Insanity

 

    Got you, didn't I?
    No, this post has nothing to do with my struggles with mental health.

"Although...there is that."

    Actually, it's a review of the latest opus from Robyn Engel, she of the Life By Chocolate: Robyn Alana Engel's Blog on, duh, Blogger (hopefully you already knew that it's on Blogger.  If not, WTH are you doing here?  Looking for porn?).

"Search for porn."

     Hang on.

   Oh, who am I kidding?  More like five minutes. 

    Anyway, back to Robyn.  Okay, first off, the title of her newest book is NOT Insanity.  Rather, it's InSanity.  The reason I used the spelling that I did was that I wanted to draw the two of you in to see what crazy ass shit I was putting out this time.  You see, I employed a classic "bait and switch" technique to suck you in.

"Suck us in?  So there is porn?"
"Raht.  Porn.  Let's go, Brandon!"

     Robyn is one of those authors who I like to call...talented.  She is much more talented, and better looking, than I, you understand.  She weaves a serious tale (on mental illness.  Please keep up.  Especially you two on the porch) which is bracketed by lighthearted observations of the, ahem, insanity, which is the hallmark of our existence on this crazy place we call Earth.

"Shit.  I would've called it 'Water.'  But...whatever. 
Have to change all the maps, though."

    Her writing style (and I'm quoting myself) reminds me of lot of the writing style of Steven King.  Only without dead things, telekinesis, killer cars, or buck teeth.

"Not a little hurtful."
NOTE:  Now you know why Steven King keeps his mouth closed a lot.

  

    When you're done with this excellent work you will have arrived at a much better understanding of the demons of mental illness, specifically suicide.  Robyn pointedly...uh, points out...(please excuse the clumsy wording.  I couldn't think of anything better.  I told you she was a better writer than I) that people don't commit suicide.  Neither are they selfish.

    She also talks about something called Viagra Ice Cream.  So, there's that.

"Mmmmmmmm......viagra ice cream......"

"With nuts."

    The best part of this book?  I learned some things and was entertained at the same time.  And, that my friends, is the mark of an outstanding writer.

    Do yourself a favor and get this book (or any the others which she has written over the years).  You'll be glad you did.

    InSanity is available on Amazon.  When you get there, type in Robyn Engel" and, like magic, you'll go right to where you want to be.

    For every ten books sold, a complimentary shipment of dental floss will be sent to Steven King.

"You shut your whore mouth."

Stick a Fork In Him

Senator Ted Cruz calls the riot on January 6th by a few hundred misguided souls a "violent terrorist attack." 

We take you now to Senator Ted Cruz's political career...

History of the World-Fertile Crescent Rolls

To my Blogger friends (the handful of you)...you may recognize this post.  Originally printed in the summer of 2019 (you know, before the country lost its frikkin' mind), I've updated it slightly so it may be worth your while to have another look.  Although, I left in the crack I had written about Joe Biden (in the NOTE below), proving that comedy gold is still every bit as relevant as it was more than two years ago.  To my Facebook friends, this, of course, will be new to you.  I hope you like it.  And the fact that it...don't cost nothin'...

NOTE:  I'll continue to post this disclaimer.  I'd like to caution against using any of the nonsense below to study for the History Advanced Placement Examination.  If you do, the only college you'll get into is Klown Kollege and you'll probably be confused for Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.  Or Joe Biden.  Especially if you sniff their hair.

Early Societies
 

This grew especially dangerous because 

sometimes their dinner chased them.

    Shortly after the Ice Age drew to a close (except in certain parts of Minnesota, Maine, and apparently I-95 in Virginia) in 11,000 BC (give or take a hundred years…go ahead, count), people started growing weary of chasing their dinner around the Savannah.  Or  anywhere not in Georgia.

    After all, it took a lot of effort driving mammoths off cliffs.  With that in mind, humans soon shifted away from a hunting-gathering existence to a more agricultural one.

The shift accelerated after the disastrous 

"Cave Bear Roundup" by the now-extinct Zug Clan.

    People had been munching on berries, grasses, vegetables, and things they dug up from the ground for thousands of years, of course.  Fruit was also a staple.  Especially when plucked from the branches of trees they'd been chased up by leopards.  Who could climb...trees.

"Okay.  So me not smart."

"Idiot."

    But, I've always wondered what part of the human brain caused

But, not the bulls.  

