Real problem: Exposed

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

Sorry I haven’t talked with you for a while. I was abducted by aliens wanting to do research on human brains.  Guess it took ‘em longer than usual for yours truly.

Who’d have guessed?

Anyway,  as  I’m sure you’ve noticed, the political candidates, as usual, have completely focused on the wrong topics.  They wander along with their heads in the sand completely ignoring the travesty amongst our midst. 

Well it’s time to shine a light, and I’m the bulb.

That’s right, I’m bringing it right out into the open:  clothing label errors.

And I know exactly what you’re thinking:  errors  IS way too kind a word.  Sabotage fits so much better.  And, you’re welcome!  Someone had to have the insight and courage to address this insidious dilemma.

Exhibit A:  I’m in the store trying on blue jeans.  Of course, I wear 32 inch waist, but it turns out that a 36 just seems to feel better.  So as I’m attempting to slip on some “36’s”  there seems to be a problem. 

“Uh, hi!  36 what?”   I ask.  Centimeters?    Liters?   Cubits?  Krugerands?

Well excuse me, Comrade, but this is America! 
And we expect a 36 to fit size 36.

So while the talking heads continue to yammer about unemployment, nukes in Iran, Libya, etc…. – real people can’t fasten their pants!

No wonder people are moving to Canada or Hawaii.  They are as fed up with this country as I am. 

Well, I hope I didn’t ruin your day, Mrs. H, with all this negativity.  But someone has to really care about the middle class.

With deepest affection,

Mike

 

Dear Mike,

You’re a bulb alright.  I’m guessing you haven’t been a 32 waist since your high school marching band uniform. (and not everyone can play a bass drum with that much talent)

Why don’t you shine a little more light on salad, and a little less on deep dish pizza.

Just maybe your "label issue" will resolve.

Hawaii??

Mrs. H

Second Career

Dear Mrs Higgins,

Some guys just don’t know how to retire. I mean this Brett Favre: “retired” from the Packers, then “retired” from the Jets, then, again “retired” from the Vikings.

And now, of all places, he is in Congress representing New York. Oh, he changed his name to “Tony the Wiener” (which surprised no one), but he is definitely back in the game. Now it looks like one more retirement is in the works. (how many gold watches can one guy use?)

His new wife, Huma (probably also a stage name) who is now expecting their first child, works for: ... wait for it… Hillary Clinton.

I can only imagine the conversations between those girls. “Oh yeah, that’s nothing, listen to what my man….”

Anyway, its hard to say where Brett/Tony/Weiner will show up next.

You may want to stay off Twitter, Mrs. H.

Mike


Dear Mike,

Representative Anthony Wiener isn’t Brett Favre. He just pulled a play from old Brett’s playbook.

When you read the paper, Mike: stick to the comics. We’ll all be happier.

Mrs. H

A nation headed in a wrong direction

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

As you can tell by the political ads this election season, our nation is clearly headed in the wrong direction. I’m not talking about partisan politics, or unemployment, or health care or any of that really hard to understand stuff. I’m talking about something important.

The Chicago Bears cheerleaders, aka Honey Bears, are gone.

Yeah, you read that right. They’re gone.

Attending my first Bears game at Soldier Field in quite a while, I was taken by the revamped stadium. The architects may have come from a background of bed pan designers, but the place is shiny and impressive all the same.

Settling in to my seat, I of course, begin looking for my favorite “Monsters of the Midway,” and the Honey Bears - I think in that order.

“They’ve been gone for a while,” my date explains, followed by a fairly pointed: “Why?”

Why? I don’t want to bash your gender, Mrs. H, but frankly some girls just don’t get sports. They don’t understand the concept of a “football purist.”

With a remarkable lack of marketing prowess, the Honey Bears were replaced with guys in t-shirts and PE shorts waving big Bears flags.

Wow.

That’ll get the team motivated. “Hey Julius, did you see Frank waving that flag after the last field goal? I‘m fired up!”

No wonder the Bears offense is so anemic. You think a guy wants to risk injury catching a gravity defying touchdown pass to get Jerry and Carl to really start whipping those flags around?

I don’t think so.

So, one more part of our day to day lives that has been ruined by the Chinese. Where will it end.

Mike


Dear Purist,

Just watch the game. Your date should have spilled a beer on your lap.

The Chinese?

