Those that didn’t take the time to stop and really observe him closely, called Ace a ‘simpleton.’ Nomme. Ace was the custodian at our high school eons ago. It wasn’t so much the outfit Ace wore, it was the smile.
I stop and think about life, what matters, what’s important, how do you define/have happiness. Ace was happy – very. He did a labor of love, and his labor happened to be not real fun to do – but he was surrounded by youth – and that youthful invigorism somehow kept him young.
Ace, like many that don’t have so much, frequently gave away anything they could to make others happy. Ace once gave me a sterling looking ring with Chinese writing on it. Neither of us had any idea what it said – but it remains in my dresser drawer today – as the day he gave it to me made me feel “Vic, you’re Ok”, and certainly made him feel good in giving.
For years after his retirement, Ace would spend hours upon hours seated on the bench between the two entrance doors to the local Piggly Wiggly – and I’d bet one in every three would stop to say hello’s. It somehow would make me still feel like a kid….
This morning, I was passed by a box truck – the kind that delivers uniforms, linens to companies. Brought a smile to my face. Onea my alltime favorite folks was my Uncle Glenn. Glenn delivered industrial linens the vast majority of his working career. I am dead certain he made many along his treks smile, happy. You ever know onea them people who could simply make you feel good in the way they greeted you… “HELLO Vic!” Without saying so, he ‘said’ “I really like you”, “I value our relationship”, “I’m a happy person,”, “I love it here where I’m at.”
Bette. Went to her visitation Monday night. Her kids range from five years older than me, to 15 years younger than I. Played ball over the years with each and every one of ‘em. Fine folks. In playing those games, probably way, way too many years – for each and every one there in her lawnchair was Bette with her everpresent smile – victory or not. The line you always hear “One of the nicest persons I know” fit Bette. She will very much be missed.
My heroes. People that suckup every ounce of fun live affords. We all, I believe, wade through occasional bouts of depression. “You’re crazy Victor, I DO NOT.” Yeah? Well I say you day. Might only be a horrified millisecond.. might be an entire afternoon.. or it could be an entire year. I say we all experience situational depression whether we admit it or not.
I bet even Ace, Glenn and Bette did too. Learn. I learn from them. It’s not so much the thought “how do I want to be remembered” as it is “how do I want to remember life?” On those occasions when I think about my leaking roof, the checkenginelight on, the under a hunnerd in the checking account – I try to stop and remember how people like Ace, Glenn and Bette reacted to their day.
I learned in school. I learned in college. I’ve learned in jobs. Ain’t nuthin’ like the education folks like them teach though. In the very end, isn’t that what’s important? Choosing to smile, be happy?
Those moments will happen where the corners of our mouths will point South. I reckon the only reaction should be for us all to stand on our heads then. I’m thinking that’s what Ace, Glenn and Bette mighta done.
I guess it is our choice for having a happy day. Thanks to all who've reminded me. Love, Victurd.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Junior Mints......
Blocked….
Interesting word. Ya think of denied. Could be lotta things though.
Football player. Blocking sled. To fend off. Supposedly the very best block in that sport is called the pancake block. You simply knock one on their ass.
Block, as in the kid’s kind with the ABC’s on them. Building blocks. I reckon school is a building block.
Block party. Some neighborhoods have ‘em. “I live in the ___ hundred block of…..” I know her, she lives down at the end of the block.
Junior mints. Was at work the other day, onea the nicest ladies on the planet started choking. I immediately ran to try to dislodge whatever was blocking her throat… she finally said she was ok, but I could see tears in her eyes… and she still struggled to breathe.. Her throat WAS blocked.. She ran into the women’s restroom… I summonsed her daughter – she happens to work there as well.. and the end result – Junior Mint finally flew outta there on a cough. I tend to tease this fine lady unmercifully, and now whenever she gives it right back to me I spout out “Somebody give Mary a Junior Mint.”
Block. I know cars have ‘em, but I couldn’t point to whereinthehell it is.
Caller ID blocks. Even online dating sites have blocks. Was this lady, we’d exchanged some emails.. She’d even given me her phone number. (Never called).. I one day asked her to meet – apparently somewhere along the way in describing me, she didn’t like whatever it was I said. She didn’t answer. A few months down the road, I flung another email. “You’ve been blocked by this member.” Sumbitch, I didn’t do anything. A month later, she emailed to see if I still wanted to meet. HA! I didn’t block her but I “Caller ID”ed her message.
Cousin picked me up one day to play the ritzy golf course on the edge of town. “Ahm, Victor, you’ll have to go back inside and get a shirt with a collar.” Blocked I was due to my commoner status. And the sign said long haired freaky people need not apply- So I tucked my hair up under my hat and I went in to ask him why… He said you look like a fine upstanding young man, I think you’ll do…. So I took off my hat and said Imagine that, huh, me working for you
Woah…
Sign, Sign everywhere a sign, blocking out the scenery breaking my mind… Do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign…
Former co-worker. She was scourged by the Harper Valley PTA. A shame. Brilliant lady. Great worker. Who cared if she showed cleavage, wore short dresses and occasionally slid out an F bomb – she was the best I’d seen in her position. Anyways, we’ve continued to communicate and now her email addy is blocked. Dangit.
I reckon blocking is about power huh? I’m here, you’re there, watch this.
Then there’s the parental control blocking. A good thing prolly on the internet. Blocking a child’s friends I see as kinda dangerous, risky. Prolly tends to have the opposite affect. Ha! Whothehell am I to give parenting advice!
There is ‘vic’ in advice… Sadly, it’s in vice as well!
I’m at the library. I’ve got 26 minutes, 42 seconds until I’m blocked.
Blocking ain’t fun. Drain blocked. Road blocked. Emails blocked. Caller ID’ed. Whenever I getta call from someone I really enjoy (could be coworker, could be vendor) I teasingly answer “Hi, you’ve reached Vic, I’m away from my desk” and stupid giggles usually happen on the other end. Fun blocking.
Cylinder block. Toy block. Concrete block. Postage stamp block. City block. The H&R tax folks, spelled different – yet still abide by all the rules (blocks) of Uncle Sam.
I just figured out I’m a bit of a rebel. (Yes, I know Sherlock).. Me no likey blocks. Gladys Cravats still lives on my block. (I’m behind on my New Years Resolutions, and I’ll probably never reach my alltime goal of living so damn far out in the country I can get my mail in my undies.) I have this sudden urge to dawn me onea them wifebeater t-shits and go Tee off at that ritzy golf course on the edgea town.
I ain’t really in a frenzy, but reckon frenzies lead to coronaries. Ain’t that where something becomes blocked?
No shirt no shoes no service. Dammit, there’s my name again, right there in service.
Sign sign everywhere a sign.. blocking out the scenery breaking my mind.. do this, don’t do that can’t you read the sign..
Ok, time to bootscoot. The block blog is done. Might go and try to find me a gal that’s been around the block. Hehe. Or, email that one back and say “sorry… I just got your message.”
Much love… remember to chew your Junior Mints before swallowing… Victurd.
Interesting word. Ya think of denied. Could be lotta things though.
Football player. Blocking sled. To fend off. Supposedly the very best block in that sport is called the pancake block. You simply knock one on their ass.
Block, as in the kid’s kind with the ABC’s on them. Building blocks. I reckon school is a building block.
Block party. Some neighborhoods have ‘em. “I live in the ___ hundred block of…..” I know her, she lives down at the end of the block.
Junior mints. Was at work the other day, onea the nicest ladies on the planet started choking. I immediately ran to try to dislodge whatever was blocking her throat… she finally said she was ok, but I could see tears in her eyes… and she still struggled to breathe.. Her throat WAS blocked.. She ran into the women’s restroom… I summonsed her daughter – she happens to work there as well.. and the end result – Junior Mint finally flew outta there on a cough. I tend to tease this fine lady unmercifully, and now whenever she gives it right back to me I spout out “Somebody give Mary a Junior Mint.”
