To Subtle or Not To Subtle

    Or, possibly, too subtle?

    Sandee, of the delightful Comedy Plus blog, sponsors a weekly "Wordless Wednesday" post.

    NOTE:  I would think "weekly" would be a needless redundancy.  But, then again, there may be some of you out there who are graduates of a Minnesota Learing Center and, thus, may not get it.

"You just aren't going to give it a rest, are you?"

    Since I always like having an excuse to post, I have posted a, for the most part, wordless picture every...Wednesday (please keep up).

    There have been occasions where, by not offering any sort of explanation, the joke may not be readily apparent.  More than once, people have commented that it took them a couple seconds to figure out what I was driving at.  Then?  The "haha" (hopefully) moment finally strikes them.

    As an example, Bohemian of the equally delightful Bohemian Valhalla wrote that it took her a little while to get my "Junk Removal" picture.

It still makes me giggle in a middle school kinda way.

    To be honest, subtle comedy is one of my favorite forms of comedy.  Rather than slapping you in the face with a banana cream pie (mind you, I'm not against doing that, either), I like to slip you something which catches you unawares.

"That sounds dirty, boyo.  Knuckles, if you please."

    Mostly because I hate to waste a perfectly good pie.

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmm...........pie..............."

    Believe it or not, I do my best to avoid posting a picture which would be impossible to understand without a caption, no matter how long you look at it.

"Take a picture.  It lasts longer."

     What may be easier to believe is that I have quite a collection of pictures from which to choose.

     Sometimes, I'll post a position of a sign.  While they probably would be pretty easy to understand, in my opinion, they don't technically satisfy the defintion of "wordless."

Some things don't need explanation.

    So, Sandee, I'll continue to do my best to submit pictures which will remain largely wordless.  While I can take a hint from other posts and provide images of scenic vistas or beautiful people, I doubt I will do so.

After all, that's not how I roll.

Wordless Wednesday XIII

 

Weekend in Norfolk

 

Barry Manilow-Brought To You by CVS!

    I had a topic in mind for today's post.  I'll probably use it for next week, though.  I thought it was more important to talk about a concert my wife and I went to last Saturday.

    As much as I like to poke fun of him, I decided that we should take in a Barry Manilow concert at the Chartway Arena in Norfolk, Virginia, last weekend.  Before he died.  I had originally bought tickets for his show that was scheduled in...March? (it's been so long I can't remember).  However, it was rescheduled due to a medical ailment Barry had.  Luckily, I had penned the rescheduled date on our calendar.  Otherwise, I could have very easily forgotten the revised date.

    My memory isn't what it used to be, you know.  I'm not getting any younger.  And that's the point of this post in the first place.

    As we left to go to the concert, my wife asked if I wanted to have dinner first.  I told her no.  We'd have plenty of time because I was sure the concert would be over before dark.

    Well, color me surprised.  Even though, like I said, I often poke fun of him, Barry Manilow put on a very entertaining show.  This was pretty amazing, considering that he's fifteen years older than I.

And his cheeks have a "PSI Warning' label

    Good grief, I need a nap after brushing my teeth and I throw my back out when I fart.  So, even though I'm convinced he lip-synced his way through (my wife is not equally convinced), he showed the energy of a man younger than I.

    NOTE:  Even so, as the concert started, my wife remarked that he walked like an "old Jewish man."  I looked at her and said, "That's because he is an old Jewish man."

    Just an observation:  I have never seen that many walkers, canes, and wheelchairs.

    I could have done without him pumping his hips in a creepy geriatric pantomime, though.  Yes, yes, I know.  Geezers do get it on occasionally.  And then take the rest of the summer off.  But, nobody needed to see that.

"Shall I pump my hips?"

    When he sang my personal favorite, Weekend in New England, I was transported back to 1976.  When, as a young Sailor, I missed my home.  In New England.  Ironically, I was in Norfolk.  Made me a little misty-eyed.