As Herschel Zug found out to his dismay.

them to think that they could plant seeds in the ground to actually grow food.  Then again, somebody was the first to think that lobsters would make good eating.  Or that they could pull on the dangly bits of what we call cows (and they called Oprahs) to give them milk.  
  
   These initial forays into agriculture around 7,000 BC

"Now all we need is for someone to invent 

chips and football and we're all set."

(you really want to check me on this, don't you?  Hint:  I don't care) were primarily cereals such as emmer (whatever the frik that was), barley, rye, millet, hops, and bran (for the old people, who pretty much just sat around complaining about the weather).  Hops and barley were especially popular once they discovered they could make beer out of them.

"Don't even think about herding my big hairy ass.  

Or do I need to remind you of what happened to the Zugs?"

   Early farmers also began herding certain other animals for their milk, meat, wool, animal products (bits of bone, sinew, and intestines for condoms) and companionship for lonely farmers.  

    The first herd animals were goats, but later sheep, cattle, and pigs (this was before the invention of Jews and Muslims, so BLTs around the campfire were still okay) were added to the mix.  Attempts to herd gorillas were made, but they were shelved after a rash of "Poo-Flinging."  Plus, it was never a good idea to milk a gorilla.  Nothing much would come of it, they didn't find it sexy, and faces were often ripped off.

"Turkey bacon on BLTs is totally cool, though."

    

"TURKEY BACON SUCKS!!!!"

"AND K-MART!!!!"

    

    Eventually, peoples gathered together into small communities.  Not only were they able to pool their talents and resources together, they gave each other neighbors about whom they could constantly bitch.  I'm sure some folks gathered together in the far north of the world, but these people were stupid.

"What you mean, Miami Beach?"

    Most humans gathered together where it was warm and conducive to the growing of crops, herding of livestock, and not

Mesopotamia

Greek-or Latin-for "Between the Waters"
or "Here There Be Crazy People."

Huh.  Egypt, too?  Whaddya know?  

Damn my public school education!

freezing body parts off.  Yes, this included parts of China, Pakistan, and even Mesoamerica.  But, I'm going to concentrate on the Mesopotamian region of the world, also commonly referred to as the "Fertile Crescent."  It is here, in the lands of what are now parts of Iraq, Syria, Turkey, and Beheadistan, where the first cities were formed.

 

No phones, no lights, no motorcars, not a single luxury.

Not even dial-up cable.

  

    Most of their dwellings were constructed of mud wattle, grass sods, or primitive brick.  It was a pity that early man had hunted the Vinyl Sidingasaurus to extinction.  It would be many thousands of years before an artificial form of home construction would be invented in Levittown, Pennsylvania.

   This is also the time when mankind discovered that he (or, most likely, she, because all the dudes were busy chasing sheep and creating fantasy skull kicking leagues), could mash up grains with water, toss the mixture into an oven, and bake wonderful delicacies such as bread, charred bread, and fertile crescent rolls.
    
    However, they continued on with an ancient human tradition. 
Only now, since the Neanderthals were either wiped out or relocated to New Jersey, they raided other villages to pillage, kill, plunder, pull hair, and kidnap slutty sheep.

"Hey, there, Sailor.  Take me to your mud house?"

Next time:  Egypt-You Mean I Can Marry My Sister?

Telephone Diplomacy

 Putin suggested that Biden give him a call to discuss the situation in Ukraine...

"Is the refrigerators running?"

"Hang on.  I'll go check."

"Holy crap!  That thing is fast!!"

"You're an idiot.  You gotta know that, right?"

Of Pickle Juice, Two Face Gods, and Cow Dung

    As I sat down tonight, after growing tired of train wreck videos and constant political caterwauling on Tik Tok, I originally thought to write a serious essay about this event, that event, or the latest gaffe by the Turnip-in-Chief in the White House.

    However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the last week of the year should be something a little lighter than all that.  After all, 2021 was a depressing (with notable personal exceptions, mind you) twelve months.  Why go into its last week harping about the latest "Idiocy Du Jour?"

    After all, the spirit of Kwanzaa DEMANDS that I restrain myself.

    So, instead of a discussion of the origin of "God Bless You" (which I eventually will get to; just not this year), I decided to delve into the origins of the New Years celebrations.

    Therefore, for my last post of 2021...

 

                New Year's Eve is the final farewell to the year.  More than just uncontrolled drinking of everything from the finest champagne to that almost empty jar of pickle juice in the fridge, it's a time for us to reflect back on the past twelve months.  We take the opportunity to evaluate our successes and joys.

