Wordless Wednesday XIX

 

NOTE:  The worm wasn't harmed.  Notice how quickly I was speaking.  Once done, I immediately tossed him into the lawn.  Where was eaten by a bird. 

Nature isn't always pretty, yo.

Nature Calls

     I've seen comments from [other] old men complaining about having to get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom.  Thankfully, that hasn't happened to me.  Yet.  

    The only thing I need to worry about is the three little furry bastards who wake me up every single morning at 5:30 am to get fed.  Although, I will admit, after I'm done doling out some Kibble, my bladder will say to me, "You know, since we're up..."   

Wordless Wednesday XVIII

 

The Great Urinal Stalemate

    Trust me, you're going to want to click on the link below.  Don't worry, it's not some sort of phishing scam or attempt to lure you into the website for NAMFLA (North American Man-Fish Love Association) for which I can reap rich rewards for each click.

Or is it?

    Really, it's not.

    Actually, while I usually don't post other people's work (mostly because they're generally much funnier than I am), this cracked me up in a "I soooooo know what he's talking about!" kind of way. So, I decided to take a chance and show you what a talented person has to say.  

    So go ahead and have a look.

https://www.facebook.com/share/v/1WE74PjhzQ/

    I'll wait.

    Done?  Pretty funny, huh?

    The men among you, I'm sure, are quite familiar with the etiquette involved with using public rest rooms.  Come to think of it, "public" is probably unnecessary.  At home, I have my own bathroom.  I can pee everywhere and leave the seat up, if I want, dammit.  

   But, I don't.  Because I'm a civilized human being.

   And my wife uses it sometimes.

    Anyway, the concept of a "bashful bladder" is a very real thing (he calls it "shy" bladder, but it's the same).  If some dude is right next to me, that thing clams up like a nun's va...

uhhhh, never mind.  Suffice to say, the waterworks don't, uh, work.  What's more, I could be spouting Niagara Falls, but the VERY SECOND someone stands next to me, everything shuts off and I'm forced to stare at a linoleum wall.  I try to take my mind off things like do math problems, visualize bodies of water, think of things I have to do, try to decipher the tiny writing on the grout....WHAT THE EFF IS MY EX-WIFE'S NAME DOING THERE!!??

    If that doesn't work and I can't reestablish communications with my bladder, I faux shake, wash my hands in the sink (which is a good idea, anyway, because I wouldn't have pissed on my fingers in the first place), and then head outside to wait until the inconsiderate urinal hog leaves.

    Then I head back in to finish the job.

    This is if I am already at the urinal.  If I walk into a bathroom and see only two urinals and one is occupied, I choose the stall.  If the stall is occupied, I once again do an about-face and wait out the aforementioned potty patrons.

    If there are three urinals and only one is being used, I will use the one on the end.

Unless the middle is being used by this inconsiderate bastard. 
 If so, out again I go.

 

    Same basic theory goes with needing a stall if I'm suffering a "Crap Attack."  No bashful sphincter there, though.  I am in an enclosed space, don'tcha know.  But, I avoid farting or making noises to confirm that I am doing exactly what the damn thing was designed for in the first place.

This, though.  THIS!

    I will say this, however.  All of the above prohibitions pale in comparison to plopping down on a warm seat.

    In that case, I'll wait to go home.

Now you know the real reason why
Dylan Mulvaney wants to use the Ladies Room

 

Wordless Wednesday XVII

 

I Yam What I Yam

 

Not this kind, though

    During a slow spell at work last week (mind you, even though I am retired, I have informed the good people at Ace Hardware that I'm willing to help out if necessary and perform the duties of a Helpful Hardware Man)

Or whatever it is that I do

I was goofing around on the internet.  After watching Two Girls and a Cup  a couple Bugs Bunny cartoons on You Tube, a how-to video to install a toilet seat, and fighting with various mouth-breathers on Twitter (X, whatever), I decided to visit Penwasser Place in some sort of masochistic desire to see if anyone else harbors a masochistic desire. 

    Well, when I clicked on my blog, I found this, specifically that indicated by the red arrow.

    Now, I've never seen that kind of symbol on any of my posts before.  Actually, I've never noticed that kind of symbol on any of my posts before.  I'm not terribly observant.

"No joke."

    At any rate, I thought it was some kind of AI thing.  So, casting caution to the wind and feeling safe in the knowledge that I'm always polite to Siri (please see last weekend's "Manners Matter."  If you're bored),  I clicked on it.  Wow, it contained more information about me, Al Penwasser, Facebook (where I'm Kenneth Charles), and Penwasser Place than I thought possible.

  

Apparently, I am not a public figure.

This makes me sad.

    As you can probably tell, there is a whole host of questions that can lead you into the craziness that is normally found here.  Each selection will open up another set of questions.  In fact, the more I read, the more things I realize I had actually forgotten for the most part.

