Smile Say Cheese

For the two of you who read this blog, you may have noticed that my last post is nowhere to be found.  That is because I deleted it.  Apparently, it was flagged by Blogger for "Adult Content," requiring a warning before you entered.  This may have led people to believe there were juicy pictures inside

but no, that wasn't the case at all.  I think it was just one word which was intended to be used as a joke.  Since Blogger didn't tell me why, I just decided to get rid of it.

    Hopefully, this post will be more acceptable to the Word Gestapo.  Alex and Liz?  Congratulations, you were able to read the adult version of Penwasser Place.  I hope you could see that the "Adults Only" was unwarranted.

    Far be it for this blog to be even remotely associated with serious grownup stuff.

    Anyways... 

   I love my cell phone camera.  Well, I don’t exactly love it.  My fetishes usually extend to viny....oh, no, Blogger isn't going to get me again.

     I think you know what I mean.

     Although, there’s a lot to be said for setting my phone on vibrate, sticking it in my trousers, and asking beautiful strangers to call me.

     Not male strangers, though.

    Because I like conversation.

    Golly, I'm nervous about what to even write now.

    Along with the internet, Wendy's triple cheeseburger, and three-ply toilet paper, cameras on cell phones will go down as one of history’s best ideas.  Light bulb, shmight (not a real word) bulb, just give me a chance to snap a picture of “Crack Filler” at the Home Depot and I’m the funniest guy in your address book.

Told ya

    Whenever I go out, I look for something which catches my eye.  Something whose sense of style grips me.  Something which prompts me to say, “Hey, that’s pretty funny.”

Like this.

    If you've been a follower of mine for a while-let me offer my condolences-you've noticed some of the pictures I've taken.

This

And this

And my personal favorite. 
Incidentally, how'd you like to be the mom
explaining this to her toddler?

    I’m still looking for a box of condoms which are sized “small.”  Like Bigfoot and Donald Trump working at McDonalds, though, I don’t think they exist.

Oh.  My bad.
Yes, I know this was a stunt.  Just go with the joke.

    Of course, the cell phone camera is an absolutely perfect vehicle for abuse.

Clearly.  Eww.

    But, I prefer to use it with discretion and at a level of maturity not usually seen in Washington.

    Which is why I didn’t snap a picture of those twelve inch dild... in the Poconos (don't know if that full word will pass Blogger word searches).  

    I took a picture of tampons instead.

"Good man."

    Anyway, since they say a picture is worth a thousand words...  

Speaking of Congress...

       Okay, that’s it for now.  Time to set my phone on vibrate.

       How ‘bout giving me a ring?

What Can Brown (Magnet) Do For You?

     There’s an ungodly number of topics going on in the world upon which I can opine.  Like an old man bitching about kids trampling his lawn, I can open my piehole here.  But, why bother?  I really don’t think anyone is going to look at Penwasser Place and think to themselves, “Hey, you know?  That Penwasser clown is really on to something.”

    So, I won’t.

"He won't?  Good.  Tell Tom never mind."

     Therefore, I bring you the below.

NOTE:  To be fair, this is a repost…of a repost.  But, I have updated it a little.  So, if you read the original post (PFFFT, go figure), this may seem new to you.  If not, hey, it’s not like I get paid for this stuff.

Prologue (see? This is new):  I was inspired to repost this after the “As Time Goes By” post from a couple weeks ago (that was completely new-see?  I can write new crap things).

   Have you ever stopped to consider the multitude of car ribbon magnets which adorn the back of mini-vans?  You know, the ones just below the "My Kid Beats Up Your Kid the Honors Student" ones? 

     The colors, and the causes they represent, are as varied as a bag of M&Ms (and much less fattening).

"Or without artificial colors and flavors."

  For example, there's a Crayola Box used to raise consciousness for a variety of causes....

The military

HIV awareness

Breast Cancer

Prostate Cancer

Autism Awareness

and countless others. All the colors of the rainbow are taken, even Brown for "Coprophilia Awareness."

 NOTE:  If you don't know how unbelievably clever…and gross… that line is, Google "coprophilia."  Then, prepare to be disgusted laugh your ass off. 

   Mind you, none of this is meant to denigrate any of the worthy causes those ribbons champion (well, except maybe that brown one. Which doesn't exist.  I hope.). 

             No, I'd just like to explain where the practice of affixing ribbons to trees, the outside of your house, your trunk, the elderly, etc., came from.  While you may think I'm making this up (and who could really blame you?), I swear this is true.

"What the f...I bet it was those meddling kids!"

    Mostly.

    It was 1979 and, while everyone was dancing to that disco beat or trying to find an open gas station (call back to the earlier post), the Ayatollah Khomeini whipped followers, who hadn't had their cups of coffee yet, into a frenzy when the United States offered to let the deposed Shah of Iran seek medical care in the Land of the Free, bad fashion,  and Home of Drive-Thru Liquor Stores. 

    Little suspecting they'd star in a Ben Affleck movie in 2012, the "college students" stormed the American Embassy in Tehran (or “Teheran.”  I’ve seen both spellings.  I can’t keep up.  For example, it’s no longer “Kiev.”) and took everyone hostage.

Told ya.
You're welcome.

     President Jimmy Carter was outraged.  Trying everything from talking tough to "Pretty, please?" he desperately tried to win release of the hostages.  Including an aborted desert rescue which looked as if it was planned more by the Three Stooges than the Pentagon.

Oh.  Wait.  Wrong helicopter disaster.  My bad.

    All during the "Hostage Crisis," we felt powerless.  We desperately yearned for a way to pitch in and to show that we really meant business.  Well, without actually putting ourselves in danger by enlisting in the military, don'tcha know.

