assistance.  She also thought I’d get that warm feeling wondering if I’d be brutally murdered by a fellow citizen of the street.

I looked back and noticed he was an older man somewhere between 65 and 90.  He was also wearing a University of Virginia Tech (Home of the Fighting Hokies) sweatshirt screaming out, “Would a man wearing  a Va. Tech pull over ever be capable of killing a wife, her husband along with their stupid dog?  People, I implore you!”

Loving the fact my wife held such confidence in me, while shrewdly passing the guilt to me, I told her to turn around and we’ll pick him up.  She also stated it was my ass who would be held responsible for making the wrong decision.

Before allowing him into the car, my wife asked him where he was headed and then asked if he trusted us.  Trusted us?!!  What the hell was she talking about? Do we trust him seemed more appropriate.  I simply said, “Go Hokies” thinking this may break the wind, and ease any ideas he may have regarding causing harm to us.  Ultimately, he did trust us, and we trusted him.

Not only did this 77 year old gentleman, who had missed his bus ride back to town just three miles away, guide us to the Vet clinic, he then provided specific instructions to a little known breakfast spot only the native islanders knew.  We were both grateful and starving.

After bidding one another adieu, he vanished after crossing the street and my wife looked at me and said, “I guess I was right.”  It’s still a mystery to me if she was talking about herself or her right hand man potentially making the correct or colossally stupid decision. Letting that go, our dog’s ear was well taken care of and our bellies were eventually full.

 

Twix

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January 20th, 1980. This is when I lost my first official bet to an adult.  He was our neighbor and friend.  He also knew how to take advantage of a 7 year old.

Bill was a friendly man.  He was also voraciously serious about gambling, fishing and chocolate. We’ll get back to that.

Walking over to his house at the age of seven, I offered him a wager.  I placed money I didn’t have on a Super Bowl game:   The Los Angelas Rams vs. the Pittsburg Steelers. I took the Rams and lost.  Our bet was a candy bar.

Convinced he was past posting,  thinking he’d seen the game before it was televised, I tried to call him on that.  Ultimately, I was wrong, and further, even worse, I was forced to ask my father for a loan.  Their were two options for me.  He could take me behind the chicken coop and give me a whooping or I could clean his room.  My old man wasn’t in favor of butt whooping so he convinced me to clean his room.  I did, and he gave me a dollar.  My old man and I were square, but I still had to travel almost three blocks to purchase the candy bar, which was happily refused but respected by our neighbor.

Fast forward to 2019, February, 3rd. I lost a bet to my brother,Tom.  I bet on the Los Angelas Rams against the Patriots.  Instead of a candy bar, I owe him twenty dollars.  Times are heavy and so is inflation.  The money I owe him will pay his dues for March Madness.

If I didn’t pay him, he’d be going all around Chicago and telling people I was a welch.  I wouldn’t able to get a game of jacks.  (of course, that’s from The Sting)

Suckered at the age of seven and forty seven.  Guilty as charged.  O and two barbecue, I will never bet on the Rams again.

It’s funny a Twix bar comes in a package of two.

 

 

Puppies are Us

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My wife is a chew toy.

Since we can’t have children, many people say we are lucky.  My wife and I aren’t feeling so lucky with our new puppy.  Just the other day, my wife was heading to the Hanford Nuclear Power Plant for a job interview, and before she went, she told our puppy to not go to heaven…quite the opposite.  Our puppy was tearing at my wife’s coveralls before she left the house. It was a spur of the moment reaction where I had to put my wife, fully clothed, in a cold shower.  She needed to cool off.

After my wife finally cooled off and put on some overalls, I secured our dog so my wife wouldn’t be further threatened, and later arrive at the interview with only scars on her hands.  She landed the job, because she is fairly sharp, and quite simply, they felt sorry for her.

I spent a portion of the evening pulling one of my razor blades out our dog’s mouth that I had placed in a garbage can with no lid.  She’s so smart.

Who is dumber?

Chicken Lenny and the Shadow

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Chickens don’t run around because they are afraid.  They run to avoid conflict and danger, but when summoned to provide assistance, chickens will always be willing to provide a fist, or a beak.

My friend, and my brother’s best friend, Michael Linerud aka, Chicken Lenny, was no chicken even in the Spring.  In our neighborhood, where we played baseball, tackle football, sans the pads, and even boxed in a basement full of harmless blood, Chicken Lenny ran like a chicken, but could cluck like a truck.  I never saw fear in his eyes, but, rather a gleaming spectrum of recognition and intelligence regarding his surroundings.  It was nice knowing he was on our side.