Block. I know cars have ‘em, but I couldn’t point to whereinthehell it is.
Caller ID blocks. Even online dating sites have blocks. Was this lady, we’d exchanged some emails.. She’d even given me her phone number. (Never called).. I one day asked her to meet – apparently somewhere along the way in describing me, she didn’t like whatever it was I said. She didn’t answer. A few months down the road, I flung another email. “You’ve been blocked by this member.” Sumbitch, I didn’t do anything. A month later, she emailed to see if I still wanted to meet. HA! I didn’t block her but I “Caller ID”ed her message.
Cousin picked me up one day to play the ritzy golf course on the edge of town. “Ahm, Victor, you’ll have to go back inside and get a shirt with a collar.” Blocked I was due to my commoner status. And the sign said long haired freaky people need not apply- So I tucked my hair up under my hat and I went in to ask him why… He said you look like a fine upstanding young man, I think you’ll do…. So I took off my hat and said Imagine that, huh, me working for you
Woah…
Sign, Sign everywhere a sign, blocking out the scenery breaking my mind… Do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign…
Former co-worker. She was scourged by the Harper Valley PTA. A shame. Brilliant lady. Great worker. Who cared if she showed cleavage, wore short dresses and occasionally slid out an F bomb – she was the best I’d seen in her position. Anyways, we’ve continued to communicate and now her email addy is blocked. Dangit.
I reckon blocking is about power huh? I’m here, you’re there, watch this.
Then there’s the parental control blocking. A good thing prolly on the internet. Blocking a child’s friends I see as kinda dangerous, risky. Prolly tends to have the opposite affect. Ha! Whothehell am I to give parenting advice!
There is ‘vic’ in advice… Sadly, it’s in vice as well!
I’m at the library. I’ve got 26 minutes, 42 seconds until I’m blocked.
Blocking ain’t fun. Drain blocked. Road blocked. Emails blocked. Caller ID’ed. Whenever I getta call from someone I really enjoy (could be coworker, could be vendor) I teasingly answer “Hi, you’ve reached Vic, I’m away from my desk” and stupid giggles usually happen on the other end. Fun blocking.
Cylinder block. Toy block. Concrete block. Postage stamp block. City block. The H&R tax folks, spelled different – yet still abide by all the rules (blocks) of Uncle Sam.
I just figured out I’m a bit of a rebel. (Yes, I know Sherlock).. Me no likey blocks. Gladys Cravats still lives on my block. (I’m behind on my New Years Resolutions, and I’ll probably never reach my alltime goal of living so damn far out in the country I can get my mail in my undies.) I have this sudden urge to dawn me onea them wifebeater t-shits and go Tee off at that ritzy golf course on the edgea town.
I ain’t really in a frenzy, but reckon frenzies lead to coronaries. Ain’t that where something becomes blocked?
No shirt no shoes no service. Dammit, there’s my name again, right there in service.
Sign sign everywhere a sign.. blocking out the scenery breaking my mind.. do this, don’t do that can’t you read the sign..
Ok, time to bootscoot. The block blog is done. Might go and try to find me a gal that’s been around the block. Hehe. Or, email that one back and say “sorry… I just got your message.”
Much love… remember to chew your Junior Mints before swallowing… Victurd.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Hans and Frans….
He did it again. Community Center. I wasn’t anxious to workout. Weather turning a tad bit nicer, nonetheless I trudged down the stairs. See this sign.. .”Pump Up Area.” Huh? Well of course, there’s a weight room. No, no, no… this sign pointed another direction. The opposite way.
So.. went ahead and snuck into my shorts and t-shirt, to the cardio-vascular area for my 30 minute ‘love’ affair with Ms. Elliptical. It was me… a 60-something old lady.. 40 empty machines… 30 full mirrors.. and 20 gorgeous bikinki clad women. HUH? Yes, it was somekinda body-building contest.. and the Pump Up Area just so happened to be adjacent to the exercise room.
The lass’s took turns looking at themselves in various poses – at the two doors just to my left. (Or, ahm, directly across the mirror just to my right. Damn my neck hurts.).. Another old fart my age enters, and he wasn’t so shy – he walked right up to the stair-stepper that was literally eight feet from the 20 bikini clad, gorgeous, sparkly, tanned, fit, women. Bastard.
Perhaps he got embarrassed, or “cardio-vascularly challenged”, cause he didn’t stay long. He had a grin on his face wider than Mayberry RFD.
Amongst this group of twenty-something bikini clad, gorgeous, sparkly, tanned, fit women were two dudes. The occupation they had was a bit strange… First, they sprayed some kinda something all up and down the bodies of the lasses… and then they again went all up and down their bodies brushing on some kinda powder. Bastards.
“I lost my job at the factory…”… “Sprint”… “The car dealership”.. “I’m unemployed… whadda you do for a living?”.. I brush babes. Uh huh, I do. I brush babes. Bastards.
For a long time I didn’t observe any “pump”, and these gals definitely weren’t the behemoth, grossly muscled women you think… they were all size 0 to 6… firm… Finally, one of ‘em took this rubber surgical tubing, placed it under her feet and began to lift up with both arms. I saw a baby bicep, but somehow I don’t necessarily think muscles were what all were there to see.
I reckon, point is. Pump Up Area. What’s your Pump Up Area? We’re all beach balls in life – and wear and tear gets us partially deflated. We need Pump Up Areas.
Mine? Thought you’d never ask, thanks. Coffee in the kitchen. The smoke area before work and during breaks. My cubicle. The Sauna. The car with the radio’a cranked. Water. Airplanes, either on ‘em or lookin’ at ‘em from the ground. Loved ones. Children. Little babies. A fun email received that a friend thought enough to type the letters of my name to include. Animals. Fun.
The Corner Bar. Just shoot me, I don’t care at this point. Friendly there. Randy, for instance. Haven’t known him a great length of time – but this man adorns a smile 24/7. Bastard, said lovingly. He’s always pumped.. I guess his Pump Up Area is simply having his eyes open.
The weight room. My pecs, biceps, all that junk are still very much in the miniature stage. Five months at it now… maybe here and there a peek into the mirror to stop and think, “hey, it’s kinda getting there.” Enough anyways, to Pump me up about return to the Pump Up Area.
Some, like Randy, perhaps don’t need that Pump Up Area impetus. They roll happy. Some, perhaps like Victurd (and the twenty something bikini clad, gorgeous, sparkly, tanned, fit, women) need their Pump Up Areas.
Some, unfortunately, leak – and won’t hold the air it takes to enjoy life. Sad.
Hey, thanks for taking the time to place your eyeballs here. That does pump me up. I gotta go now. Gonna Google “Brush Babes” to see where I can perhaps intern to ultimately do that for a living. What better than to work in the Pump Up Area eh? Love, Victurd.
So.. went ahead and snuck into my shorts and t-shirt, to the cardio-vascular area for my 30 minute ‘love’ affair with Ms. Elliptical. It was me… a 60-something old lady.. 40 empty machines… 30 full mirrors.. and 20 gorgeous bikinki clad women. HUH? Yes, it was somekinda body-building contest.. and the Pump Up Area just so happened to be adjacent to the exercise room.
The lass’s took turns looking at themselves in various poses – at the two doors just to my left. (Or, ahm, directly across the mirror just to my right. Damn my neck hurts.).. Another old fart my age enters, and he wasn’t so shy – he walked right up to the stair-stepper that was literally eight feet from the 20 bikini clad, gorgeous, sparkly, tanned, fit, women. Bastard.
