That's One Expensive Old Lady!

The Grand Old Lady of the Ozarks

After leaving the cemetery in Gravette, Arkansas after my Aunt Betty’s funeral last week, my wife and I decided to take the long way home.  With no particular place to go, we followed curvy two-lane highway 72 through northwest Arkansas in search of a place to spend the night.

“How about spending the night at the Crescent Hotel?” I asked.  Sometimes referred to as “The Grand Old Lady of the Ozarks”, the Crescent Hotel first opened for business in Eureka Springs on May 20, 1886.  In the past 125+ years it has gone from successful hotel to a Conservatory for Young Women to the Baker Hospital and Health Resort and back to a hotel again.  Some might add the word “haunted” to the name.  In fact, a brochure for the Crescent Hotel describes it as “the haunted hotel where some guests checked out . . . but never left”.

“Sounds fine to me - I’ll get them on the phone and you can negotiate the room rate with them” said my wife.  “You are better than that than me!” she added, dialing, and then handing me the phone.  The Crescent's website featured rooms in the $120-$150 range, well over our normal price range, but hey, it was only for one night!  A “Ghost Package” shown on the website included “a deluxe room, two tickets to the ghost tour, two t-shirts, breakfast for two, and a cooly cup for $209.  A little rich for my blood, I thought, but maybe I could get them down.

“Yes, may I help you?” asked the desk clerk.

“My wife and I are looking for a room for tonight and I’d like to find out what kind of deal you can give us” I explained.

“Well, we are pretty full tonight, but I CAN get you into a suite for only $329” she explained cheerfully.  Then, perhaps in response to the gagging sound I sometimes make during heated negotiations, she said “Tell you what . . . I’ll knock off $40 and you can have it for only $289”.  Actually, had we accepted her offer we would have saved ANOTHER $40.  No need for a ghost tour when the price she quoted already scared us to half to death.  I declined the generous offer and we sought ghost-free (and, hopefully, bed bug free) lodging in a (much) lower price range.

Later, on my favorite travel guide website TripAdvisor, I discovered that recent guests of the Crescent were uniformly complaining that the elevator in the four-story Crescent Hotel had been out of order for 18 months.  I feel a little bad now.  Maybe they planned to use the $289 they wanted from us to fix the elevator. 

We spent the night at the much more budget-friendly Lookout Lodge, also in Eureka Springs.  The main thing I’d suggest you “look out” for if you should ever stay there is that you don’t get a room under a room that has a rumbling Jacuzzi bath like we did.  While the people above us were drowning their troubles in a bubbling Jacuzzi bath the noise was also loud enough to drown out the sound on our TV.  But, for under a hundred bucks total we stayed at the Lookout Lodge and had a very tasty dinner at Bubba’s BBQ (motto – It May Not LOOK Famous but It Is).

The next day, after a drive around the beautiful Eureka Springs Historic Homes loop, we headed north on Arkansas 23 in the general direction of home.  As I navigated the highway’s twists and turns, my wife suddenly said, excitedly, “Oh, look!  Is that the Christ of the Ozarks statue over on that mountain?”

“Sorry” I said.  “This road is too curvy for me to look right now.”

After carefully scanning the horizon for a minute, my wife said “That’s ok.  I think it might have been a water tower instead”.

Seven-story Christ of the Ozarks statue in Eureka Springs

Not the seven-story Christ of the Ozarks statue in Eureka Springs (but it's hard

to tell going 60 mph from a mountain or two in the distance)



Urine a Lot of Trouble!

I spent a good part of the weekend watching the NCAA’s “March Madness” on TV, including watching the MU Tigers breeze through the first two rounds to earn a spot in the “Sweet 16”. 

Oh, wait.  April fool’s Day is NEXT week.  Forget what I just said.

One thing fans are now treated to are periodic game delays where referees take a break, go to the scorer’s table, and watch replay’s on the monitor to determine if the most recent bloody/broken nose, and/or concussion, and/or compound fracture was the result of a “FLAGRANT 1” or “FLAGRANT 2” foul.  As near as I can tell, “FLAGRANT 1” is defined as “violently striking an opponent but making it appear to be “accidental” or “a normal basketball play”, while  “Flagrant 2” is “violently striking an opponent with no attempt to make it look accidental”.   Based on an article forwarded to me today by a fellow basketball fan, I believe there may be room for a “Flagrant 3” foul.