Personal Note:  My ship was in drydock, so we couldn't do anything about it. 
Hands tied, don'tcha know.

    So, taking inspiration from a Tony Orlando and Dawn song about tying yellow ribbons around trees until a convict came home, 

The group has since split up.

we all went into yellow ribbon fever.

Not this, though

     These things popped up everywhere and even hung around long after the hostages were eventually freed when Mr. Peanut was booted to the curb and returned to Georgia to build houses for the poor.

"I feel attacked."

    Seeing the success of the yellow ribbons to trumpet a cause, we then took it upon ourselves, aided by Madison Avenue, to exploit all the other colors.  To the extent now that, more than 40 years later, multi-colored ribbons, like MAGA hats, are all over the place.

     Except that brown one.

     Which is a relief. 

 (Serious) NOTE:  Come to find out, there actually is a valid use for a brown ribbon.  According to Wikipedia (frankly, I'm too lazy to consult a reputable source):  "Brown ribbons also represent anti-tobacco and colorectal (hopefully not at the same time) cancer awareness.

  Although, Brown is the alternate butt cancer color, while dark blue is the official colorectal ribbon color."

To be honest, having brown as the alternate is a good idea.  Brown for colorectal is a bit of dark humor that even I wouldn’t employ.  

Oh, who am I kidding? 
Of course I would.

Well, now, don’t I feel shitty?

A Little Bit of Silly

Sure, this is self-deprecating, but comedy is comedy.

"I wanted to spice things up a little in the bedroom,
so I sent my wife a dick pic. 
She sent me a picture of a sympathy card."

Okay, when I actually read this, I have to say...little depressed.

As Time Goes By

    Occasionally, while perusing X (or its relatively more liberal cousin, Threads), I’ll come across a post which gives me pause.

    

    So, it was with the below.

 

    At first, I chalked it up to ignorance.  How in the world could this person NOT believe that, once upon a time, we were only allowed to get gasoline on “even” or “odd” days, depending on the last number of our license plates?  What an idiot, amirite? 

"That's malarkey!"

    On the other hand...

"The border is completely secure."

    Then, I stopped to consider that this happened in 1979. FORTY-SIX YEARS AGO.  Good grief, the vast majority of those who remember this actually happening now get colonoscopies or yearly prostate exams.  Or both.

I won't judge.

    This being the case, I thought a history lesson was in order. This also being Penwasser Place, of course, it will be a ridiculously brief history lesson.  I mean, after all, NOBODY wants to take the time to read some long-ass boring lecture.

    

    Believe it or not, the gas crisis of 1979 wasn’t the first gas crisis of the 1970s. 

 NOTE: Trust me, as someone who lived during the 1970s, it was an excruciating decade. If you remember Nixon, Ford, gas crunches, hostage crises, Jimmy Carter, Billy Carter, my parents’ divorce (okay, that’s just me), the Star Wars Christmas special, and disco, you know what I mean. On the other hand, I lost my virginity in 1976. So, on balance… 

Never understood why it took so long, though. 
I mean, I was such a looker. 

    There was, arguably, a worse one in 1973 that was fueled (pardon the pun) by the Arab world’s anger over US support for Israel. That one was bad. 

    I remember long-ass lines for the gas station as my father fumed (once again, pardon the pun) over the wait.

All the while as I sat, in the winter, with the windows rolled up, as he smoked like a tire fire.
  Hey...fumed. A double pun!

 

    Thankfully, I was only fifteen years old and my Schwinn didn’t need gas.  So, yeah, the only things which really bothered me were inconvenient boners.  

    Then, in 1979, Iran cut off oil shipments to the United States over its displeasure with American support of Shah Mohammed Pahlavi. 

Not Irish

    While the reasons behind that resulting gas shortages were much more complicated than that, let’s just go with that for now (remember: ain’t nobody got time for that). 

    Now, as to Threads girl’s amazement about using license plates to determine who got gas, yeah, that actually happened.  In an attempt to ration existing supplies, consumers were only allowed to gas up their vehicles based on the last number of their license plate. 

    If it ended with an even number, you could only get gas on “even” days while “odd” numbers were restricted to “odd” days.”  I know this may seem complicated to some, but that’s how things went. 

    Hey, math is hard for some people.

"Twelve out of ten historians have judged me
one of the best presidents in U.S. history.  No joke."

    NOTE:  I wonder how, in today’s world of vanity license plates, this would go down. Perhaps, if the last letter of your plate is A-M, you’d be “even.” If N-Z, “odd?” Hey, just a suggestion. 

Although, like deployment of nukes, a third term of Donald Trump,
and President Michelle Obama,
 let's hope we never have to see that.

    Although, like nukes and President Michelle Obama, let’s hope we never have to see them. Then, in November, Iran took 66 Americans hostage crisis which sparked a huge rift between our nations. 

And Bomb Bomb Bomb Bomb Bomb Iran by Vince and the Valiants 

    Luckily, like my virgin self of 1973, I really wasn’t affected all that much by the 1979 gas crisis. You see, I had left Norfolk, Virginia, in March of that year for a Mediterranean cruise with the Navy.

Ladies, you can see that I was hot. 
No seriously, this was Egypt in 1979. 
It was frikkin' hot.

    By the time I returned in September, things had pretty much returned to normal.

Of course, John Wayne was dead.
  So, that kinda put a damper on things.

    

    Until November.  Oh.  Wait.  Already covered that.  Sorry.

    

    So, you see, what may seem like only yesterday to a lot of us, more of us have little to no recollection of times which are, in reality, long since past. 

Speaking of long since past,  my last colonoscopy is long since past.