Mrs H

Health Care - Part III Game Day

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

So finally the awaited day arrives and I’m in for surgery.

Having fasted from 7pm the night before, I‘m a little cranky already.
(now I know what Gandi felt like getting the British out of India)

Anyway, I’m in the waiting room promptly at 7am waiting for the 9 o’clock procedure. After a couple hours, the volunteer running the OR waiting room sweetly mentions that I’m not scheduled until noon.

I, in turn, sweetly mention that I own a #$%^ telephone, and it seems to be working properly with the minor exception that I haven‘t received a *&^%$ call from the ^%$# person in charge of my *&^% surgery schedule.
(that seems a bit strong until you consider my emaciated condition)

Of course, it wasn’t her fault. And you can’t fight city hall. Or a surgeons schedule. Apparently, there was some kind of emergency that had to be taken care of ahead of me. Some people are so inconsiderate with their medical emergencies.

Finally, I meet my surgical prep nurse. She happens to be someone I know. I’ll call her Betty. Her real name is Trish, and she lived across the street from me when I was in high school and is a couple years younger.

I’m guessing there are a couple hundred nurses in Champaign/Urbana. I know one of them and she is going to get me ready for game day. Unlike high school football, this does not involve taping ankles. Not even close.

So Betty/Trish and I are having a nice chat about her husband and kids, and her new house, and my kids, you know small talk. I must have been my normal witty self because there was a lot of giggling during our “chat.”

That pleasantry completed, along comes second nurse to describe how the rest of game day, and the days after are going to play out.

This, Mrs. Higgins is so contrived. They get you naked except for the breeze gown, shorn like a losing poodle in a dog show, a needle and tube in your arm, and then give you the news, weather, and sports - including “significant swelling and discomfort.”

I seriously thought about making a break for it, when nurse 2 begins wrapping me in heated blankets. Wow! These are awesome, and I’m thinking: “how bad can it be?”

Feeling a bit like a dinner roll in a basket at a fancy restaurant, I meet my anesthesiologist. And I know this guy too - from the 7 11. Only I’m not positive its him, maybe a brother or cousin. Maybe the guy moonlights.

Finally after being rolled to several waiting locations, I get to the OR and I'm really, really glad my contacts and glasses are not available. This room looks serious, and I don’t want to see the details of what tools are available to the good doctor.

A couple more nurses move me from the warmth of the biscuit basket onto a metal table recently pulled from the fridge. I’m guessing they were out of adult sized tables because, well, lets just say there was more Mike than table.

Next, 7 11 guy shows up, and I'm thinking about a 32 ounce slurpy, when he tells me he is going to give me something to relax.

I'm thinking: finally a break. They have Old Style here - probably keep it next to the operating tables....

My next thought was a nurse handing me a cup of ice chips. Only these are not your normal ice chips. These taste like a 16 ounce prime rib with a loaded baker. They are incredible. Ice never tasted so good. Some guy next to me is complaining about pain, and all I can think is: "Dude! eat your ice!"

Of course I’m finished. And, as expected, this was the easy part. I really don’t know, Mrs H. exactly what happened in the OR, but I have a theory.

Dr. Jones makes a little incision right below my waist line and inserts some kind of mesh to hold the parts of me that should stay in, in.

This is the whole idea. So years from now I won’t have the embarrassing conversation: “excuse me sir, but I believe you are standing on my intestine.” Keep it in your pants takes on a whole new meaning.

Then, I’m pretty sure, they put my heels in stirrups and bring in every person who I ever offended for one free kick. (starting with the OR waiting room volunteer - who probably got 2)

Unfortunately, this is a long list.

Mike


Dear Mike,

Emaciated? Gandi?

Wish I would have known, I have some steel toed shoes somewhere around here.

Mrs. Higgins

Health Care - Part 2

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

Ok, to follow up on my new hobby, which is getting medical treatment, I thought I’d relay my recent experiences.

My first doctor apparently has a friend who is putting an addition on his house, or maybe saving for a European vacation, and is looking for a revenue bump.

Enter me: the bump.

Well actually, I have a bump that needs repaired, and Doc 1 gets on the horn with Doc 2, and the next thing I know, another man, a complete stranger is touching my “Mommy said no no” places.

This guy happens to be African American. And since he is going to be cutting on me while Doc 3 has me knocked out, I’m humming Stevie Wonder music, quoting Maya Angelou, with a few vague references to "hope" and "change" tossed in. You know, kind of a “we are the world” moment.