    And then he to had to go ahead and ruin it by pumping his hips again in some sort of sexual Tourettes.

    As the show ended with Copacabana (the hottest spot north of Havana, don'tcha know), Barry walked off the stage while the lights dimmed.  Happy that we had seen what, I think, is his farewell tour, I was also sad.  It looked as if my youth was also walking off the stage.

    On the bright side, the first 1,000 ticketholders were given a hemorrhoid pillow and Ben-Gay gift pak.

    So, we had that going for us.

"Which is nice."

    Next stop on our "Senior Citizen Tour '26":  Tom Jones in October.

"I'll make you a deal, right? 
Ladies, if you don't throw your panties on stage, I won't pump my hips."

Wordless Wednesday XII

    I'm sorry, but this isn't completely wordless.  It just tickled me so.

This gender reassignment stuff has gotten out of control

  

Call Me Al

     Thanks to the 2026 A-Z Challenge, several new people have decided to stick around and see for themselves if the silliness I displayed in April has continued...

    It has.

    That being the case, some of them may not know the origin of the "Al Penwasser" moniker.  The fact they also may not care won't stop me from going into the history of the whole Al Penwasser/Ken Lynch business.

    I actually explained Al's origins several years ago, so this could be considered a repost.  But, what the heck?  A repost is easier than having to actually write anything new, amirite?

    Several years ago, I was a “freelance stringer for Navy Times, a subsidiary publication of the Army Times Publishing Company” (if that sounds like a line from a resumé, it is).  

    My position was to write editorials, called "Back Talk," on the newspaper's last page.  Perhaps not unsurprisingly, they weren't serious commentaries on the military-industrial complex.  Rather, it was a silly bit of business that lasted for ten years which is amazing.

Even more amazing?  They paid me!

    What name did I use for my byline?  That's right...Al Penwasser.  It wasn't that I wanted to remain anonymous.  I didn't care if anyone actually knew it was me; it's just that I thought people with whom I served, and hadn't seen in years, would get a hoot out of seeing it.

    But, how did I come up with "Al Penwasser" in the first place, you might ask?  Okay, this is the part where "repost" comes in.  If you've read this before, feel free to skip and go look at an "Only Fans" page (I won't judge).  If you haven't read this before, feel free to stay.  Or go look at an "Only Fans" page.

The story you're about to read can be found in this book. 
Which also includes a tale of a cheesesteak mixed with a flight boot.

   

    Life was considerably different in the late 80’s than today.  We didn’t fret about Mayan prophecies, fume over gas prices, or wonder why Kim Kardashian was famous.  We had Bill Cosby instead of Chris Rock, Qaddafi instead of Osama, and Madonna instead of Lady Gaga.  And Dick Clark instead of...uh...Dick Clark. 

 (NOTE:  okay, so I wrote this several years ago.  We don’t have Osama anymore.  Would you prefer I said Ayatollah Khamenei Khamenei's son?  Plus, Cosby? Awkward.  And Dick Clark is dead).

"All of a sudden, there was an earth-shattering kaboom."
"DEATH TO AMERICA!"
"See?  Talk like that lead to the earth-shattering kaboom."

    

    The “Evil Empire” was still in business and few people did a better job of caging the bear than the U.S. military.  Our influence was felt throughout the world and it could be argued that, like the British Union Jack before it, the sun never set on the Stars and Stripes.

    Each of the services had their hand in winning the Cold War:  the Army held the line in places like Germany and Korea, the Marines scared people with their haircuts, the Navy ruled the waves, and the Air Force kept golf courses in business.  Together, they promoted truth, justice, the American way, and McDonalds. 

And Space Force didn't exist.

    The Lajes Naval Air Facility in the Portuguese Azores was just such a place.

    Perched nine hundred miles off the European coast, Lajes was a major stopping off point for forces crossing the Atlantic Ocean.  The roar of aircraft pausing to refuel there was as common as flag burnings in Tehran.