Perhaps he got embarrassed, or “cardio-vascularly challenged”, cause he didn’t stay long. He had a grin on his face wider than Mayberry RFD.
Amongst this group of twenty-something bikini clad, gorgeous, sparkly, tanned, fit women were two dudes. The occupation they had was a bit strange… First, they sprayed some kinda something all up and down the bodies of the lasses… and then they again went all up and down their bodies brushing on some kinda powder. Bastards.
“I lost my job at the factory…”… “Sprint”… “The car dealership”.. “I’m unemployed… whadda you do for a living?”.. I brush babes. Uh huh, I do. I brush babes. Bastards.
For a long time I didn’t observe any “pump”, and these gals definitely weren’t the behemoth, grossly muscled women you think… they were all size 0 to 6… firm… Finally, one of ‘em took this rubber surgical tubing, placed it under her feet and began to lift up with both arms. I saw a baby bicep, but somehow I don’t necessarily think muscles were what all were there to see.
I reckon, point is. Pump Up Area. What’s your Pump Up Area? We’re all beach balls in life – and wear and tear gets us partially deflated. We need Pump Up Areas.
Mine? Thought you’d never ask, thanks. Coffee in the kitchen. The smoke area before work and during breaks. My cubicle. The Sauna. The car with the radio’a cranked. Water. Airplanes, either on ‘em or lookin’ at ‘em from the ground. Loved ones. Children. Little babies. A fun email received that a friend thought enough to type the letters of my name to include. Animals. Fun.
The Corner Bar. Just shoot me, I don’t care at this point. Friendly there. Randy, for instance. Haven’t known him a great length of time – but this man adorns a smile 24/7. Bastard, said lovingly. He’s always pumped.. I guess his Pump Up Area is simply having his eyes open.
The weight room. My pecs, biceps, all that junk are still very much in the miniature stage. Five months at it now… maybe here and there a peek into the mirror to stop and think, “hey, it’s kinda getting there.” Enough anyways, to Pump me up about return to the Pump Up Area.
Some, like Randy, perhaps don’t need that Pump Up Area impetus. They roll happy. Some, perhaps like Victurd (and the twenty something bikini clad, gorgeous, sparkly, tanned, fit, women) need their Pump Up Areas.
Some, unfortunately, leak – and won’t hold the air it takes to enjoy life. Sad.
Hey, thanks for taking the time to place your eyeballs here. That does pump me up. I gotta go now. Gonna Google “Brush Babes” to see where I can perhaps intern to ultimately do that for a living. What better than to work in the Pump Up Area eh? Love, Victurd.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
The Ville….
They didn’t have a name for their township… So, they simply referred to it as “The Ville.”
At one point, much green grass separated The Ville from the Big City. Many called that spacious Greenland between, with homes dotted here and there, “Hooterville.”
Upon occasion folks from The Ville went to the Big City to shop. To get there, you had’ta go thru mini-cities within the city. There was Poorville, Crimeville, HippieVille, Up-and-comer-CondoVille… and Marketville.
If you kept your car on the same course driving South, you’d go thru Wineville (also known as “The Plaza”… prounounced “plaaa-zaaah”.) Just beyond Wineville was OldMoneyTown. Then Mediocreville, and finally, ya get far enough South there was Uppityville.
Peeps from The Ville learned all kindsa lessons in their endeavors into these fine towns. The “how to do it” and the “how not to do it.”
They learned to be appreciative of all things, even if they weren’t the biggest, baddest, most recent, most costly items in the State. They’d driven thru Poorville, and in spitea the lacka dental care, three car garages, Hummers, Applebees – they noticed folks there were a happy sort.
The nightly news brought back visions of their drive thru Crimeville. Folks from The Ville learned to appreciate their loved ones more – what with seeing all the young men and women dying violent deaths in Crimeville.
Wineville was a nice place to visit, but they didn’t wanna live there. OldMoneyTown just wasn’t them either, even though many worked hard to put away for down the line. Condoville folks were cool – but it conjured up dreams of nothing but concrete – so they stayed in The Ville.
The went to events, dining joints, work after hours outings in Uppityville. Lotta good folks there, many that do $o much for charitable organizations. But too, they noted the Uppityville folk, many, just didn’t want much to do with anyone from The Ville, let alone from Poorville.
“We need a town meeting” ole Hoot Gibson said. “That green, green grass of Hooterville is shriveling up what with all the buildin’ going on around here… pretty soon we’ll be gobbled up by the Big City, or Crimeville.”
“Right on Hoot” hollered Mable, the organist at the local church, “we gotta plan our course for our kids, our kid’s kids… and even for ourselves.”
So one Monday night they met. Whole town. Well, ceptin’ for Sally and Marie. You see, they’d been laid up from an auto accident, wanted to be there, but couldn’t.
“First step of business” Mayor Fluteson spouted “is we gotta do something for our loved ones that can’t be here.” They passed the hat, ole Babs grabbed it, promised to buy each a feast – and give ‘em the change leftover for any other pressing need that might arise. (She’d witnessed the troubles they’d had on improper use of funds in their own school district, and as the put the hat on her lap she said “I promise to showya the receipts, I won’t do like that Fancyville administrator did, I love you folks too much.”
So, they finally go to the debate of a formal name for The Ville. “How ‘bout Suburbville?” builder Ferguson chimed in with… “Nah… there’s plenty towns with names like that..” Cricket shot out, “but keep them ideas a comin’ Mr. Ferguson.
Ole Art liked to imbibe occasionally, and tella joke even more frequently.. “Why don’t we take somea the aspects of some in those other places? We can call our town GossipVille!”… Now they knew he was’a teasin’… still, Munson the barber threw in “Now Art, you know we learned at the last Town Hall meeting ‘don’t dwell on the negative.. if you see something in another you don’t like, then concentrate on the things about them you do like, and let the others go.’ “… “Yeah, you’re right Muns’, I was kinda joshin anyways” answered Art…
“I don’t know about a name” school teach Jennings muttered, “but I do know this is a wonderful town. People come to the aid of others. People have fun, and that can be inexpensive fun. We watchout for our neighbors, our friends (and their children).. we take care of our elderly… but I can’t put it all together and think of a name” as she scratched her head.
“I’m with you Ms. Jennings” farmer Petty said.. “this is such a wonderful town.. we’re very glad that we have new neighbors inching toward our city.. yet we want to keep the uniqueness we’ve forever known. You know, kinda like Andy and Barney, Floyd and all them.”
“May I say something?” Mr. Tucker the City worker said as he raised his hand and stood simultaneously.. “Sure” the Mayor answered “you’ve got the floor sir.”
“Thanks Mayor. I just had a thought. We’ve learned from all of those around us, and from ourselves. We’ve seen destruction, abduction, robbing the kitty, those that have everything in the world they want – except happiness.. we’ve seen fast paced.. “ Tucker continued.. “from all I can see.. we’re all simply happy and blessed for what we have, so we choose happy. I’d like to nominate “Happyville” as our new town name.”
“Great idea Tuck’” Hoot shouted out. “Darn right!” Cricket let go with… “Don’t worry, be HappyVille!” Art chirped between hiccups… they were smitten with the name. A few weeks later, they planted a Hollywood sized sign of letters at their doorstep, inscribed H A P P Y V I L L E.
These folks in the old Ville didn’t need much.. They’d seen’a lotta choices chaps in them other burgs made – and they chose to simply be happy. Old fashion values tucked in between modern technology. All they needed was life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Happyville it is Tuck, Happyville it is. Love, Victurd.
At one point, much green grass separated The Ville from the Big City. Many called that spacious Greenland between, with homes dotted here and there, “Hooterville.”