Then today, in kind of a pregame warmup, I go in for a chest xray and blood sample. The girl in charge of the xray, who appears to be about 17, cheerfully introduces herself as a junior college student.

Uh, sorry, what?

Hopefully not a business major, but who knows? And couldn’t I get a graduate? Or at least somebody going to a 4 year school?

But alas, I’m in the system now with the ever drafty little gown, padding around in my socks going where I’m told and doing what I’m told.

Finally the surgical nurse runs me through the game day scenario. By now, I’m picturing myself lying on a table with a bunch of small engine repair students standing over me.

“Hey, anybody ever knock a guy out?”

This all kind of makes me miss the height and weight chart.

I wonder how many ski trips I could go on for what this will cost.

Mike


Dear Mike,

Keep your chin up little guy. This too will pass.
There's a time to ski, and a time to get fixed up.

Mrs Higgins.

Health Care

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

Well, with all the talk about health care, I thought I’d share my experience with you regarding my recent physical exam.

Ok, it had been a while.

Last time I went in, Doc poured whisky on a splinter, handed me a bullet to bite down on, and Miss Kitty and Festus held me in position.

Lets just say: things have changed.

First, there is the height and weight measurement.

And apparently, there is a chart. This chart was obviously conjured up by a hateful group of people who have never met a deep dish pizza.

I didn’t mind my numbers being documented, but was a little startled when the nurse called the entire floor over to “Hey, check out the stats on pudgy.”

Actually, it turns out my weight was fine.

But somehow my height is short by roughly a foot and an half. (like I can control THAT)

So, next is getting into the “gown” (can we say breezy), and measuring blood pressure.

And Mrs. H, it is so cool how some of the nurses aren’t afraid to share their spiritual beliefs on the job.

I was expecting to hear a couple of boring numbers, but instead it was: “Holy Mother of God.”

Now that’s comforting!

Finally, I meet the doctor who runs me through a series of tests - some more usual than others.

Note: if someone tells you to “turn your head and cough,” prepare for an unusual one.

Then the guy puts a rubber glove on one hand. And, of course, because I’m pretty savvy about modern medicine, I’m thinking his hand is cold.

Then, it’s like HEY! HEY! HEY! - that is no way to warm up a hand. (Next time I’m gonna bring in an extra pair of mittens. You can just have ‘em. Really. They’re yours. Just take ‘em.)

Anyway Mrs. Higgins, it was a day to be remembered. I really did like the doctor, and during chit chat time (which could be likened to a description of a condemned warehouse) I wanted to ask if he was from India or Pakistan.

Remembering that sometimes those two groups of people don’t get along, I didn’t venture a guess.

He did have a whole box of rubber gloves within reach.

Mike

Dear Mike,

Good that you finally got over your pride and cowardice and got checked out. Maybe some people around you would like you to be around for awhile.

Embrace the chart, my “savvy” friend. Hint: you’re unlikely to get taller.

Mrs H.


Helpful historical note:
A long time ago in a galaxy far far away: Gunsmoke was a wildly popular TV western with Sheriff Matt Dillon, his deputy Festus, and Doc (a medical doctor). Miss Kitty ran the hotel/bar and was kind of a girl friend to the sheriff, but this is back when cowboys only kissed their horse.

Recognition way overdue

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

Can’t tell you how excited I was to hear that President Obama won academy awards for best director and best cinematography in a foreign film.

And this on the heals of the Pulitzer prize for best short story - along with Country Music Awards best new single.

Its about time we give credit where credit is due!

Those Olympians don’t know bleep!

When Obama AND Oprah AND Mayor Daley don’t get their way. Well lets just say that some folks need to start falling in line. (&^%# foreigners!) We probably should have sent Blago over
to seal the deal.

All in all, not a bad week for our commander in chief!

And about time!

Mike

Dear Mike,

Do you read the paper or just look at the rubber band.

Yeah, Blago is a real "deal sealer". I am sure he would have enjoyed the furlough.

Try to sit up straighter,

Mrs Higgins.

Lost in Space

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

I hope you are sitting down. I have some very disturbing news:

I just read that Saturn is ending.

That’s right: Saturn.

Oh, I didn’t read all the “fine print mumbo jumbo” that followed. I am a very busy man. But I scooped instantly that we are one short in the planet department.