Growing up as the shadow amongst six older brothers, I would often look to Chicken Lenny for that soft, yet tough touch.  Many of my older brothers’ friends would pick on me.  They’d call me names such as tow head, reject, gimpy, lumpy, little bastard, and even muffin top.  While my brothers would laugh, knowing I could handle it, Mike, sometimes, would step in front of those wisecrackers, and say, “Hey, we are four years older than him.”  He would then provide the age old wonderful statement any hero would add at the age of 12, “Pick on someone you own size, namely me.”  My brothers would always have my back, but Chicken Lenny was the guy they could defer to if they had others to deal with when bartering candy on Halloween.  Never a fist was thrown, and I was safe.

Years later, when the others were entering high school, some of us were left behind in the neighborhood mob.  After elementary school would dismiss us, many of my older friends were attending high school and preoccupied with athletics or detention.  Therefore, I would decide to roam the neighborhood on my bicycle.  It was like tossing corn to some of the chickens in our valley.  I was fair game.

Never being a participant of idolatry, I did ,however, have heroes.  One of my heroes showed up one day to provide assistance when I was in trouble.  Chicken Lenny had broken his hand, and fortunately for me, he had taken the day off of school for a doctor’s appointment.  He lived close by, and was taking a walk in the street when he found me being picked on by someone twice my size and twice my age.  I was willing to fight, but my chances in Vegas ruled me a billion to one underdog.  Just like heaven sends us Angels, Chicken Lenny was mine that day.  He diffused the situation immediately with his clear sense of anger witnessing a young friend being picked upon.   The fear in the bully was obvious,  and not a person was harmed.  Chicken Lenny even walked me home that day.  No one followed.  Chicken Lenny and his Shadow were both safe.  I’ll never forget it.

I wish I’d have written this before his demise.  That’s the damnedest of it all.

 

Juice Bags

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A friend of mine, whose name, Jeremy, will remain nameless was recently cut off by a driver he referred to, out loud, as a “Douche Bag”.  With a momentary lapse of verbal judgement, he forgot his three elementary children were in the back seat.  One of them asked, “Dad, what’s a “Juice Bag?”  I think he got off easy on that one.

As a loyal friend, I’m going to reveal the true story to his wife when his and her boys start calling people Juice Bags.

There are just too many juice bags in this world.  One of them is currently trying to run our country.

Intros and Concussions

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Sometimes, the best introduction ends with a  great concussion.

Some of my brothers picked on me.  Since I was the youngest, it was pretty fun for them to  perform acts of unkindness.  Hanging me up from a tree while serving a two year sentence in leg braces was only one form.  Personally, I preferred tamed fighting as opposed to emotional abuse.  Far to0 young to match their wits or humiliation approaches, I chose the barbarian approach…  Fighting.  As one of  my brothers  once said, no one wins in a fight.  So true.  It’s senseless, mindless, and you wind up with a broken nose, concussion, or blood from your opponent causing your mother to do an extra load of laundry.

Not sustaining a broken nose, as I am aware of, the concussions and blood were true, and I deserved some of them.

I love my brothers and am glad I didn’t mess with my six older sisters.  That would have been concussion central.  I love them as well.  They all taught me how to be strong, compassionate, and how to gamble.

We were and are a family, and I wouldn’t choose anyone else to help me along in that pasture of ultimate kindness.  There really was no bullying, just blood and love, and a few concussions.

Do you Believe in Basements?….Yes!

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No skates.  No Ice.  Just tennis shoes and clubs.

The Winter Olympics isn’t just about figure skating around a rink.  With remorse, I was forced by my sisters to watch ice skating.  Although knowing zero about figure skating or hockey, I preferred ice cream and ice hockey.

After witnessing the “Miracle on Ice”, in 1980, my brothers and friends became interested in the sport.  None of us had skates, but my father accumulated a load of golf clubs from many of the doctors working with him.  They provided the clubs as a form of tithing or charity.  After the 1980 Winter Olympics, we used the clubs as hockey sticks and the used golf balls as pucks.

While still wearing a leg brace at the time, I was forced to be the goalie.  Coincidentally, Jim Craig, the USA goalie, was my favorite player on the USA team.  I used a worn downed catcher’s mitt to defend our goal.  The mitt should have surrounded my face.  I took more golf balls off me from the basement floor than Frazier took hits from Ali.  Someone taking a putter and hitting a golfball into your forehead is just flat out embarrassing.  Can you at least pull out a three wood or even an eight iron.

Staggering back, it was glorious.  It may have been dangerous, but it sure was fun.

No brain, no pain. No goals.  Just use your head.

Perhaps, we’ll see another miracle this year.