Upon occasion folks from The Ville went to the Big City to shop. To get there, you had’ta go thru mini-cities within the city. There was Poorville, Crimeville, HippieVille, Up-and-comer-CondoVille… and Marketville.
If you kept your car on the same course driving South, you’d go thru Wineville (also known as “The Plaza”… prounounced “plaaa-zaaah”.) Just beyond Wineville was OldMoneyTown. Then Mediocreville, and finally, ya get far enough South there was Uppityville.
Peeps from The Ville learned all kindsa lessons in their endeavors into these fine towns. The “how to do it” and the “how not to do it.”
They learned to be appreciative of all things, even if they weren’t the biggest, baddest, most recent, most costly items in the State. They’d driven thru Poorville, and in spitea the lacka dental care, three car garages, Hummers, Applebees – they noticed folks there were a happy sort.
The nightly news brought back visions of their drive thru Crimeville. Folks from The Ville learned to appreciate their loved ones more – what with seeing all the young men and women dying violent deaths in Crimeville.
Wineville was a nice place to visit, but they didn’t wanna live there. OldMoneyTown just wasn’t them either, even though many worked hard to put away for down the line. Condoville folks were cool – but it conjured up dreams of nothing but concrete – so they stayed in The Ville.
The went to events, dining joints, work after hours outings in Uppityville. Lotta good folks there, many that do $o much for charitable organizations. But too, they noted the Uppityville folk, many, just didn’t want much to do with anyone from The Ville, let alone from Poorville.
“We need a town meeting” ole Hoot Gibson said. “That green, green grass of Hooterville is shriveling up what with all the buildin’ going on around here… pretty soon we’ll be gobbled up by the Big City, or Crimeville.”
“Right on Hoot” hollered Mable, the organist at the local church, “we gotta plan our course for our kids, our kid’s kids… and even for ourselves.”
So one Monday night they met. Whole town. Well, ceptin’ for Sally and Marie. You see, they’d been laid up from an auto accident, wanted to be there, but couldn’t.
“First step of business” Mayor Fluteson spouted “is we gotta do something for our loved ones that can’t be here.” They passed the hat, ole Babs grabbed it, promised to buy each a feast – and give ‘em the change leftover for any other pressing need that might arise. (She’d witnessed the troubles they’d had on improper use of funds in their own school district, and as the put the hat on her lap she said “I promise to showya the receipts, I won’t do like that Fancyville administrator did, I love you folks too much.”
So, they finally go to the debate of a formal name for The Ville. “How ‘bout Suburbville?” builder Ferguson chimed in with… “Nah… there’s plenty towns with names like that..” Cricket shot out, “but keep them ideas a comin’ Mr. Ferguson.
Ole Art liked to imbibe occasionally, and tella joke even more frequently.. “Why don’t we take somea the aspects of some in those other places? We can call our town GossipVille!”… Now they knew he was’a teasin’… still, Munson the barber threw in “Now Art, you know we learned at the last Town Hall meeting ‘don’t dwell on the negative.. if you see something in another you don’t like, then concentrate on the things about them you do like, and let the others go.’ “… “Yeah, you’re right Muns’, I was kinda joshin anyways” answered Art…
“I don’t know about a name” school teach Jennings muttered, “but I do know this is a wonderful town. People come to the aid of others. People have fun, and that can be inexpensive fun. We watchout for our neighbors, our friends (and their children).. we take care of our elderly… but I can’t put it all together and think of a name” as she scratched her head.
“I’m with you Ms. Jennings” farmer Petty said.. “this is such a wonderful town.. we’re very glad that we have new neighbors inching toward our city.. yet we want to keep the uniqueness we’ve forever known. You know, kinda like Andy and Barney, Floyd and all them.”
“May I say something?” Mr. Tucker the City worker said as he raised his hand and stood simultaneously.. “Sure” the Mayor answered “you’ve got the floor sir.”
“Thanks Mayor. I just had a thought. We’ve learned from all of those around us, and from ourselves. We’ve seen destruction, abduction, robbing the kitty, those that have everything in the world they want – except happiness.. we’ve seen fast paced.. “ Tucker continued.. “from all I can see.. we’re all simply happy and blessed for what we have, so we choose happy. I’d like to nominate “Happyville” as our new town name.”
“Great idea Tuck’” Hoot shouted out. “Darn right!” Cricket let go with… “Don’t worry, be HappyVille!” Art chirped between hiccups… they were smitten with the name. A few weeks later, they planted a Hollywood sized sign of letters at their doorstep, inscribed H A P P Y V I L L E.
These folks in the old Ville didn’t need much.. They’d seen’a lotta choices chaps in them other burgs made – and they chose to simply be happy. Old fashion values tucked in between modern technology. All they needed was life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Happyville it is Tuck, Happyville it is. Love, Victurd.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
The Buzz…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Hello and welcome to the wonderful wacky world of ‘turd. Yesterday was abouta ‘F-‘ day.
Started out – the lock on the driver’s side of my car is having some problems, and it allofasudden decided to “take a sick day” (not open), so,
I had to gain entry thru the passenger side door. Tis ok. Might be kinda fun dating again and having the door opened FOR ME. Hehe.
Then, terrible news at work as two coworkers were involved in a pretty serious wreck on the way in.. One by ambulance to hosp, the other Life-flighted. Initial reports – we think things are going to be Ok with each. Whew. Scary.
Breaktime, go to get my shades outta the car. Door decides “I’m enjoying this Spring day, I think I’ll NOT allow you to close me all the way.” And I couldn’t. A few screwdrivers, paira pliers, some grease on the pants later – same situation.
So.. My interior lights we on all day whilst I worked. I was dreaming of how I was gonna bungy the door so I wouldn’t be flung out on I-435 enroute home…
Afternoon break. Finally got it shut. Yipee. Again though, couldn’t open it. Additionally, the goofy sensor still thinks “Door ajar” so, uh huh.. buzzzz zzzzzzz zzzzzzzz. The entire way home. Vely annoying. Vely Victurd-normal-weird car crap. Ok u laugh, vely funny.
Drove straight to buy new bolts to try to repair door. Huh uh. Wouldn’t budge open. Oh shit. Said “to hell with it”, skipped working out and went straight to meetup with cronie for cold one. A buzz for a buzz I guess one could say.
There was more ugly that had transpired at home – but – can’t share – just know, sad.
That’s about the buzz zzzzzz zzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzz in my life. Please don’t take a dim view of me saying “to hell with it” last night. Oh, speaking of dim view, finally figured out how to get the interior lights off so battery couldn’t take the day off.. still, can’t get ridda that buzz zzzz zzzzz.
A buzz for a buzz. Fuzzy wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy was’he? Insteada naming this stupid blog after a “mechanical trouble” name, I wish I woulda named it “Eva Longoria” or “Elisabeth Shue” – for, it (the stupid name) has resurfaced again (Taurus… _ R N D L.. no Park), again (Hot Rod Lincoln, haunted) and now the Green Hornet (buzz zzz zzz zzzz).
I love life. It kinda givesya a buzz. Happy day, love, Buzzturd.
Started out – the lock on the driver’s side of my car is having some problems, and it allofasudden decided to “take a sick day” (not open), so,
I had to gain entry thru the passenger side door. Tis ok. Might be kinda fun dating again and having the door opened FOR ME. Hehe.
Then, terrible news at work as two coworkers were involved in a pretty serious wreck on the way in.. One by ambulance to hosp, the other Life-flighted. Initial reports – we think things are going to be Ok with each. Whew. Scary.
Breaktime, go to get my shades outta the car. Door decides “I’m enjoying this Spring day, I think I’ll NOT allow you to close me all the way.” And I couldn’t. A few screwdrivers, paira pliers, some grease on the pants later – same situation.
