Tuesday, September 30, 2014

My Biligual Friend Speaks Jive and English!

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One of my clients is a white male in his mid-twenties. He is married to a black woman and they have two great kids. (Okay, I know, people really aren't "white" or "black"! -- But you get the picture, right?) When I first met him, he lived with his family in a predominantly black section of town. (Again, yes, I understand that houses in all neighborhoods come in different colors.)

When I arrived at his house, he spoke perfect English. He had no accent whatsoever. In fact, you would swear he was an extremely talented and gifted intellectual by the way he spoke. After about five minutes, some of his neighbors, who were black Americans, came up and began speaking to him. In a split second, he went from perfectly spoken English to some unintelligible (to me, at least) jive dialect that ranked right up there with that scene from the movie Airplane. (I use the word "jive" because I heard this type of language called that on the movie Airplane. The word "jive" is defined as being a form of slang associated with black American jazz musicians. Over the years, this word has been replaced with "ebonics".)  Anyway, I thought "jive" was the funniest thing I had ever heard, as it was then that I really first heard it.  Though it is fun to listen to, jive as a primary language would obviously limit one's ability to navigate the workplace.

After my client's neighbors left, he reverted back to proper English and picked up with the conversation as though nothing had changed!  But, as America is a free country, I guess folks can speak anyway they see fit --- an long as there is an interpreter close by!

(This story is not meant to be offensive. However, if you do not like this story, you're just going to have to deal with it --- My friends can be found across all "socio-economic-racial-religious" barriers.)

Monday, September 29, 2014

That Birthday Cake Went Through Me Like A Freight Train! Or, The Long Run Home.

You just don't remember lots of things from the deep, dark past. At best, the most distant of memories still have a frame of fog about them and only allow you to see bits and pieces. One memory I do have is of an event that began while I was sitting at a table at Ronnie Wilson's birthday party in Hollywood, Florida. I was five years old.

I guess I do not know what started it; but somehow I suspect it was that danged birthday cake. You know the kind I am talking about. Not the homemade kind. This cake was like one of those cakes you get at Walmart with that thick, sweet, industrial-grade icing.

Today, I can still remember eating it. Bite after bite after bite. Coating my mouth, gliding down my throat. Of course, it wasn't until years later I found out that cake icings are 101% pure shortening. So, maybe it was the cake that started this whole affair.

Like all kids at a party, I ate the entire slice of cake. It didn't take long, however, for me to hear and feel my innards start to rebel at the nutritional violation to which they had just been subjected. That cake went through me like a freight train; and not wanting to be sick at my friend's home in front of all the party guests, I promptly left my chair and ran for the door.  As I approached the door, Mrs. Wilson jumped into my path, intent on stopping me. I mean, she really tried! But I darted to her right, eluded her arms, grabbed the door knob, and fled. I was just too quick for her. They don't call it the Tennessee Quickstep for nothing!

As I exited the door, I turned right: my house was just five houses down. As I ran, my intestines began screaming for release. But I did not listen: I tightened up and just ran. "I can make it home!" I told myself. I just knew I could.  First past one house, then another. As I flew by each house, I noticed that the world around me was moving in slow motion. Those houses would not fly by however fast I ran. I remember thinking as I ran that what was once a minute walk home had now become a two hour trek. After the second or third house, my bowels began to scream in agony.

Eventually, I came to the edge of the lawn leading to my house. The lawn, however, was higher than the sidewalk by about two or three inches and, as I ran into the grass, my foot caught onto it, and I stumbled -- in slow motion, mind you! When I hit the grass, I fell forward on my face.  When I hit, my guts expelled their contents into the clothes I was wearing. As I lay there, in extreme filth and agony, my pants just filled up with one explosion after another. After a few minutes of this lower abdominal discomfiture, I felt the strong desire to urinate. I thought to myself, "I can still make it to the bathroom!" Then, as I stood up, I realized that the whole project was over. There would be no bathroom. So, I finished the job right there.

My mother met me at the front door and, after a whiff, figured out what had happened.  She took me to the side of the house, in full view of passersby, stripped me of my clothes, and hosed me down from a distance. I guess it would have been better to have used the bathroom at Ronny Wilson's house! But still, today, I always try to make the run home from wherever I am.  After all, there isn't anything quite like the bathroom at home, or, should I say, the lawn out front!

Friday, September 26, 2014

Flatulence and Karate Don't Mix

A man tells this story.

Years ago, as a young man, I decided to take up karate lessons. After my first lesson, however, I decided that karate might not be for me. When the instructor took me aside to show me some kicks and asked me to kick him, all I could do was throw a kick and blow a fart. Each time I would break wind during a kick, I would apologize. The teacher would then say, "okay, kick me again." So, I would kick and blow again. Kick and blow. Kick and blow. After a short while, the air was saturated.  I later read that one of the benefits of regular exercise was gas elimination.

I still look back at my first karate lesson and cringe; but I have come to the realization that, though I might never be able to kick a man to death, I sure might be able to sting his nostrils.

Sunday, September 21, 2014

Check Out This Nudist Golf Postcard!

Here is a truly funny postcard. Although it is a prank, it sure looks and feels real. I wouldn't care getting it in the mail, though! What would the postal carrier think? What is your opinion. Does it look real or not? Got this from http://www.postcardpayback.com/apps/webstore/.




Mayonnaise Ice Cream "Gag" - Literally!

A number of years ago, I thought I would have some fun with someone. I took a container of vanilla ice cream out of the freezer and held it in my left hand. In my right hand, I held a teaspoon fool of mayonnaise. I walked up to my victim, prominently displaying the ice cream carton, and said, "would you like a bite?" Now, mind you, I never said that the spoon had a blob of mayonnaise on it! After all, it is conceivable that a person could have a carton of vanilla ice cream in one hand and a spoonful of mayo in the other.

Without hesitation, my victim gobbled down the mayonnaise. To this day, I still feel a little bad about it.