According to the Associated Press, four members of the Cassville, Mo girls basketball team are in hot (or maybe just warm) water for allegedly “urinating into a cup and then pouring the contents of the cup into the Monett, Mo girls’ team water cooler” prior to a game in Cassville on February 4.  I have two questions for the Cassville girls’ basketball team: 

1.     Monett entered the game with a record of 1-14.  Was it really necessary to put urine into their water cooler to gain an edge?   

2.     You can urinate into a cup?  (I thought that was a “guy” thing).

Therefore, my proposed “Flagrant 3” foul would be defined as:

1.      Peeing and/or hocking a loogie into the other team’s water cooler;

2.      Any attempt to disguise human and/or animal waste, large insects or dead rodents as an “energy snack” by coating them with chocolate (even dark chocolate) and offering them to the opposing team.

Sure, DNA testing to determine who committed the Flagrant 3 foul could delay the game quite a bit, but wouldn’t it be worth it to make sure the only reason a team leaves town with a bad taste in it's collective mouth is because they played poorly?

In the spirit of forgiveness, the principal of Monett High School has officially encouraged Monett parents “not to retaliate”. 

(Interpretation: Cassville residents - just how secure is your water tower?)

It's Later than You Think

My wife and I were already an hour south of Jefferson City by the time the sun came up Tuesday.  Our destination was Anderson, Mo, a McDonald County town of around 2000 not far from where Arkansas, Oklahoma and Missouri meet.  My dad’s oldest sister, my Aunt Betty, passed away last week.  Her funeral was Tuesday in Anderson.

When we arrived in Springfield the size of our pre-funeral procession doubled as we picked up my dad and got in line behind a minivan carrying another of dad’s sisters, Sue, and her husband, Ray.  Tuesday’s weather was sunny, clear, and a hint of spring was in the air (along with LOTS of pollen).  The 90 minute drive from Springfield to Anderson was uneventful, but when we hit Anderson’s city limits, Anderson hit back.  As my wife and I watched from behind, a car backed quickly out of a parking spot and collided with the passenger side front fender of my uncle’s minivan.

Welcome to Anderson!

The other driver was very nice and very apologetic.   The damage wasn’t too bad, though the passenger door on my uncle’s van would no longer open and my aunt had to climb over the console to get out.  Later, I learned the other driver had attended my Aunt’s visitation the night before.   

At the pre-funeral meal I met the kids and grandkids of one cousin I hadn’t seen since the Clinton administration, and another whose path had not crossed mine since before he served in Vietnam.   

After the funeral, a procession of 15-20 vehicles followed the hearse down Highway 59 from Anderson to Gravette, Arkansas for the burial.  A police escort got us safely to the city limits and all along the way cars pulled over.  Not because my aunt was a celebrity – she wasn’t.  Just because that’s one way people still show respect in a small town.

Forsythia bushes were in bloom as we drove alongside the Elk River through postcard-pretty Noel, Mo.  In Gravette, a local business caught my eye:  “Grumpy’s Coffee – motto – PEACE, LOVE, COFFEE".  A visit to Grumpy's would have to wait for another day.  Three miles south of Gravette the hearse turned onto a dirt road for a short drive through the countryside to Bethel cemetery.  Purple wildflowers poked out of the soil and ladies high heels poked into the soil as everyone gathered at my aunt’s gravesite.  Beside it were the graves of my Uncle Jim and cousin that died unexpectedly in 1995.

As the preacher read scripture my eyes wandered the area.  A few feet from the funeral tent was the grave of Billy Gene Matlock.  Billy died on Christmas day, 1957, at the age of 24.  A few yards in the other direction was a granite marker with toy cars on it for Jeremiah Scott Engleman.  Jeremiah was only 19 days old when he died on January 17, 2000. 

As the sound of friends and relatives singing my aunt's favorite song I’ll Fly Away drifted into the Arkansas hills and holler’s, I recalled something my mother-in-law told me the year she died.  She looked up at me from her wheelchair and said   “It’s later than you think”.   No argument from me on that.  And, if they could still voice an opinion, I imagine the permanent residents of Bethel cemetery would all kick in a hearty “amen!”