First Pluto losses “planet status” in some sort of political trickery, or rounding error, and the next thing you know: Saturn ending.

What next? Mercury? Jupiter? Comet? Ajax?

I don’t know about you, but this isn’t exactly the “hope” and “change” I was looking for.

I better go get a beer and calm down.

Mike

Dear Mike,

Seems like “calming down” is a consistent theme for you.

Actually my “very busy” friend, the auto maker “Saturn” is closing.

The planet Saturn, not unlike you, continues to spin in its oblivious orbit.

You may want to waste a few minutes and read a bit more of the “mumbo jumbo.”

Ajax?

Mrs Higgins

Snubbed

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

I read with great anticipation about the upcoming beer party at the White House. Nobody likes a cold one out back more than me, so naturally I assumed I’d be included.

Well, as they say: “ASSUME” makes an ass out of “U” and Joe Biden.

I didn’t even get a call.

I had my little cooler all ready and everything, from about noon - figured the copper could use another “regular guy” to hang out with.

Plus, I wanted to be there when Michelle came out with a stern look, and started counting empties.

But I guess its for the best. I figure after about 8 or 9 brewskis, Professor Gates and Sgt Crowley would start hugging and high fiving and calling each other “the man.”

“No, you da man!”

“No, no, YOU da man!”

Meanwhile the whole time Barack would be leaning back, smiling, knowing HE is the man, then sending Joe to the kitchen for more pretzels.

So how do I get invited to these events?

Mike


Dear Mike,

You’re a regular guy alright.

If you want to get to the White House lawn, I’d say
work on your hedge trimming skills.

Mrs Higgins

A leg to stand on

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

I’m sure you’ve noticed that politics have gotten particularly harsh lately, but I’ think we’ve just turned a corner.

There had been speculation about how tough the Republicans would be vetting President Obama’s Supreme Court nominee Sonia Sotomayer.

Little of this has to do with the women herself, just concern that there would be payback for the brutal attacks on nominees presented from Republican administrations. (think Bork)

Well, they broke her leg.

I know. I can’t believe it either.

How many Italians do we have in Washington DC? I mean, I’d totally expect this in Providence, or the North End of Boston, but DC?

Well of course they made it sound like an accident - at the airport, no less.

And that is a pretty good alibi. I’ve had a couple good falls myself in airports after a long delay. Usually while disembarking from a barstool from about the 800 block of Main Street
Margaritaville.

What do you think Mrs H? Is this the kind of hope and change we were hoping for?

Mike


Dear Mike,

It was an accident. Judge Sotomayer did, in fact, just fall.

The Republicans and the Italians are innocent.

And next time you are in an airport, maybe take a parachute for the long delays.

Mrs Higgins

MAY DAY! MAY DAY!

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

I thought May 1 meant putting little baskets of flowers on people’s front porch. What does that have to do with a plane in distress? Can't find the address? Flowers wilted?

Anyway, speaking of planes, I’m tired of people complaining about Air Force One and a couple fighter jets taking a spin to lower Manhattan.

People need to realize: It’s PICTURE day!

Lets keep our eye on what's important. Think of the photos!

We’ve got a lot more pressing issues to worry about like learning to eat pork chops through a surgical mask.

I don’t even drive past Taco Bell (aka “food from the land of death“) these days.

Hope you are protecting yourself,

Mike


Dear Mike,

I think we're going to be ok.

About 9 million people live in Mexico City, a couple hundred have shown swine flu.

And we are a little selective about who is wasting tax dollars. I have a feeling “picture day” cost a touch more than Detroit execs going to DC for bail out loans.

Maybe they should have taken camera’s.

And Mike, the mask is a great idea. Could slow down all your meals.

Mrs Higgins.

Dating and other natural disasters - part 3

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

I’m going through a bit of a “dry spell” with the ladies. Seems like they all “like me” but want to be “just friends.” None have actually said “pathetic loser,” but its been implied.

Last one just gave me the “friends” call. I could kind of see it coming. She hadn’t returned countless phone calls, emails, or even waved as I followed her at the grocery store, mall, and every other time she left the house.

Just trying to show that I’m interested.

The one before that never made the friends phone call, but made it pretty clear.

When I mentioned something about church, she said “oh, I bet you ring the bell” and then looked really closely at my back.