So.. My interior lights we on all day whilst I worked. I was dreaming of how I was gonna bungy the door so I wouldn’t be flung out on I-435 enroute home…
Afternoon break. Finally got it shut. Yipee. Again though, couldn’t open it. Additionally, the goofy sensor still thinks “Door ajar” so, uh huh.. buzzzz zzzzzzz zzzzzzzz. The entire way home. Vely annoying. Vely Victurd-normal-weird car crap. Ok u laugh, vely funny.
Drove straight to buy new bolts to try to repair door. Huh uh. Wouldn’t budge open. Oh shit. Said “to hell with it”, skipped working out and went straight to meetup with cronie for cold one. A buzz for a buzz I guess one could say.
There was more ugly that had transpired at home – but – can’t share – just know, sad.
That’s about the buzz zzzzzz zzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzz in my life. Please don’t take a dim view of me saying “to hell with it” last night. Oh, speaking of dim view, finally figured out how to get the interior lights off so battery couldn’t take the day off.. still, can’t get ridda that buzz zzzz zzzzz.
A buzz for a buzz. Fuzzy wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy was’he? Insteada naming this stupid blog after a “mechanical trouble” name, I wish I woulda named it “Eva Longoria” or “Elisabeth Shue” – for, it (the stupid name) has resurfaced again (Taurus… _ R N D L.. no Park), again (Hot Rod Lincoln, haunted) and now the Green Hornet (buzz zzz zzz zzzz).
I love life. It kinda givesya a buzz. Happy day, love, Buzzturd.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
QUICK!
Hurry. Got ten minutes to write. Whatinthehell can one write about in ten minutes?
Ain’t sure, but gotta be quick. Quick. What does one think of when ya thinka quick? (Pervert, knew you’d think that.)..
Fast food. Quick. Hurry. “Honey, can u go thru Mickey D’s? And remember BBQ sauce for little Louie.”..
Text. Saying “hi” in a millisecond. Crosstown, crosscountry, “hi.” Or, “ILY”.
Basketball, baseball, football players – “quick.”
Old age… gotta get to the restroom.. QUICK..
Out with friends, needta hide from one you perhaps didn’t invite that is also out and about. OVER HERE! QUICK!..
Garage sale. Need money, QUICK.
Make a quick appearance. Quick, get the paycheck to the bank. A coworker, very quick. A slacker, very quick to shy away from work. Quick to get that monkey offa their back.
A parent. A coach. A teacher. QUICK! (Do this, do that, don’t do that. Stop that. Now.) A control kinda thing.
Pudding. Microwave popcorn. Oatmeal. Nestle’s Quick. N-E-S-T-L-E-S, Nestle’s makes the very best chocolate.. quick.
Quick kick. Quick Draw McGraw. Johnny Quick.
Quickening is the very earliest perception of fetal movement by a mother during pregnancy. Once born, “quick… NOW WHAT?”.. Eh, enjoy the early times where you can lay the little doogers on the blanket and they don’t/can’t stray… doesn’t last long. Soon after, you begin aging when you quickly have to follow them allover the house so they don’t eat cigarette butts, tootsie rolls outta the kitty litter, or pull the frying pan offa the stove.
I sunburn, quick. I don’t drive quick. Hereditary. In fact, sister and I usedta clap from the backseat whenever the old man passed another car. (A quick story.)
Quick temper. Quick wit. Quick Facts. Quick calculator.
Quick. ASAP. Abrupt. Accelerated. Agile. Alert. Animated. Brief. Brisk. Express. Hasty. Hurried. Immediate (I want what I want and I want it NOW.) Instantaneous. Perfunctory. Prompt. Rapid. Snappy. Sudden. Swift.
Quick Trip. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. Quicksand.
A ten minute blog. Quick. In ending, I loved the story of how Cowboy Bob (had a kid’s radio program long ago) ended his radio show.. Thought the mike was off.. spouted (quickly) “THERE… that oughta please the little bastards.”
One-liners. Quick. Quick, ten minutes are up, time to go to work. Quick Vic. (Again… you pervert.) Havea day. Havea quickie. Quickly. Love, Victurd.
Ain’t sure, but gotta be quick. Quick. What does one think of when ya thinka quick? (Pervert, knew you’d think that.)..
Fast food. Quick. Hurry. “Honey, can u go thru Mickey D’s? And remember BBQ sauce for little Louie.”..
Text. Saying “hi” in a millisecond. Crosstown, crosscountry, “hi.” Or, “ILY”.
Basketball, baseball, football players – “quick.”
Old age… gotta get to the restroom.. QUICK..
Out with friends, needta hide from one you perhaps didn’t invite that is also out and about. OVER HERE! QUICK!..
Garage sale. Need money, QUICK.
Make a quick appearance. Quick, get the paycheck to the bank. A coworker, very quick. A slacker, very quick to shy away from work. Quick to get that monkey offa their back.
A parent. A coach. A teacher. QUICK! (Do this, do that, don’t do that. Stop that. Now.) A control kinda thing.
Pudding. Microwave popcorn. Oatmeal. Nestle’s Quick. N-E-S-T-L-E-S, Nestle’s makes the very best chocolate.. quick.
Quick kick. Quick Draw McGraw. Johnny Quick.
Quickening is the very earliest perception of fetal movement by a mother during pregnancy. Once born, “quick… NOW WHAT?”.. Eh, enjoy the early times where you can lay the little doogers on the blanket and they don’t/can’t stray… doesn’t last long. Soon after, you begin aging when you quickly have to follow them allover the house so they don’t eat cigarette butts, tootsie rolls outta the kitty litter, or pull the frying pan offa the stove.
I sunburn, quick. I don’t drive quick. Hereditary. In fact, sister and I usedta clap from the backseat whenever the old man passed another car. (A quick story.)
Quick temper. Quick wit. Quick Facts. Quick calculator.
Quick. ASAP. Abrupt. Accelerated. Agile. Alert. Animated. Brief. Brisk. Express. Hasty. Hurried. Immediate (I want what I want and I want it NOW.) Instantaneous. Perfunctory. Prompt. Rapid. Snappy. Sudden. Swift.
Quick Trip. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. Quicksand.
A ten minute blog. Quick. In ending, I loved the story of how Cowboy Bob (had a kid’s radio program long ago) ended his radio show.. Thought the mike was off.. spouted (quickly) “THERE… that oughta please the little bastards.”
One-liners. Quick. Quick, ten minutes are up, time to go to work. Quick Vic. (Again… you pervert.) Havea day. Havea quickie. Quickly. Love, Victurd.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Getting lost….
Hide and seek. Where’s Waldo?
I’ve long been a lover of stuff like that. Remember the Highlights books that adorned doctor’s and dentist’s offices years ago? They had these picture puzzle thingies, and you had to find the goofs, hidden objects.. things that simply weren’t normal. Fun.
Other night at “the joint.” Gal, a friend, was sitting down at onea them fancified fitty-cent video games, punching away as quickly as she could. Eased up closer, saw it was two pictures of the same scene – and you had’ta find the descrepencies and touch them on the screen. Milliseconds to complete this task before they moved to the next one. Obviously, the faster you found all the tasks, the more time you get for your fitty-cents. I sat next to her, started touching too. (No, not her, the errors, goofs on the screen.) Four eyeballs, better than one.
I like hiding. I like not having anyone know where I’m at. It’s a single kinda thing I guess. Maynard, thru observing patterns of his ole man – can find me virtually anywhere in town I gadabout. Darnit! I wanted to hear “allie allie in free”, you know, like when the chaser in ‘kick the can’ gives up, can’t findya.