Something about Harry

Last week I received an email from a friend.  She was writing a “letter-to-the-editor” and wanted me to proofread it.  (Insert laughter here).  The subject of her letter was Daylight Saving Time.  It was not so much that she hated it, though she did, she just wondered when and how it got moved up three weeks in the spring and back a week in the fall.  For those who are interested, that was an appendage of the Energy Policy Act of 2005.  The extra weeks of Daylight Saving Time took effect in 2007.

 

Today, my wife forwarded me an obituary for someone neither of us knew, but who shared my love of history and my friend’s hatred of Daylight Saving Time.  His name was Harry Stamps.  He referred to DST as “the Devil’s Time”.  Harry died last Saturday.  His family is convinced it was because he refused to go back on “the Devil’s Time” and chose to go permanently on “the Lord’s Time”.

 

Harry’s daughter, Amanda Lewis, wrote her father’s obituary while traveling to his funeral.  It is the best obituary I have ever read.  Today I’d like share it with you:

 

Obituary for Harry Stamps

 

Harry Weathersby Stamps, ladies’ man, foodie, natty dresser, and accomplished traveler, died on Saturday, March 9, 2013.

Harry was locally sourcing his food years before chefs in California starting using cilantro and arugula (both of which he hated). For his signature bacon and tomato sandwich, he procured 100% all white Bunny Bread from Georgia, Blue Plate mayonnaise from New Orleans, Sauer’s black pepper from Virginia, home grown tomatoes from outside Oxford, and Tennessee’s Benton bacon from his bacon-of-the-month subscription. As a point of pride, he purported to remember every meal he had eaten in his 80 years of life.

The women in his life were numerous. He particularly fancied smart women. He loved his mom Wilma Hartzog (deceased), who with the help of her sisters and cousins in New Hebron reared Harry after his father Walter’s death when Harry was 12. He worshipped his older sister Lynn Stamps Garner (deceased), a character in her own right, and her daughter Lynda Lightsey of Hattiesburg. He married his main squeeze Ann Moore, a home economics teacher, almost 50 years ago, with whom they had two girls Amanda Lewis of Dallas, and Alison of Starkville. He taught them to fish, to select a quality hammer, to love nature, and to just be thankful. He took great pride in stocking their tool boxes. One of his regrets was not seeing his girl, Hillary Clinton, elected President.

He had a life-long love affair with deviled eggs, Lane cakes, boiled peanuts, Vienna [Vi-e-na] sausages on saltines, his homemade canned fig preserves, pork chops, turnip greens, and buttermilk served in martini glasses garnished with cornbread.

He excelled at growing camellias, rebuilding houses after hurricanes, rocking, eradicating mole crickets from his front yard, composting pine needles, living within his means, outsmarting squirrels, never losing a game of competitive sickness, and reading any history book he could get his hands on. He loved to use his oversized “old man” remote control, which thankfully survived Hurricane Katrina, to flip between watching The Barefoot Contessa and anything on The History Channel. He took extreme pride in his two grandchildren Harper Lewis (8) and William Stamps Lewis (6) of Dallas for whom he would crow like a rooster on their phone calls. As a former government and sociology professor for Gulf Coast Community College, Harry was thoroughly interested in politics and religion and enjoyed watching politicians act like preachers and preachers act like politicians. He was fond of saying a phrase he coined “I am not running for political office or trying to get married” when he was “speaking the truth.” He also took pride in his service during the Korean conflict, serving the rank of corporal--just like Napoleon, as he would say.

Harry took fashion cues from no one. His signature every day look was all his: a plain pocketed T-shirt designed by the fashion house Fruit of the Loom, his black-label elastic waist shorts worn above the navel and sold exclusively at the Sam’s on Highway 49, and a pair of old school Wallabees (who can even remember where he got those?) that were always paired with a grass-stained MSU baseball cap.

Harry traveled extensively. He only stayed in the finest quality AAA-rated campgrounds, his favorite being Indian Creek outside Cherokee, North Carolina. He always spent the extra money to upgrade to a creek view for his tent. Many years later he purchased a used pop-up camper for his family to travel in style, which spoiled his daughters for life.

He despised phonies, his 1969 Volvo (which he also loved), know-it-all Yankees, Southerners who used the words “veranda” and “porte cochere” to put on airs, eating grape leaves, Law and Order (all franchises), cats, and Martha Stewart. In reverse order. He particularly hated Day Light Saving Time, which he referred to as The Devil’s Time. It is not lost on his family that he died the very day that he would have had to spring his clock forward. This can only be viewed as his final protest.