Relatively peaceful, we called it the "Betty Ford Clinic of the Mediterranean." 
Yes, yes, it's in the Atlantic Ocean, not the Med.  Sue me.

    In addition, Lajes was an ideal spot for launching aircraft to locate and track Soviet submarines going back and forth from the Mediterranean Sea.  Crucial to this effort were groups of fixed-wing P-3C Orion sub-hunting aircraft.

Nary a flushing toilet to be had

    It was also where Al Penwasser was born.

    Petty Officer Penwasser was an enlisted aircrewman attached to Patrol Squadron Eleven during its deployment to Lajes in the final days of the Cold War.   

    Not many people actually saw him, but I knew he existed from the day I reported to VP-11 in 1987.  Many folks warned me to be on the lookout for this cocky individual who always seemed to be on “assignment.”

    Even though I never laid eyes on him, I did see his service record, training folder, and the volumes of mail he received on a regular basis.

    I never questioned why his picture board photograph always came up missing or why “Classified-Secret” was pasted across his face when it wasn’t.

    It certainly drove the Commanding Officer nuts that Penwasser never checked in with him.

    He did have a checkered career, unfortunately.  Promoted to a senior rank, he was subsequently demoted for parachuting into Grenada armed with only a blow-up doll and a spork.  A week before the actual invasion.

Yeah, no kidding. 
The United States actually invaded the island of Grenada in 1983.
Oil not involved.

    After the Cold War, he realized his lifelong dream of becoming a member of the Special Forces.  Exactly WHOSE Special Forces we didn’t know; all we knew is he volunteered for only the most dangerous of missions.  Ya know, like hunting with Dick Cheney or designated driver for Charlie Sheen.

Trust me, when I wrote this, the Dick Cheney joke was funny. 
I hope.

    He stayed in touch, though.  We routinely got postcards from places as exotic as the Orient, the Gulf, Daytona Beach at Spring Break, or New Jersey.  A sentimental rake, he always signed them, “Love, Al.”

    Our last contact with him happened when an 18-wheeler pulled up in front of our squadron hangar.  Evidently, Mr. Penwasser had placed an order for a manure spreader (which we thought was pretty appropriate).  Luckily, we convinced the flustered driver that Farmer Al had transferred, to where we weren’t sure. 

    After that, he dropped out of sight.  We sometimes saw his name in guest registers at places like the Pantheon, the Dubai Seamen’s Center, assorted Mayan ruins, or bowling alley bathroom walls, but that was about it.

    Like Vanilla Ice’s career, Chastity Bono’s breasts, and Miley Cyrus’ innocence, Al Penwasser just disappeared.

There once was a time when Chastity Bono becoming Chas was considered shocking. 
Oh, that childishly innocent 20th Century!

    I never found out where he went or what he did, but his spirit lives on in this blog and elsewhere.  No matter whether the subject is Old Man Toe, Columbus Day, or Heel Piss Cream, I’m proud that Al has once more found a home for his wry take on life.  

    Oh, and as for that name.  Comes from Portuguese bottled water: 

    Alpen Wasser.

Creative Artist Note:  "Heel Piss Cream."  Maybe a future repost?  

 

   

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

       

 

Wordless Wednesday XI

Cuppa Joe

 

"I'm honored.  No joke."

    Wrong Joe.

    Like last week’s post, I thought I’d once again visit my personal wayback machine.  However, unlike last week’s Ode To Cabbage, I decided to pen a little original material before I launch into the aforementioned visit to the past.

    Since I was a senior in high school, I’ve drunk coffee.  What started out as a means to imitate “grownups” (trust me, alcohol came later), grew into, quite frankly, a sort of addiction once I enlisted in the Navy.

    We’ll get back to the Navy, trust me.

    What are the origins of this dark brew, you might ask?  Okay, maybe you’re not asking, but you’re here so you may as well listen to what I have to say write.