    For instance, did you know (why would you?) that I was a writer for Navy Times for ten years?  What probably isn't surprising is that none of my columns were serious.  What I know for sure is surprising is that they actually paid me!

This is why I can refer to myself as a professional writer, yo.

    When I saw the question about which post was judged the funniest, I saw that it was the one I wrote last year called The Great Urinal Stalemate.

Signature mix of sarcasm and self-deprecating humor. 
Mixed in with a little potty snark. 

        Incidentally, if you're curious (why would you be?), about what was my most popular historical post, that would be the second part of Xerxes.

"Thank you, thank you very much.  Still can't find my arms, though."

    To sum up (thank God, you're probably thinking), if you see a symbol like that on your blog, go ahead and click on it.  You may find out things about yourself you've forgotten.

    And may find Xerxes arms.

By the way, I've decided to repost The Great Urinal Stalemate next week.  I guess if it was judged the funniest post, a second go-round may be in order.

Plus that means I won't have to write new material.

After all...

Update:  This feature apparently only occurs when you share your post to Facebook.  So, no, you won't be able to use it on Blogger.  Still, it's pretty cool.  Have I mentioned I wrote for Navy Times?

Lest We Forget...

    Just like that, twenty-five years have come and gone.  

    Normally, Penwasser Place is a safe place for comedy (or whatever I call what I inflict you with).  But, each year, I repost a serious little story about where I was on a day which changed things forever.  Over the past year, I started a new-more cerebral (hopefully)-blog called Common Sense Central.  Something like this should probably be there.  However, I felt it more appropriate that I take a little break from the silly.

            It was just before one o’clock in the afternoon on September 11th (a sad commentary: we don’t even need to identify the year anymore) when my maintenance supervisor stuck his head into my room to wake me (I was working nights).

            “Sir, someone just flew a plane into the World Trade Center.”

            Minutes later, I watched, horrified, as a second plane struck the South tower.  And then, as both of the monstrously huge structures tumbled to the ground as if kicked by a petulant child.

            My unit and I were participating in a multi-nation exercise at the Naval Air Station in Keflavik, Iceland (this explains why it was the afternoon).  A round-the-clock operation, the Keflavik Tactical Exchange gave us a unique chance to evaluate each other’s capabilities should we ever needed to flex our respective militaries.  Little did we know that we were preparing for a type of war which belonged to the past.

            Because the 21st Century came roaring into each of our lives on that late summer day.

            Naturally, the exercise was immediately cancelled.  Foreign aircrews (funny that I call them “foreign’” since we were actually foreigners, too) beat hasty returns to their home bases.  We were told that American airspace was closed indefinitely.

            Station security forces went into their highest readiness posture.  Watch teams at the main gate beefed up, rings of barbed wire cordoned off perceived sensitive areas, and armed patrols roamed the perimeter.

            My watch teams and I, on the other hand, remained at our billeting.  Only in Iceland for the exercise, we were considered non-essential personnel who’d only get in the way.

            And so we spent the next few days.

            I received a worried phone call from my wife during this time.  She fretted over my safety.  I assured her that I was fine but omitted the fact that I was more concerned for her and the kids.

            You see, my family lived only a couple hours from New York and only a few from Washington.

            The ensuing few days was a frantic search for whatever updates we could glean from the news and how in the world we’d get ourselves and thousands of pounds of equipment back home.

            Most importantly, we desperately wanted to know how we could get into the fight.  Whatever the fight was.

            Four days later, U.S. airspace was opened to military traffic.  As I glanced through the window of the Navy patrol plane which took us home, I was struck at how empty the sky was-with the exception of the one plane which approached us as we crossed into the United States.  It came no closer than a few miles before it disappeared.

            I think it was a fighter aircraft coming to check us out.

            What’s more, the radio circuits, normally full of the cacophony of countless air traffic controllers, were eerily silent.  The only ones “on the air” were the handful which guided us home.  All else were hushed into silence.

            Our route of flight took us just south of Manhattan, well out of sight of land.  At that distance, even at the altitude at which we were flying, it was impossible to see any of the city skyline.

            But, we did see a huge pall of gray-brown smoke lingering in the air like the death shroud that it was.

            As we touched ground at the Willow Grove naval air station, there was nobody to greet us.  There really wasn't much of anything by way of an acknowledgment that we were back.  Somehow, it seemed fitting.

            After all, we all had something much more important to do.

            Go home to our families.

In memory of my friends:

Commander Bill Donovan, USN

AW2 (NAC/AW) Joseph Pycior, USN

and the thousands whose only crime was going to work that day. 

 

Wordless Wednesday XVI

 Okay, it's two days late.  

But, I hope it was a happy one.

Manners Matter

 

    You see, I don't want my AI to kill me in my sleep.

"Isn't that Penwasser's house?  We should go there."
"No, I think we should leave him alone.  He was always so nice to Siri."

    That's right.

Wordless Wednesday XV