Binge Residue

 Having watched approximately 260 episodes of Leave it to Beaver, during the Covid shutdown, I’m discovering mental side effects.  First off, let me just say that I find it hard to believe that anyone with such a diminished capacity as Beaver, could actually function within society without entering politics.

Episode after episode, season after season the Beaver fell for the same moronic gibberish, doled out by Larry, Gilbert, Richard, Whitey, Lumpy, and Eddie Haskell.

And I can’t really cut June and Ward any slack either.  Get a clue people.   Your kid was born without a brain.  You should have called the Guinness Book.

Okay, getting back to my side effects.   The Beaver has ruined television for me.  I’ve gotten so I can't believe anything I see.

On one channel I see Raymond Burr in a wheelchair, while two channels over he’s walking around a courtroom.  And Lassie, with no normal speech or opposable thumbs, convinces June Lockhart that Timmy has fallen into a well.

Am I the schmuck?  Is it me?

Weeds in the Garden

 Let the record show that I am the first one to suggest that space is not the final frontier.

 

Be advised, the simple fact that this is not addressed to anyone in particular, in no way suggests it was meant for you.

 

It isn’t that four-leaf clovers are rare, its that the others are very plentiful.

 

Knowing what questions to ask is far better than sitting next to someone that has all the answers.

We need Walter Cronkite back.

 

You have to wonder

 I often marvel at the type of brain that can figure out how to design a machine that can fold a stack of Kleenex in such a way that the very moment you pull one from the box, another pops up to take its place.  That kind of timing is incredible.  There are skilled, synchronized swimmers that don’t have that kind of timing.

It makes me wonder if there isn’t some mystical force at work in the universe that messes with us like that? 

Not on my watch

 While wandering through technology I discovered several things about humans.  First off, the reason my coffee pot only spit out half a cup this morning isn’t due to some errant computer chip or poorly made circuit board, it is that hidden deep behind the wires and small dots of solder sits some pixelated suit who decided this coffee pot should only last two years.  Today’s failure is the residue of greed.

The closed-door meeting between the advertisers and the makers of the new 56 inch flat screen have found a way around the mute button.  So now we have a scrolling banner along the bottom of the screen, attempting to sell us mountain climbing trucks that no one needs, and should you purchase one of these new/improved vehicles that offer a freedom far beyond your cubicle, know that your every move will be tracked, logged and registered.  You’ll no longer be playing hooky my friend.  

My next house

 Black Box Construction Company

Hurricanes, tornados, earthquakes, no problem.  Flood, wildfires, alien invasion, not an issue.  I would like my house built out of the same material as the black boxes on airplanes.  Drop them from 30,000 feet, set them in the middle of a violent explosion, who cares?  They survive.  Plunge them into the depths of the ocean – no issues.

 

Just don’t forget to punch some air holes, so I can breathe.

Deviled Eggs

 There’s a foul stench with chickens

a smell that’s all their own,

Perhaps from being all cooped up -

except the ones who’ve flown.

A foulness that permeates

and gets within the shell –

Boil some and peel them,

what is that awful smell?

The Devil knows that evil pew

your house will surely reek,

Open up the windows

if it’s breathing that you seek.

Prop the doors wide open

jam them so they’ll stay,

Then get into your car and drive

so very far away.

A Suggested Change

 The word scrape gives me the willies.

I can envision a bloody and painful knee

that has suffered an encounter with the road,

or deeply scratched paint on a freshly financed car.

When children get into a scrape, teachers get involved,

threats are made, parents are called, stress levels rise.

I’m thinking we could do away with the word scrape

and simply go about our lives without issue.

Some sort of literary word-chisel would be needed

to remove the word from our language, or perhaps

a very sharp putty knife, the kind used for dictionaries.

We could just scrape it off.

An Ugly Turn

 Should something streak across the night sky

odds are it will be in a straight line.

A straight line from our vantage point, that is.

When cleaning your windows

streaks can be long or short, straight or curved.

A lucky streak, on the other hand

can be very short and the odds are

it will take an ugly turn at the worst moment.