Or the wisdom of shoving a bottle rocket up our butts at the 4th of July picnic.

                Oh sure, New Year's Day is the actual holiday.  But, it's in the new year (hence the name, duh) and involves little more than antacid, aspirin, and resolutions to never drink again.  A resolve which will roughly last until Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

                I was surprised to learn (if Wikipedia is to be believed) that January 1st has been celebrated for more than 2,000 years.  Yeah, right?

                In 46 B.C., Julius Caesar, he of the salad,*  decreed that January 1st would be celebrated as the beginning of the year.  You see, January was named after the Roman god, Janus.  Janus was the god of doors and gates (he originally applied to be God of War instead of that showoff, Mars).

Also God of Candy Bars

                In addition to all that, Janus had two faces, one "looking forward" and one "looking back."  Caesar thought this made him the ideal candidate for the new year (looking back and looking forward is something we do to this day.  Ain't history cool?).

Wrong Two Face

That's better.
"HEY! WOULD IT KILL YOU TO CLOSE THE GD DOOR!?"

                To add a little festive "zing" to the festivities, he then ordered a violent routing of Jewish revolutionaries in Galilee.  Oh, that Julius.  What a party animal, amirite?

                Two years later, he was stabbed to death on the floor of the Roman Senate.  Coincidence?

                Well, despite the dictator being ventilated and the civil war which followed, the Romans continued to observe January 1st as the beginning of the year.  Part of the celebrations included watching a ball of cow dung, virgins, and Greeks descend over thousands gathered in the Roman Forum**.   Drunken orgies followed, which they say reenacted the chaos of the world before the advent of the gods.  So, drunken bacchanalian excesses were highlights of the day wayyyyyyyy before Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve.

"Whoa...hang on...is that cow dung?"

                Of course, I can't confirm the orgy part nowadays.

                Eventually, the killjoys in the nascent Christian religion downplayed the raucous goings-on that were pagan holidays.  Some they incorporated into Christian festivals (e.g., Christmas was celebrated during the Roman Saturnalia or Feast of the Unconquered Sun.  Or did you really think Jesus was born at the end of December?).  Others they got rid of completely.

                For example, January 1st was no longer considered the new year.  Rather, during the early medieval period, March 25th, or Annunciation Day, was judged the beginning of the year.  Yeah, I don't follow the logic of that one, either.

"What's more, no 'Annunciation Day Eve' parties, either."
"Eff."

                However, when William the Conqueror (also known as William the Bastard) successfully invaded England in 1066, he decreed that observance of the new year would return to January 1st so as to more closely align with Christmas and, coincidentally, the commemoration of Jesus' circumcision.

William depicted with his brother, Clive the Motherf*cker,
 on the Bayeaux Tapestry

                And that's the way it's been ever since.

                So, think about that when, this coming Friday evening, the host of the New Year's Eve party offers you a platter full of little cocktail weenies.

                A symbolic remembrance of one of history's unkindest cuts of all, perhaps?

                Personally, I think a drunken orgy would be more fun.

 

                HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!

 

*Just kidding.  That was Caesar Chavez.

**okay, this probably isn't true

***yeah, that definitely isn't true.  Because comedy!

God Bless Us Everyone

 The following is a true story (as far as you know)...

    Christmas was always a big deal at my house.

"Wait!  That's the Lynch house!  Wave off!  WAVE OFF!!"

    Starting immediately after Thanksgiving, we began the big run up to the most wonderful time of the year, not counting Flag Day. 

"Hey, once the kid falls asleep, how about I see if I could scrounge up a couple ham sandwiches?  Oh no, it's totally cool.  We're Catholics now."

    

    As much fun as the run-up to Christmas was, it was on the actual day that the real hoopla began.

    When the clock struck nine on Christmas Eve, our parents scooted us off to bed.  Warned to stay there all night, we were cautioned not to surprise Santa as he placed gifts under our aluminum Christmas tree.  With our classy color wheel.

"Now with three of the four primary colors! 
Plus green!"

    OK, so we bought the lie.  We also believed in the Easter Bunny and the tooth fairy.

And that a nun could fly.

    We tossed and turned all evening.  To pass the time, we mortified our sister by making armpit fart noises.

    As midnight approached, we heard the sound of movement downstairs.  Instantly calling a halt to the armpit symphony, we strained to hear what was happening.

    “Santa’s here!” my brother Gary gasped.