    Wild coffee plants were first discovered in Ethiopia, but since the Ethiopians had more important things to worry than coffee

Like lions

 the plants were actually first  developed as a drink in Yemen until the 15^th century.

    Yemen probably had lions, too, but this isn’t a history of the animal kingdom, so shut up.    

"Lions once were in Yemen, but they became extinct due to overhunting and desire to eat Ethiopians.  Now if one of you could tell me where the Mens Room is, I'd appreciate it. 
I think I pooped myself."  

"The struggle is real."

    Anyway, since Diet Coke hadn’t been invented yet, Sufi Muslims used the drink to keep awake during nighttime prayers.

    Imagine how boring those prayers must have been.

    By the 16^th century, the popularity of coffee had spread throughout the Middle East and into Europe, fueling the rise of coffeehouses.

When the pubs were closed, I suppose.

    From there it was only natural for it to make its way to the New World, where the indigenous population greeted it with, “What?  No Fresca?  I guess we’ll drink it, as long as you keep those smallpox blankets to yourselves.”

    Since then, coffee has been one of the world’s most popular beverages.

Beating the snot out of Moxie.

    So, from where did the name “coffee” come?  Well, I’m glad you asked.  Okay, I know you didn’t.  Just play along.  “Coffee” derives from the Ottoman Turk “kahve,” which means “Nasty Drink Which Gives You Bad Breath But Helps You Stay Awake In Church.”

    The nation of Brazil is the world’s leading producer of coffee.  Other nations which export coffee include Colombia, Indonesia, Ivory Coast, 

Got kind of a soapy aftertaste, though.

Ethiopia (probably not surprising), and Vietnam, which supplanted Colombia for the second largest producer of coffee in 1999.

Don't worry.  Colombia will be fine.

    And now you know.

    Okay, personal story:

    Since my earliest days in the Navy, I only drink my coffee black, even though I used to take it with sugar and milk.  But, why black?

    Well, as the most junior member of my aviation electronics workcenter on USS America, it was my job to get our weekly ration of coffee, sugar, and creamer.

"That's bullshit, man!  Get the new guy to do i...oh.  Wait."

  One day, after I brought our ration to the shop, I noticed there were ants crawling in the sugar and the powder creamer came out in green chucks when I opened the packets.

    From that day nearly fifty years ago, the thought of anything but black coffee makes me sick.

    And now you know that, too.

 Bonus Fun Fact:  While there are a few origins to the phrase “Cuppa Joe,” the most reliable is that cuppa “joe” refers to a combination of “Java” and “Mocha” into “Jamoke.”  Shortened to “jo” or “joe.”

Second Bonus Fun Fact:  Why “Java” and “Mocha”?  Java is in Indonesia and Mocha is a port in Yemen.

    And now you...

You get the picture

   

Wordless Wednesday X

 

Be Careful What You Ask For

 

It's what's for lunch

    For today’s post, I thought I’d tell a story from my personal wayback machine.  You know, because I couldn’t think of anything else to write thought you all would enjoy a yarn of a simpler time.  When my hair was brown and everything worked.

    Back in the early 80s, I was a fresh-faced young Navy petty officer who accepted orders as an instructor at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia Beach.  I was tasked with training young skulls full of mush in the inner workings of the A-6E Intruder’s electronics suite.

A-6E
Like me, long since gone.

    But, hell, that isn’t germane to the point of this story.

Or to any of the Jackson brothers.
Yes, I know it's "Jermaine."

    Anyway, my co-instructor was a senior petty officer who asked me to have lunch with him at his house one day.  Since I had neglected to pack my own lunch and it was between paydays (meaning I couldn’t buy anything to eat on base), I said sure.

    When we got there, he directed me to a pretty comfy recliner and switched on his television to something like The Price is Right.

    Once again, could have been The Joker's Wild.  Still not important.

    As he went into the kitchen, he asked if I liked cabbage.  I answered, “Sure,” figuring he meant something like coleslaw.  Or maybe he was going to make Reuben sandwiches.