1,052 “Waldo’s” showed up at Rutgers University Thursday. Dressed as Waldo. Set the Guiness record. I don’t like prevalent Waldo(s), I like the one that’s hard to find. A sense of relief when you finally find that basta.
There’s a little, kinda cool, “Coffee News” ad thingy in out town. It has clever little sayings along with a dozen or so 2 inch by 4 inch ads for business’s. .. It’s for boredom at the laundry mat. Or, for gaping at as one dines at the Piggly Wiggly. A hometown kinda thing.
Fitty bucks. Each week someone wins fitty bucks if they find “the little guy” within onea the ads. They show a big picture of the little guy, then, they show how large the hidden one in the ad will look like – and ya damn near can’t see it it’s so small in the example. Thenya gotta scroll thru all the ads, trying to find “the little guy.” I’m a simpleton, I see this as fun. Frustrating too. I think one week the asshole that owns the Coffee News simply decided to mess with our brains – cause I sureashell couldn’t find the little guy. I pictured owner bent over in laughter as it came off the presses.
Bottomline, I likes my space. The Governor in The Best Little Whorehouse. “Oh, I love to dance a little sidestep”. Uh huh. Me. Don’t control me. Don’t squash me. For goodness sakes PLEASE don’t be loud, dominate conversations – that makes me falla sleep. I like hiding. I like looking for descrepencies in life. I enjoy Waldo’s smirky smile.
Seems bassackwards one who enjoys hiding behind a tree would blog. Yeah, you’re right, don’t make no sense. Sorry, tis me. I hide, mostly, in conversations. By far not the most talkative one. I’d rather have ‘em thinking “I wonder whatinthehell he’s thinking” and explore all those possibilities versus the open mouth insert foot thing. I yap a lot here, but that’s because you’re a keyboard anda screen and as I type ya can’t hear me. See? I bet you wonder now exactly where I am. (Hell, call Maynard, he can find me anywhere.)
Hiding, silence, anonymity, and discrepencies, right up my alley. My take, one is more aerodynamic when their mouth ain’t open.
Ooh I love to dance a little sidestep, now they see me now they don't-
I've come and gone and, ooh I love to sweep around the wide step,
cut a little swathe and lead the people on.
Notta weirdo. Harmless, even though I usedta be a postal worker. Not “up there” in my silence/want of sometimes Howard Hughes secrecy. I just sometimes like alone. Writing about that desire and sharing is bassackwards, butt, sometimes I like bassackwards. Have a great day. Winter, please go away. Spring, stop your damn teasing, hiding. Bye bye. Going to find Waldo, the little guy, or simply find a place where no one will know where I’m at. Love, Victurd.
I’ve long been a lover of stuff like that. Remember the Highlights books that adorned doctor’s and dentist’s offices years ago? They had these picture puzzle thingies, and you had to find the goofs, hidden objects.. things that simply weren’t normal. Fun.
Other night at “the joint.” Gal, a friend, was sitting down at onea them fancified fitty-cent video games, punching away as quickly as she could. Eased up closer, saw it was two pictures of the same scene – and you had’ta find the descrepencies and touch them on the screen. Milliseconds to complete this task before they moved to the next one. Obviously, the faster you found all the tasks, the more time you get for your fitty-cents. I sat next to her, started touching too. (No, not her, the errors, goofs on the screen.) Four eyeballs, better than one.
I like hiding. I like not having anyone know where I’m at. It’s a single kinda thing I guess. Maynard, thru observing patterns of his ole man – can find me virtually anywhere in town I gadabout. Darnit! I wanted to hear “allie allie in free”, you know, like when the chaser in ‘kick the can’ gives up, can’t findya.
1,052 “Waldo’s” showed up at Rutgers University Thursday. Dressed as Waldo. Set the Guiness record. I don’t like prevalent Waldo(s), I like the one that’s hard to find. A sense of relief when you finally find that basta.
There’s a little, kinda cool, “Coffee News” ad thingy in out town. It has clever little sayings along with a dozen or so 2 inch by 4 inch ads for business’s. .. It’s for boredom at the laundry mat. Or, for gaping at as one dines at the Piggly Wiggly. A hometown kinda thing.
Fitty bucks. Each week someone wins fitty bucks if they find “the little guy” within onea the ads. They show a big picture of the little guy, then, they show how large the hidden one in the ad will look like – and ya damn near can’t see it it’s so small in the example. Thenya gotta scroll thru all the ads, trying to find “the little guy.” I’m a simpleton, I see this as fun. Frustrating too. I think one week the asshole that owns the Coffee News simply decided to mess with our brains – cause I sureashell couldn’t find the little guy. I pictured owner bent over in laughter as it came off the presses.
Bottomline, I likes my space. The Governor in The Best Little Whorehouse. “Oh, I love to dance a little sidestep”. Uh huh. Me. Don’t control me. Don’t squash me. For goodness sakes PLEASE don’t be loud, dominate conversations – that makes me falla sleep. I like hiding. I like looking for descrepencies in life. I enjoy Waldo’s smirky smile.
Seems bassackwards one who enjoys hiding behind a tree would blog. Yeah, you’re right, don’t make no sense. Sorry, tis me. I hide, mostly, in conversations. By far not the most talkative one. I’d rather have ‘em thinking “I wonder whatinthehell he’s thinking” and explore all those possibilities versus the open mouth insert foot thing. I yap a lot here, but that’s because you’re a keyboard anda screen and as I type ya can’t hear me. See? I bet you wonder now exactly where I am. (Hell, call Maynard, he can find me anywhere.)
Hiding, silence, anonymity, and discrepencies, right up my alley. My take, one is more aerodynamic when their mouth ain’t open.
Ooh I love to dance a little sidestep, now they see me now they don't-
I've come and gone and, ooh I love to sweep around the wide step,
cut a little swathe and lead the people on.
Notta weirdo. Harmless, even though I usedta be a postal worker. Not “up there” in my silence/want of sometimes Howard Hughes secrecy. I just sometimes like alone. Writing about that desire and sharing is bassackwards, butt, sometimes I like bassackwards. Have a great day. Winter, please go away. Spring, stop your damn teasing, hiding. Bye bye. Going to find Waldo, the little guy, or simply find a place where no one will know where I’m at. Love, Victurd.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Oh Lord It`s Hard To Be Humble
when you're perfect in every way.
I can't wait to look in the mirror
cause I get better looking each day.
You know people like this? Uh huh.. what I thought.. me too. They thinky “my poopy don’t stinky.”
To know me is to love me
I must be a hell of a man.
Oh Lord it's hard to be humble
but I'm doing the best that I can.
Tend to speak in terms of “I”… “I did this” (when paraphrasing accomplishments of the ‘team’)… Could be a boss at work – say – at a factory… 29,487 perfect ‘objects’ produced.. sees one that ain’t… raises holy hell.. doesn’t bother to go thru the notes from that day where the power had gone out.
I used to have a girlfriend
but she just couldn't compete
with all of these love starved women
who keep clamoring at my feet.
Well I prob'ly could find me another
but I guess they're all in awe of me.
Who cares, I never get lonesome
cause I treasure my own company.
Steamrollers.. Shoot fire outta their bootys ‘cause they don’t mind at all burning down bridges – even if those bridges are critical/strategical in lifting them up to that proud “I” status again some day.
Oh Lord it's hard to be humble
when you're perfect in every way,
I can't wait to look in the mirror
cause I get better looking each day
To know me is to love me
I must be a hell of a man.
In my however many years of work, I’ve even witnessed some feel “I am superior just because I have a penis.”.. Uh huh, sadly true. Piggos. I vote, insteada burning bra’s, set them muther duggin’ boxer briefs on fire, whilst ‘uppity’ is in ‘em.