Because of his irrational fear that his family would throw him a golf-themed funeral despite his hatred for the sport, his family will hold a private, family only service free of any type of “theme.” Visitation will be held at Bradford-O’Keefe Funeral Home, 15th Street, Gulfport on Monday, March 11, 2013 from 6-8 p.m.

In lieu of flowers, the family asks that you make a donation to Mississippi Gulf Coast Community College (Jeff Davis Campus) for their library. Harry retired as Dean there and was very proud of his friends and the faculty. He taught thousands and thousands of Mississippians during his life. The family would also like to thank the Gulfport Railroad Center dialysis staff who took great care of him and his caretaker Jameka Stribling.

Finally, the family asks that in honor of Harry that you write your Congressman and ask for the repeal of Day Light Saving Time. Harry wanted everyone to get back on the Lord’s Time.

Rest in peace, Harry.    I’m not sure what kind of game “competitive sickness” is, but I think you won and I’ll bet that subscription to the “bacon of the month” club was your ace in the hole!

Photo of Harry (in his signature clothing) after Hurricane Katrina

Photo courtesy of his daughter Amanda Lewis

Wishing You a "Nappy" Holiday!

The sky is gray and the temperature, currently hovering just above freezing, seems much colder because of a brisk west wind that has the branches in front of my window doing the Centertown Shake.  Occasionally, just for good measure, a snow flake drifts by.

Hooray!  It’s perfect holiday weather!

“What holiday?” you might ask. 

Wake up and smell the roses!  And then roll over and go back to sleep.  Monday, March 11, 2013 is NATIONAL NAPPING DAY!

National Napping Day was created, unofficially, in 1999 to help people adjust to the time change due to Daylight Saving Time. 

Want to create your own holiday?  You are not alone!  Petitions are currently circulating to declare the following days holidays:

1.      September 11

2.      Chinese New Year

3.      The Monday after the Super Bowl

You can start your own holiday petition at https://petitions.whitehouse.gov/ 

Any petition that generates 100,000 signatures is entitled to an official White House response, even if it calls for the creation of a “Death Star” (moon-sized space station accessorized with a death ray capable of destroying a planet with a destructive light beam).  Not surprisingly, the White House nixed that project, estimating its cost at 833 quadrillion dollars.  It’s not surprising that the White House nixed it, just that cost was cited as a deterrent.

National Napping Day came at a perfect time for me this year, and not because of the time change.  We moved our clocks up and back already this year when we went to Florida for a few days so that’s no big deal.  What made National Napping Day especially timely this year was that it followed “Grandkids spending the night at our house” weekend. 

According to the Pew Research Center, one-third of all adults take regular naps.  That figures rises to 100% when respondents are “grandparents whose grandkids recently spent the night with them”.

Noted child expert Dave Barry made this observation about grandparents & babysitting:  “The best baby-sitters, of course, are the baby's grandparents. You feel completely comfortable entrusting your baby to them for long periods, which is why most grandparents flee to Florida”.

Not my wife and I!  Well, maybe we did go to Florida, but we came back.  Anyway, babysitting our grandkids is easy for us since we discovered that our grandkids respond to the same two basic principles of discipline that worked with our son:

1.       Consistency

2.     Bribery

Hence, the following offer was made when it was time for our grandkids to go to bed:  sleep all night in your own bed (or grandma’s) and we will go out for donuts and chocolate milk for breakfast!

It worked, though a word of caution is in order when it comes to promising things to grandkids.  As the late Andy Rooney once noted, “Elephants and grandchildren never forget”.

Happy napping day from our house to yours!

 

A Bad Time to be at a Loss for Words

It was reported in the news today that the last words of Hugo Chavez were “Please don’t let me die!”  Not exactly “I only regret that I have but one life to give for my country”, but not everyone can be eloquent on their deathbed.  The words of Chavez reminded me of the last words of Louisiana politician, Huey Long.  Long’s last words were “Don’t let me die.  I have so much to do.” 

Last words have always fascinated me.  They run the gamut from humor to rage to resignation to surprise to joy.  Here, for your consideration, are some of my favorite “famous last words”:

Henry Ward Beech - Now comes the mystery.