    Well, uh, no.

    He returned seconds later.  With a head of cabbage.  Which he cut in half, one half for him, one half for me.

    So, for lunch, I had a dry half of a head of cabbage.

    The next day, he invited me back.  I figured no way would there be a repeat.

    Way.

    Without even asking, he brought back another half of a head of cabbage.  I didn’t want to hurt his feelings so I accepted it.  Yum.

Even Bob Barker couldn't make it taste any better.

    Needless to say, I remembered to pack a lunch from that day forward.

    Moral of the Story:  Choose your words carefully.  Otherwise, you may get stuck with cabbage.   

Wordless Wednesday IX

 

The natural result of Speed Dating

What A Time To Be Alive

 

    I had out of town company this week, so I didn't have time to really post anything of worth.

"Of worth?"

    So, you'll just have to settle for this.

    Our ancestors would be so jealous.

Wordless Wednesday VIII

 

A Long Time Ago

 

In a galaxy...right here

    In addition to the crap you usually see here, I have on occasion submitted stories to Chicken Soup For the Soul.  Sometimes I get lucky and they lose their minds.  Four stories so far have made their books. So, when "Chicken Soup" sent out a call for stories to be included in their 50th (yeah, no shit) anniversary edition, I wrote the below and submitted it.

    Since I doubt it will "make the cut," I thought I'd post it here on Blogger, as well.  Hey, who knows?  Someone may be entertained.

********        

    I remember when “Star Wars” was released on May 25, 1977.  Having newly reported to the aircraft carrier, USS America, I didn’t have time to experience the hoopla which went with what would become a monster science fiction/fantasy franchise.  A franchise that would continue for decades and witness my transformation

from wet-behind-the-ears teenager

 

To gray-haired codger given to 
falling asleep in front of the TV before nine.

    By the time I finally found my way around the huge ship, to include the exits, we got underway for a training cruise to South America.  Then, shortly after returning to homeport, we embarked on a six-month deployment to the Mediterranean Sea.

    Needless to say, I didn’t get a chance to take in any movies, “Star Wars” or any of the classics of 1977.

Such as...

      However, unlike today, Navy ship deployments featured a port visit every week.  These were touted as a chance to show the flag and nurture cordial relationships with our Allies.  Personally, though, I think they were largely designed as a fuel-conservation measure (America was an oil-fired ship).  But, hey, I joined the Navy to see the world. 

And the world saw me.

    During one such visit to Palma de Mallorca, Spain in December, a friend and I were contemplating how to spend our time “on the beach” (an expression-no way we were going to an actual beach in December).  Believe it or not, we had grown tired of the cliché “Sailor entertainments” along the waterfront.  We reviewed the available cathedrals, monuments, museums....and a local theater which was playing “Star Wars.”

    I still remember the conversation as if it were yesterday:

    “Hey, one of the guys from Beach Guard told me they’re playing that new movie, “Star Wars” out in town.”

    “No kidding?  I got a letter from my girlfriend a couple days ago.  She wrote that movie is selling out theaters, left and right.  But, won’t it be in Spanish here?”

    I pooh-poohed him.  “Maybe.  But, I bet it’ll be in English with Spanish subtitles.”

    “I don’t know....”

    “PFFT!  The worst that can happen is that it’ll be dubbed in Spanish and have English subtitles.”

    “You think?”

    “Absolutely.”

    “Okay, then.  Let’s go.”

    In little under an hour, we were in a Palma cineplex, all jazzed to finally see “Star Wars.”

    Which was in Spanish with no subtitles.

    The only one I understood was that gorilla-looking creature.  Plus, I was fairly certain that the dude wearing a black helmet was a bad guy.

    Five months later, I went to see “Star Wars” with my girlfriend.  Where I learned I was right.

    Darth Vader was a bad guy. 

"I find your assumption most troubling."