Oh Lord it's hard to be humble
but I'm doing the best that I can.
I guess you could say I'm a loner,
a cowboy outlaw tough and proud.
I could have lots of friends if I want to
but then I wouldn't stand out from the crowd.
Some folks say that I'm egotistical.
Hell, I don't even know what that means.
I guess it has something to do with the way that I
fill out my skin tight blue jeans.
Hell is usually onea their very favorite words ‘cause it condescends. Whatthehell…. whothehell… howinthehell.. They like hell. Mebbe one day it will be their address. Whointhehell knows…
Oh Lord it's hard to be humble
when you're perfect in every way,
I can't wait to look in the mirror
cause I get better looking each day
To know me is to love me
I must be a hell of a man.
Oh Lord it's hard to be humble
but I'm doing the best that I can.
We're doing the best that we can…
I think Mack Davis is onehelluva song writer – but I no comprende that last line. Them uppity ones don’t know ‘we’. Oh sure, they were the first on the block to have THAT “Wii”, mebbe that’s what it speaks to. They say “there ain’t no “I” in team” – and thenya look around at some teams, and lo and behold the quarterback signed is an “I”. Shee-it. I stole this line – but I really kinda like it, so solly for the theft: “You know what they did to the last perfect person.” Ok, off my soapbox – it actually belongs to a quarterback. Long live the little people, they are the foundation, the backbone, the road to prosperity. Oh Lord it’s hard to be silent. Love, Victurd.
I can't wait to look in the mirror
cause I get better looking each day.
You know people like this? Uh huh.. what I thought.. me too. They thinky “my poopy don’t stinky.”
To know me is to love me
I must be a hell of a man.
Oh Lord it's hard to be humble
but I'm doing the best that I can.
Tend to speak in terms of “I”… “I did this” (when paraphrasing accomplishments of the ‘team’)… Could be a boss at work – say – at a factory… 29,487 perfect ‘objects’ produced.. sees one that ain’t… raises holy hell.. doesn’t bother to go thru the notes from that day where the power had gone out.
I used to have a girlfriend
but she just couldn't compete
with all of these love starved women
who keep clamoring at my feet.
Well I prob'ly could find me another
but I guess they're all in awe of me.
Who cares, I never get lonesome
cause I treasure my own company.
Steamrollers.. Shoot fire outta their bootys ‘cause they don’t mind at all burning down bridges – even if those bridges are critical/strategical in lifting them up to that proud “I” status again some day.
Oh Lord it's hard to be humble
when you're perfect in every way,
I can't wait to look in the mirror
cause I get better looking each day
To know me is to love me
I must be a hell of a man.
In my however many years of work, I’ve even witnessed some feel “I am superior just because I have a penis.”.. Uh huh, sadly true. Piggos. I vote, insteada burning bra’s, set them muther duggin’ boxer briefs on fire, whilst ‘uppity’ is in ‘em.
Oh Lord it's hard to be humble
but I'm doing the best that I can.
I guess you could say I'm a loner,
a cowboy outlaw tough and proud.
I could have lots of friends if I want to
but then I wouldn't stand out from the crowd.
Some folks say that I'm egotistical.
Hell, I don't even know what that means.
I guess it has something to do with the way that I
fill out my skin tight blue jeans.
Hell is usually onea their very favorite words ‘cause it condescends. Whatthehell…. whothehell… howinthehell.. They like hell. Mebbe one day it will be their address. Whointhehell knows…
Oh Lord it's hard to be humble
when you're perfect in every way,
I can't wait to look in the mirror
cause I get better looking each day
To know me is to love me
I must be a hell of a man.
Oh Lord it's hard to be humble
but I'm doing the best that I can.
We're doing the best that we can…
I think Mack Davis is onehelluva song writer – but I no comprende that last line. Them uppity ones don’t know ‘we’. Oh sure, they were the first on the block to have THAT “Wii”, mebbe that’s what it speaks to. They say “there ain’t no “I” in team” – and thenya look around at some teams, and lo and behold the quarterback signed is an “I”. Shee-it. I stole this line – but I really kinda like it, so solly for the theft: “You know what they did to the last perfect person.” Ok, off my soapbox – it actually belongs to a quarterback. Long live the little people, they are the foundation, the backbone, the road to prosperity. Oh Lord it’s hard to be silent. Love, Victurd.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Lord, don’t do that to me again…….
Unfortunately.. or mebbe fortunately, ‘pendin’ on how one looks at it.. the joint where I workout at, I must drive by it each and every evening enroute to home.
Last night.. age 56 muscles, coupled with “eh, mebbe skip it, go have a cold one” had me very tempted to get in the right lane insteada the left lane.
I didn’t. And boy am I glad/mad I didn’t. Huh?
Held the front door open for a groupa snotnoses… pleasantly received “thank you’s” and even a “thank you sir” from ‘em… then proceeded downstairs to the men’s lockerroom to throw my shorts and t-shirt on, the ones that were last washed Sunday I think. (Makes for a great/larger workout area in the crowded weight room portion of this Community Center.).
Last night though, was cardio night. Into the room I strolled, and damnit-darnit, all the ellipticals were taken. Ellipticals are for us old people. They ain’t so bad on the joints, they ain’t so hard to do, you can adjust the ‘pressure’ and make people think you’re really working hard… Darn, taken.
So I eyeballed me a fancy sitting down bike, right next to the stair-steppers (no way Jose on the stair-steppers… that’s for 20/30-somethings… mebbe even 40/50-something Johnson Countians who ain’t hadta work an honest day in their life.)
So I sat. Perty neat. “For quick start, begin pedaling.” Did. Different levels of ‘pressure.’ Eyeballed the 30-something nexto me – “11”. K. I’ll try 7. Nope, that won’t work. 5. then 3, finally 2. Yep, Goldilocks right.
Five happily minutes into it, in walk two of the most gorgeous women I think I’ve ever seen. Right infronta me was an open treadmill. Lord, don’t slap me… I was thinkin’ “Oh please, PLEASE take THAT one!”… They walked by.
Oh shit. They went to the stair-steppers. If you’ve ever wondered by here before, then no doubt you are aware I’m very definitely a “derriere-man”.
Lord, don’t do this to me.
He did. If I woulda extended my arm straight out, then swung it to the right, I honestly coulda smacked the one closest to me, that’s what my Lord tempted me with.
Worse, the one with the shortest, tightest of shorts – was just ahead to my right. Even worse, when she pedaled, she kinda bent over a bit – and I’ll be damned if that thing wasn’t smack dab almost in my face. Lord, don’t do this to me.
Now whatshername (the one who won’t acknowledge there’s a grandbaby in the oven) usedta get pissed when construction workers would whistle at her. My theory, I laid upon her, was “the time to get upset is when you DON’T hear those whistles any longer.”
I wasn’t gonna whistle, but I was a wee bit worried about my blood pressure.
In my most un-creepy-like behavior, I stiff-necked it straight ahead for the following 25 minutes. Tempted, Lord, don’t do that to me. Tempted I was to peek… (Ok, once.. maybe one baby peek… think she saw me.. I can’t help it Lord, I’m a male, we’re ALL creeps.).. For the most part, I behaved.
Thank you Lord for the beautiful people. Next time though, put ‘em across the room, not flaunted all right there up in my face. Lord, don’t do that again please.
Sorry.. kinda.. to blog about this… Butt I had to… Love, Victurd
Last night.. age 56 muscles, coupled with “eh, mebbe skip it, go have a cold one” had me very tempted to get in the right lane insteada the left lane.
I didn’t. And boy am I glad/mad I didn’t. Huh?