Lou Costello - That was the best ice-cream soda I ever tasted.

Karl Marx - Go on, get out. Last words are for fools who haven't said enough.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt - I have a terrific headache.

Dylan Thomas - I have just had eighteen whiskeys in a row. I do believe that is a record.

George Washington - It is well, I die hard, but I am not afraid to go.

H. G. Wells - Go away... I'm alright."

Oscar Wilde - Either this wallpaper goes, or I do!

French Grammarian Dominique Bouhours – I am about to — or I am going to — die: either expression is correct.

Humphrey Bogart – I should never have switched from Scotch to Martinis.

Joseph Henry Green, upon checking his own pulse – It’s stopped.

Voltaire, when asked by a priest to renounce Satan – Now, now, my good man, this is no time for making enemies.

George Bernard Shaw - Dying is easy.  Comedy is hard. 

Edgar Allen Poe – God help my poor soul!

Bo Diddley -I'm goin' to heaven! I'm comin' home."

Edward Abbey – No Comment (when asked if he had any last words).

P. T. Barnum – How were the receipts today at Madison Square Garden?

Kit Carson, American frontiersman – I just wish I had time for one more bowl of chili.

John Dillinger, famous bank robber – You got me.

Thomas Edison – It’s very beautiful over there.

Douglas Fairbanks, Sr. – I’ve never felt better.

Lavinia Fisher, hanged for murder on February 18, 1820, while wearing her white wedding gown – If any of you have a message for the Devil, give it to me, for I am about to meet him!

Henry Ford – I’ll sleep well tonight.

O. Henry (William Sydney Porter) – Turn up the lights – I don’t want to go home in the dark.

Hotelier Conrad Hilton, when asked if he had any final words of wisdom – Leave the shower curtain inside of the tub.

Doc Holliday – This is funny.

Alfred Hitchcock – One never knows the ending.  One has to die to know exactly what happens after death, although Catholics have their hopes.

Harry Houdini – I’m tired of fighting.  I guess this thing is going to get me.

Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin – Don’t worry, they usually don’t swim backwards.

Steve Jobs – Oh wow.  Oh wow. Oh wow.

Volcanologist David A. Johnson’s final radio transmission as Mt. St. Helens was erupting – Vancouver!  Vancouver!  This is it! This is . . .

Groucho Marx – Die, my dear?  Why, that’s the last thing I’ll do!

Explorer Meriwether Lewis – So hard to die.

Actor Vic Morrow – I should have asked for a stunt double!

Lee Harvey Oswald – Aw, no one’s gonna shoot at me.

Broadcaster Tim Russert – What’s happening?

Babe Ruth – I’m going over the valley.

Actor Edmund Gwenn – Yes, it’s tough, but not as tough as doing comedy.

Gangster Frank “Tight Lips” Gusenberg, to the police after being gunned down in the St. Valentine’s Day massacre – Nobody shot me.

Billie Holliday – Don’t be in such a hurry.

Convicted murderer & would-be poet Robert Alton Harris – You can be a king or a street sweeper, but everybody dances with the grim reaper.

Harris died in the gas chamber at San Quentin State Prison on April 21, 1992.  For his last meal he requested a 21-piece bucket from KFC, two large Domino’s pizzas, a bag of jelly beans, a six-pack of Pepsi and a pack of Camel cigarettes. 

Hard to do much dancing after a after a meal like that.

I consider Mexican Outlaw/Hero Pancho Villa the spokesman for everyone who can’t think of anything witty or eloquent to say as they breathe their last. “Don’t let it end like this.  Tell them I said something” were Pancho’s last words.

Humorist Will Rogers died in a plane crash with one-eyed pilot, Wiley Post.

Unconfirmed reports were that Roger's last words were

"Wiley, I think you've got that patch on the wrong eye!"

As the Wheels Turn

As Yogi Berra once said, “You can observe a lot just by watching”.   On our recent southern roadtrip, I took Yogi’s advice.  I had plenty of time.  By the time we returned, our trip odometer showed we had traveled 3267.5 miles.  By my calculation, an 18-inch wheel would make 3,161,168 revolutions while traveling that distance.  That’s plenty of time to observe Americana, and what’s more American than advertising your home state while you are on the road. 