I asked to kiss her goodnight after a date and she suggested I just send her a fax instead.

Another announced that she was not going to have sex with me. Since we happened to be in the McDonald’s drive up I didn’t really think the topic was on the table.

At the time, I was more concerned with quarter pounder or Big Mac, or possibly: both.

Its gotten so bad, the other night I had to slip myself a rufi to get me undressed for a shower.

Any ideas Mrs. H?

Mike

Dear Mike,

Come to think of it, I never have seen you and old Quasi at the same time.

Hang in there Romeo. You’ll find someone who can see past your flaws.
(think: girls with white canes)

Just be yourself. Or better yet, don‘t.

Mrs Higgins

Exit Strategy

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

One of the downsides of skiing is the rich people. I try not to dislike someone who makes more or less money than me, but rich guys can really be annoying.

Here is how it works: they start out all “regular guy,” but when the conversation begins to slide into what looks like peer status, they make sure to clarify the class difference.

Me: “Great skiing today! Hi, I‘m Mike.”

Rich guy: “Yes it is. My pleasure, I‘m sure. Rodney.”

Me: “Good to meet you, Rodney. A lot less windy than yesterday.”

Rich guy: “Well, heh heh, it was calm as could be in the Swiss Alps yesterday.”

Me: “Wow, you were in Europe?”

Rich guy: “Yes, the Westwind was tied up in Rome, so we were stuck in the Lear last night. Just doesn‘t have the roominess or ride, but we struggled through.”

Me: (in my mind) “Yeah, well my 747 was in for an oil change at Jiffy Lube, so I just came out in the space shuttle.”

Me: (in real life) “Wow.” (always quick on my feet)

Rich guy: “So Mick, what do you do?”

Me: “Uh, its Mike. I’m a programmer. How about yourself Rodney?”

Rich guy: “Software eh? Well I’ve had my share of software companies. Such a bore dealing with nerdy little geeks.”

Me: (in my mind) “I know the secret handshake to THAT club.”

As Rodney continues detailing his life’s accomplishments, I‘m looking for a smooth way to exit the vicinity.

Unfortunately, at this point, we happen to be on a chair lift about 40 feet off the ground.

I’m mentally weighing: bailing out of the chair with a likely compound fracture, versus spending another 3 minutes with Rodney.

Then I remembered Lamaze breathing.

Rich guy: “… and as I was saying Mark, I absolutely stole this little villa in the south of France…”

Me: (concentrating on the tip of my left ski) … hee hee hee hee hee hee hee …

This can’t be much worse than your average contraction.

Anyway, Mrs. Higgins, I’m happy to say I made it to the top without injury.

Saw Rodney later in the day talking to a guy who appeared to be about to impale himself on a ski pole.

Mike


Dear Mike,

Glad you could get past your pain.

You know dear, you could be a little more patient. Did you ever think that maybe Rodney was dealing with insecurities in other parts of his life?

Everyone needs someone to talk to.

And, you’d last about 10 minutes in real labor.

Mrs. Higgins.

Not always what they seem

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

Remember my new coffee friend Jose? Well there is a problem.

Turns out, those weren’t coffee plants. I should have guessed something due to all the giggling I’ve been hearing. But, as you know, I don’t speak Spanish, so how could I tell.

Also, 5 empty boxes of Girl Scout cookies should have caught my attention.
(well ok, I was kind of in on the shortbreads, but 4 of those I had nothing to do with)

Also turns out Jose, isn’t Jose. He’s Ernie. And, instead of being from some place really cool like Brazil or Costa Rica, he’s from Valparaiso Indiana.

So instead of worrying about immigration, now I’ve got the DEA all over the joint. (sorry, bad choice of words) Really hope they don’t confiscate my new coffee maker.

Sounds like Valpo Ernie may be going in for awhile. Just when you think you know a guy.

Mike


Dear Mike,

Sorry about your new friend’s departure.

How many boxes of Girl Scout cookies do you have around there?

Next time, why don’t you make a donation to the Girl Scouts and go buy an apple?

Mrs. Higgins

Issues in Left Field

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

It started with Uncle Stan. Then my big brother Cecil, who is kinder and gentler (and would probably wince at the Bush Sr. reference). Then Donald Miller, the Blue Like Jazz guy. And now: Anne Lamott.