Held the front door open for a groupa snotnoses… pleasantly received “thank you’s” and even a “thank you sir” from ‘em… then proceeded downstairs to the men’s lockerroom to throw my shorts and t-shirt on, the ones that were last washed Sunday I think. (Makes for a great/larger workout area in the crowded weight room portion of this Community Center.).
Last night though, was cardio night. Into the room I strolled, and damnit-darnit, all the ellipticals were taken. Ellipticals are for us old people. They ain’t so bad on the joints, they ain’t so hard to do, you can adjust the ‘pressure’ and make people think you’re really working hard… Darn, taken.
So I eyeballed me a fancy sitting down bike, right next to the stair-steppers (no way Jose on the stair-steppers… that’s for 20/30-somethings… mebbe even 40/50-something Johnson Countians who ain’t hadta work an honest day in their life.)
So I sat. Perty neat. “For quick start, begin pedaling.” Did. Different levels of ‘pressure.’ Eyeballed the 30-something nexto me – “11”. K. I’ll try 7. Nope, that won’t work. 5. then 3, finally 2. Yep, Goldilocks right.
Five happily minutes into it, in walk two of the most gorgeous women I think I’ve ever seen. Right infronta me was an open treadmill. Lord, don’t slap me… I was thinkin’ “Oh please, PLEASE take THAT one!”… They walked by.
Oh shit. They went to the stair-steppers. If you’ve ever wondered by here before, then no doubt you are aware I’m very definitely a “derriere-man”.
Lord, don’t do this to me.
He did. If I woulda extended my arm straight out, then swung it to the right, I honestly coulda smacked the one closest to me, that’s what my Lord tempted me with.
Worse, the one with the shortest, tightest of shorts – was just ahead to my right. Even worse, when she pedaled, she kinda bent over a bit – and I’ll be damned if that thing wasn’t smack dab almost in my face. Lord, don’t do this to me.
Now whatshername (the one who won’t acknowledge there’s a grandbaby in the oven) usedta get pissed when construction workers would whistle at her. My theory, I laid upon her, was “the time to get upset is when you DON’T hear those whistles any longer.”
I wasn’t gonna whistle, but I was a wee bit worried about my blood pressure.
In my most un-creepy-like behavior, I stiff-necked it straight ahead for the following 25 minutes. Tempted, Lord, don’t do that to me. Tempted I was to peek… (Ok, once.. maybe one baby peek… think she saw me.. I can’t help it Lord, I’m a male, we’re ALL creeps.).. For the most part, I behaved.
Thank you Lord for the beautiful people. Next time though, put ‘em across the room, not flaunted all right there up in my face. Lord, don’t do that again please.
Sorry.. kinda.. to blog about this… Butt I had to… Love, Victurd
The now…..
First off, THANKS to each and every eyeball that stopped by yesterday, and blessya for your comments – and congratulatory notes on the grandpa thing. To be honest, my first thoughts were “oh no, he’s/they’re not ready” – but now I can’t wait! Maynard’s 0 to 13 years were perhaps the best of my life – and now I getta relive that…
The now. This minute. This hour. This April Fool’s Day. This Wednesday. Today. One chance. We get once chance at it. Included within somea my favorite words are: passion… intent…smile.. and choice.
Good stuff happens. Bad stuff happens. Mundane happens. Cold, hot, distant, close, together, alone, poor, momentary wealth, have to’s, want to’s, living. Thru alla that wonderful crap – we getta choose how the corners of our mouths are shaped.
I write this goofy thing in our monthly company newsletter. The first couple three months were ‘gimmes’ on picking a topic… Now.. I struggle to find something for April.. Then I had’a thought.. There are at least three people I’m lucky enough to share this building with whom no matter what, they choose to have the corners of their mouths UP no matta what!
“The hell’s wrong with you” I’ll periodically ask, “you’re ALWAYS happy”?.. Nuttin’ phases ‘em. They're like cats falling from high up – they always land on their feet. They choose. They choose happy. I admire ‘em. One, fortunately, sits within a distance I can reach her with a rubber band, and I quite frequently do. (Yes, I’m 56. Sorry, can’t help it.)
So that’s their way. NOW. They realize now is NOW. Their thoughts ain’t so much about tomorrow, what I drive, where I’ll be in ten years… it’s about the minute. They extend that minute throughout their life. They live, they do, they choose happy. Sure, mebbe “See the funny little clown.. he’s laughing on the outside.. but he’s crying on the inside” might exist – but they sure has H-E-double-toothpick ain’t gonna demonstrate that.
We get but one chance. These folks “take on ugly” with a smile. I see ‘em periodically take a big ole inhale. Uh huh, recharging their ‘now’ batteries. Sure, I bet it’s sometimes tough – but they handle things with apparent ease.
Another thing I’ve noticed about these folks I share the building with who understand life is all about ‘now’. They choose their words very carefully. They ain’t blurters. You say something, they smile, THEN talk. That smile, that ‘now’, it allows them to constantly remind themselves “whatever happens today, this minute… whether it’s real crud… love.. mebbe even hate.. I will choose happy, calm and won’t trip over my tongue.”
I admire these sonofaguns. Dagnabbit they’re all females too. (What’s that say about us piggos?!).. They have passion. They live the now with intent. They smile, hella. They choose.
Now. Now I kinda like working with these folks. I’ma hopin ‘now’ happens to me thru osmosis. Now I’d like that. How now brown cow. Bye. Going, now. Love, Victurd.
The now. This minute. This hour. This April Fool’s Day. This Wednesday. Today. One chance. We get once chance at it. Included within somea my favorite words are: passion… intent…smile.. and choice.
Good stuff happens. Bad stuff happens. Mundane happens. Cold, hot, distant, close, together, alone, poor, momentary wealth, have to’s, want to’s, living. Thru alla that wonderful crap – we getta choose how the corners of our mouths are shaped.
I write this goofy thing in our monthly company newsletter. The first couple three months were ‘gimmes’ on picking a topic… Now.. I struggle to find something for April.. Then I had’a thought.. There are at least three people I’m lucky enough to share this building with whom no matter what, they choose to have the corners of their mouths UP no matta what!
“The hell’s wrong with you” I’ll periodically ask, “you’re ALWAYS happy”?.. Nuttin’ phases ‘em. They're like cats falling from high up – they always land on their feet. They choose. They choose happy. I admire ‘em. One, fortunately, sits within a distance I can reach her with a rubber band, and I quite frequently do. (Yes, I’m 56. Sorry, can’t help it.)
So that’s their way. NOW. They realize now is NOW. Their thoughts ain’t so much about tomorrow, what I drive, where I’ll be in ten years… it’s about the minute. They extend that minute throughout their life. They live, they do, they choose happy. Sure, mebbe “See the funny little clown.. he’s laughing on the outside.. but he’s crying on the inside” might exist – but they sure has H-E-double-toothpick ain’t gonna demonstrate that.
We get but one chance. These folks “take on ugly” with a smile. I see ‘em periodically take a big ole inhale. Uh huh, recharging their ‘now’ batteries. Sure, I bet it’s sometimes tough – but they handle things with apparent ease.
Another thing I’ve noticed about these folks I share the building with who understand life is all about ‘now’. They choose their words very carefully. They ain’t blurters. You say something, they smile, THEN talk. That smile, that ‘now’, it allows them to constantly remind themselves “whatever happens today, this minute… whether it’s real crud… love.. mebbe even hate.. I will choose happy, calm and won’t trip over my tongue.”
I admire these sonofaguns. Dagnabbit they’re all females too. (What’s that say about us piggos?!).. They have passion. They live the now with intent. They smile, hella. They choose.
Now. Now I kinda like working with these folks. I’ma hopin ‘now’ happens to me thru osmosis. Now I’d like that. How now brown cow. Bye. Going, now. Love, Victurd.
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