Alabama has one of my favorite license plates.  Residents can choose between “GOD BLESS AMERICA” or “SWEET HOME ALABAMA”.  Their license plates used to say “STARS FELL ON ALABAMA”, but that’s not an option on new plates.  Russia may want to claim that slogan after the recent meteor strike there.

Georgia, Indiana, and South Carolina residents all have the option to declare “IN GOD WE TRUST” on their license plate.  Missouri residents can, for an extra fee, include “GOD BLESS AMERICA” on their license plates.  In fact, Missouri has over 200 specialty license plates available, from AIR FORCE to I HAVE A DREAM to ZETA PHI BETA.  Maybe the motto of our DMV should be “IF YOU’VE GOT THE MONEY, HONEY, WE’VE GOT THE PLATE!”  If you don’t want to fork over extra money for your plates in Missouri, you get a miniature blue bird and the words SHOW ME STATE (No Dash), which replaced SHOW-ME STATE (With a dash) in 2008. 

Californian's license plates used to advertise their state as “THE GOLDEN STATE” until they ran out of gold.  Now their plates say simply & unimaginatively, DMV.CA.GOV.

Utah residents can choose either LIFE ELEVATED (not bad) or GREATEST SNOW ON EARTH (definitely no inducement to get me to travel there in January).  And while the Civil War is long since decided, Illinois and Indiana residents are still fighting over our leader during the Civil War.  Illinois plates say LAND OF LINCOLN, while LINCOLN’S BOYHOOD HOME in an option on the license plate of Indiana residents.

Some states advertise food, as in Idaho’s FAMOUS POTATO’S, while other’s advertise activities like Louisiana’s SPORTSMAN’S PARADISE, probably soon to be changed to DUCK DYNASTY.

Personally, in January, I like the way Floridian’s think when they advertise their state as THE SUNSHINE STATE, though they may want to copy after Louisiana soon and offer a PYTHON HUNTER’S PARADISE plate now that the Everglades are slithering with them.

If your license plate doesn’t effectively communicate your feelings, you can always find a bumper sticker to help out.  While waiting outside an Orlando Barnes & Noble for my wife to purchase every available DVD of Downton Abbey, I parked next to a car with a bumper sticker with the letters WWSD?  Reading closer, those initials stood for “What Would Scooby Do?”  Probably let his spouse buy every available Downton Abbey DVD if he's smart.

And, in the “Ask and you may just receive” department, I passed an 18-wheeler right here in Jefferson City with a poetic request on the trailer.  It said:

Give me a break

As you go on your way

Show me your (insert slang word for “breasts” here)

And make my day!

I wonder what Yogi would say about that?

Ernest Goes to Court

Ernest Evans was born October 3, 1941, in Spring Gulley, S. C.  If you are a Baby Boomer, you are familiar with Ernest even if the name doesn't ring a bell.  I remember Ernest for popularizing a dance while I was in Junior high school that even I could do without people falling down laughing. 

While Ernest was in high school, two things happened that shaped his life:

1.      He began to entertain people by singing songs and telling jokes;

2.      His friends nicknamed him “Chubby”.  These days any student who referred to another student as “Chubby” would probably end up in the principal’s office for sensitivity training.

Ernest got his big break when he was offered a chance to perform for American Bandstand host Dick Clark.  Clark was impressed with Ernest’s Fats Domino (INSENSITIVE!!) impression.  When Dick Clark’s wife asked Ernest what his name was, he told her “My friends call me ‘Chubby’”.  Hmmm.  Fats Domino?  “How about Chubby Checker?” she suggested.  Chubby Checker . . . very catchy , and much better than other possible knockoff board game names like Chubby Monopoly or Chubby Uncle Wiggly.  Thus, thanks to Dick Clark’s wife, Ernest Evans became known as Chubby Checker.  His first hit, The Twist, followed coonskin caps and hula hoops right into the Baby Boomer Hall of Fame.  

COME ON BABY . . . LET’S DO THE TWIST! 



Chubby Checker & Dick Clark

As I recall, that song and the dance it inspired is still being played anytime Baby Boomers hit the dance floor.   Sure, the Funky Chicken remains popular too, but that “Bend Over, Let Me See You Shake a Tail Feather” lyric is rife with lumbar peril for aging Boomers. 