I’m starting to love liberals. I think this is a problem.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d still rather see a person get a job than a handout. I believe unions are a big part of what’s wrong with our economy, corporations can actually be good things, less government is always better, and Reagan was the best president this side of Lincoln.

But liberals aren’t stupid. It would be a lot handier for me if they were.

And now, some are worshiping the same Jesus I do.

Not mother earth, or the sky, or trees, or Al Gore, Jesus.

I even like Obama. So far out of dozens of things he has proposed, I agree with two of them: revamping education and stem cell research.

The rest of his stuff, not even close.

And I even liked him on Leno the other night, although W would have been impeached and probably shot for the “Special Olympics” comment.
(most likely during the next commercial break)

Anyway, Mrs. H, I liked it a lot better when I considered all liberals short sighted, atheistic, idiots.

I don’t think I want to start loving these people.

What do I do?

Mike



Dear Mike,

You may be starting to grow up.

Of course you can love people with opinions different than yours.

Not everyone thinks like you do.
(that in itself is evidence of a kind and loving God)

Just love them.

And once in a great while, when you aren’t proclaiming your truth from on high, you can be quiet and listen.

You don’t have to join the ACLU, but you can listen.

And I agree with you about Ronnie.
(agreeing with you always makes my stomach a little upset - now where‘s my Pepto)

Love and kisses,

Mrs H.

Having it my way

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

Working out on the road a few days ago, I needed to stop and grab some lunch.

As you know, I’m all about the health food, so I’ve decided on tofu and bean sprouts.

Unfortunately this particular interstate exit doesn’t have Tofu King, so I settle for a double whopper with cheese.

Then the guy behind the counter asks me “what size?” Now, I’m a little confused. I thought I had kind of settled this with “double."

You mean like what sized cow do you have to knock down to get this baby on the grill, or what?

Turns out the size is for fries and drink. Oh.

Anyway, I go for medium, which I figure is a safe bet, and the fry portion looks perfect. Then he pulls out about a half gallon of Coke, which I assume is for the family of four in line behind me.

Nope. All mine. I can’t even pick it up with one hand.

I’m wondering what the large is like until I look across the restaurant and see a guy with his face in what appears to be a wash tub. Oh.

As I’m finishing my meal and wondering why I’m having so much trouble losing weight, I notice that BK is now in the fine gem business.

Yup. Some kind of Pink Panther movie promotion that includes necklaces with pink stones.

Ok, I’ve seen the crowns. In fact I was wearing one during lunch - kinda makes me feel regal. (and don’t think folks don’t notice, they do)

But I was wondering how many people purchase jewelry here.

Honey, I’m home! I brought supper! And a little something for our 25th wedding anniversary! Hey, who needs ketchup?

Anyway Mrs H, I know your birthday is coming up. I think you’re going to be very pleased this year. (and could include onion rings!)

Mike



Dear Mike,

Lets recap: you were a little confused.

Do you have any new information?

Hate to take away from you feeling regal, but I think the crowns are for kids.

And lets just skip exchanging birthday presents this year.

Mrs Higgins

Cousin Art - the Sequel

Dear Mrs Higgins,

As you know, I’m all about the mastery of things electronic, and my new coffee maker is no exception. Finished the 4th instructional dvd last night about midnight titled: “Regular cleaning of the coffee chute.”

I wouldn’t hesitate to call it the feel good movie of the year, and very informative.

Thus armed, I tossed in some coffee beans, water, a couple burritos for Jose, and scheduled my first brew for 6am.

First thing this morning and I’m enjoying the aroma of fresh brewing coffee.

Sweet!

That preceded slightly by the automatic bean grinder which sounded a bit like two guys cutting through my coffee table with chain saws.

Alarm clock? No necessito!

Anyway, Mrs. H, stop by for a cup of java. I’m up to speed!

Mike



Dear Mike,

You’re up to speed alright.

I will come by for a cup. I’ve heard that your new machine can make the best coffee this side of Starbucks - which is a place apparently just a little past your “mastery.”

Nice you and Jose are chatting.

Mrs. Higgins

Cousin Art

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

Another year slid by and my kids helped celebrate the big day by getting me a new coffee maker. They know how much the old man loves coffee, and bless their hearts, they wanted to get me the best.

Ok, the thing is about the size of a phone booth. There is a place for water, a place for beans, there are a couple coffee plants growing in the back, and I’m pretty sure a guy named Jose, who I’m guessing tends the plants, is living in there as well.