Today, in this “There’s an app for that!” age, Chubby is in court fighting to defend the name he requisitioned way back when Boomers were in puberty.  Chubby chose litigation to fight a new app that has been developed and is promoted as follows:

Any of you ladies out there just start seeing someone new and wondering what the size of their member is?  Well, now you can check right now from your phone.  All you need to do is find out the man’s shoe size and plug it in and don’t worry where you’re from because THE CHUBBY CHECKER supports shoe measurements of different regions and types”.

Chubby is suing for half a billion dollars to stop this app for two reasons:

1.       As his attorney explained, “He’s hurt”; and

2.       His shoe size is 6 ½.

Sorry, ladies (and, if applicable, gentlemen).  The Chubby Checker app is not currently available.  It has been deactivated pending the outcome of litigation. 

In the meantime, to supplement my retirement, I am developing a similar app I plan to call “The Magic Johnson”. 

And MY app will definitely take the wind chill index into consideration when making its calculations.

For you post-Baby Boomers, check out this on ramp to Memory Lane and the Twist: 

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=im9XuJJXylw

 

Good News for Guamanian Ophidiophobics!

I suspect even those people who love snow are getting a little tired of the white stuff after our twin snow storms (fraternal, not identical) dumped a foot-and-a-half of snow in central Missouri in the past 8 days.   Especially those residents who are still without power!  Can you imagine how area chionophobics are feeling right now?  Chionophobics are people who suffer from “an abnormal fear of snow”, and I suspect their number is growing daily.   In fact, after blowing and drifting snow negated my work clearing our driveway each of the past 3 days, I now consider myself a borderline chionophobic. 

While chionophobics are praying for an early spring, ophidiophobics are breaking out the bubbly.  Ophidiophobics are people who suffer from an abnormal fear of snakes.   Even though we live in a rural setting, I am happy to report I have encountered zero snakes while clearing my driveway.  No question that ophidiophobics are due for some good news.  The Chinese New Year started February 10.  Unfortunately for ophidiophobics, 2013 is the “Year of the Snake”.   (Just another option to consider if your fortune cookie should say “That wasn’t chicken!”) 

There has been some encouraging news for ophidiophobics.   The Florida Fish & Wildlife Conservation Commission recently sponsored a Burmese python hunt in the Everglades.  After taking an online training course and paying $25, nearly 1600 semi-crazy people had the PYTHON stamp added to their Florida hunting license.   Rubin Ramirez caught 18.  The longest python caught in the hunt was 14-feet-3-inches.  If you draped that snake from a basketball goal, one end could touch the floor and the other would still be hanging down far enough to swallow the head of an unsuspecting person of average height.  There are now 68 fewer pythons in the Everglades after those 1600 hardy souls sought them out for 30 days. 

Good news for Guamanian ophidiophobics!  Funded by U.S. tax dollars, 2000 Tylenol-laced dead mice will be dropped over Guam’s Anderson Air Force Base this spring.  If ingested, these tasty treats are fatal to brown tree snakes, of which an estimated 2 million inhabit Guam.  The cost - $500 per mouse.  It would have been higher but the U.S. Dept. of Agriculture is using generic Tylenol to hold the cost down.  As a patriotic American, I hereby volunteer to pay my own way and personally deliver those dead mice to Guam's brown tree snakes for the bargain price of only $250 each.  All I ask is a little help getting past the TSA.  (SIR, some of these mice exceed the 3-ounce per mouse limit for carry-on luggage!)

I imagine some people will think killing and feeding dead mice to brown tree snakes is mean to the mice while others will consider it cruel to the snakes.  My late mother-in-law once got involved in a snake/mouse controversy.  She wrote a letter-to-the-editor vehemently denouncing a pet store owner.  The pet store owner attracted customers by placing live white mice in a glass enclosure filled with hungry snakes in his store-front display window.   If there had been a society for the prevention of cruelty to rodents, my mother-in-law would have joined.  Yet, even with her Chinese bloodlines and fondness for rodents, she became extremely belligerent when she found out I wanted to marry her daughter.  Even though it was 1972 - the Year of the Rat!   Personally, I think she had an undiagnosed case of gamafiliaphobia - the fear of me marrying her daughter.  She finally got over it when my wife delivered her a little grandrodent. 

 

                                                              1972 - Year of the Rat