So this morning I uncrated the thing and started checking out all the components. The instrument panel is nothing out of the ordinary, if you fly DC-10’s a lot.

But hey, I’m a learning curve kind of guy. So I dug right in. I’ll say one thing for this Art guy. He is friendly. Welcomed me to his family, which only sketched me out a little. I have enough cousins already, and they know how to spell. But I pressed on, read the first 8 chapters of the manual then watched a couple hours of the first instructional DVD.

But by now I’m getting the shakes from missing today’s caffeine, so I just drove to Starbucks. I like Starbucks, but never considered it a religious experience. But I’m pretty sure the lady in front of me started speaking in tongues. “Mocha latte expresso shota mucha java capachino” and on, and on.

Strange thing was, the guy behind the counter just smiled and handed her a drink. Guess that happens a lot in there.

So I order a cup of coffee and the guy just stares at me blankly, like there’s more for me to say.
Finally he blurts out: “venti?”

And I’m like “Hey dreadlocks, back off, this is still America!”

Anyway Mrs. H, I did finally get my cup of Joe and got the day started, although it was 4pm. I dig these time saving devices.

Just hope Jose has a green card. You never know when Obama may want me on his cabinet, and I don’t want to have any issues.

Mike



Dear Mike,

That would be the shortest vetting in the history of government.

By the way, that's Cuisinart, not cousin art. Its a brand name, not a family.

Why don’t you tend the plants and let Jose write me.

Mrs Higgins

Classic

Dear Mrs Higgins,

As you know, I’m all about improving my mind. So there I was spending quality time in the library checking out movies and music cd’s. Thought I’d catch up on some good old classic rock.

I checked out a handful of discs and when I got home I realized that one of them was by a guy called Tchaikovsky. I’m sure your thinking the same thing I did - this guy ain’t from around here.

Here I’m looking for some good Americans like the Beatles and Led Zeppelin and I end up with a Russian.

Turns out commies aren’t too creative when it comes to naming albums. This particular disc was called “Symphony 2 in C minor.”

Wow.

Spend a lot of time coming up with that one comrade? And do we really need to know what key its in?

Glad John Grisham doesn’t use your naming technique or “The Firm” might have been called “Novel 4 With Courier 12 point.”

Then Karl Marx lists his individual songs in, get this, Italian. I guess he was too ashamed of his crappy country so he starts taking like Papa Luigi in The Godfather.

“Adante sustenuto - Allegro vivo” Yeah, big whip. We all like pasta.

Anyway the music wasn’t too bad, if you really enjoy riding in an elevator.

Not sure how this obscure nobody made it to the library in the first place.

I’ll be returning Mr. Ruskie real soon.

Mike


Dear Mike,

Where to start.

Lets just say that the “obscure nobody” does have a bit of a following. Folks with every so slightly more sophisticated taste.

Why don’t you leave him on the shelf for those people.

I have an idea, next time you are in the library, why don’t you check out a book.

Start with one with pictures if you like.

And unless Obama bought Great Britain last week, Beatles and Led Zeppelin aren’t too American either.

Nice to hear from you,

Mrs Higgins.

Kids These Days

Dear Mrs Higgins,

Recently I heard a high schooler say he couldn’t wait to get home and play with his wee.

I told the young man in a quiet voice, that I understood, but maybe that isn’t the best thing to talk about in public.

Shortly after that, another young man complained that he was exhausted from playing with his wee all night.

Kinda winced a bit on that one, but who knows, maybe he doesn’t have cable.

Later I heard a group of kids planning an entire party on Bill’s wee.

Hmm.

Well, as you know Mrs H, I’m a live and let live kind of guy.

And I’ve had my wild times. As you recall, sophomore year I was vice president of the chess club. So I know all about things getting a little crazy.

Not sure we have to have all this talk about it though.

Oh well, another generation. And I think someone needs to explain to Michael Phelps what “going green” really means.

What do you think Mrs H?

Mike



Dear Mike,

Its Wii, not wee. It is a video game. Do you ever leave your
office?

Maybe you should worry less about the new generation and
more about yours.

Too bad about young Phelps. The picture with the bong will likely not appear on Corn Flakes, although there may be a late night market there.

And yes, I’m sure you were quite the wild man - chess boy.

Mrs Higgins