    Straining my ears, I heard the muffled sound of rustling paper.  Even so, I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on.  It was only when I heard a sharp bang followed by a string of colorful holiday expressions of goodwill that I knew the magic of Christmas had arrived.

The Myth

The Reality
"Hmm, I wonder if the fat kid will notice his Schwinn
only has one wheel. 
Meh, I'll tell him it's a unicycle."

    Reassured, I happily closed my eyes.

    What seemed like seconds later, I was rudely awakened.  “C’mon,” Gary excitedly cried, “Santa Claus came last night!”

Yeah, that would
have been pretty unbelievable.

    

   He seemed genuinely surprised.  Where had
he been all these weeks?  Of course Santa Claus came last night!  Who’d he expect, Nixon?

    

    We bounded downstairs to a dazzling rainbow of presents beneath our garish tin pole.  Quickly diving into the pile, we were brought up short by a shrill, “Nobody opens anything until your father and I get there!”

For some reason, my parents weren't impressed by my, "That's it?" 
NOTE:  Congratulations to those sharp-eyed readers who noticed
that I said we had an aluminum tree.  Get off my back.

                

    Thus admonished, we anxiously perched on the edge of our avocado and gold couch.  It seemed an eternity until our parents trudged like zombies into the living room.

    Coming out of her narcoleptic daze, Mom gushed, “Wow!  What happened?  Did Santa come?”  (Amazingly, she sounded as shocked as
my brother.  What was it with these people?  Did they all have brain damage?).

    Oblivious to her amazement, my father silently nodded.

    Instantly responding, we dove under the tree in a giddy paroxysm of joy.  We were a brood possessed, we were seized with the spirit, we were seagulls descending on a box of French Fries.  

    After we had torn open our presents, our parents announced that it was time for church.  After all, what says Christmas more than sitting uncomfortably on wooden pews and splashing each other in the face with water from the petri dishes disguised as holy water fonts?

    Despite the fact that Joe Biden makes more appearances at Sniffers Anonymous than my family at Mass, we were “going, goddammit!” 

    So, after exchanging footie pajamas forswanky “Dad N Lad” ensembles and hideous frocks of a color not found in nature, off we sped in the family Batmobile to Saint Stanislaus. 

Canary yellow Ford LTD
Country Squire Station Wagon
with Faux Wood Side Paneling Batmoblile,
thank you very much.

    Upon arrival-five minutes late-my father ushered us into the very last pew.  “That way,” he whispered, “we can beat the traffic.” 

    The service was tolerable.  There were a bunch of mumbled carols, a Christmas sermon about how Baby Jesus didn’t get coal, and the obligatory offering for starving Chinese kids.  “The ones who weren’t Commies,” Father Karl sternly added.  That was about it.  Oh, and Phil needed the Heimlich maneuver to get that communion wafer out of his throat.

Plus, Karen wasn't too happy when Phil and I farted in the pew.  Thus, making a joyful noise unto the Lord.

 NOTE:  Yes, I wrote "pew."  You're welcome.

    Before you could say “Dominus Nabisco,” we were knocking down old Slovak ladies to get out the door.

Although I think the one in the middle
put a gypsy curse on us.

    Once home, we joyfully returned to our toys, although now we wanted to see how creative we could get.  Surprisingly, G.I. Joe didn’t fare too well in the Vietcong EZ Bake Oven.  We also discovered that, if you removed the rubber suction cups, toy arrows sharpen up real nice.

With Kung Fu grip.  Naturally.

    Meanwhile, Mom merrily prepared the “Holiday Feast.”  The star of the show was, of course, the turkey, which had been mummifying in the oven the past two days.  Its aroma filled the house with flavor and its burning grease flooded the kitchen with smoke. 

    Besides the turkey, dinner featured food you’d never see any other time of year.  For instance, I can’t imagine any egg nog keggers at a Fourth of July picnic.

    When presented a choice of turnips, squash, candied yams, egg nog, deviled eggs,
cranberry sauce (always from the can), marzipan, sweet potato souffle with mini-marshmallows, mincemeat pie, and the ubiquitous fruitcake, we usually preferred white meat, Hungry Jack potatoes, and marshmallow snowmen.

There was also blood pudding. 
In case Dracula stopped by, I guess.

    After which, we flung dinner rolls at Karen and the dog.

    Sufficiently gorged, we retired to the living room to strap Karen’s Barbie to the aluminum tree's “Revolving Color Wheel of Death” while Mom hosed down the dining room.  Dad, on the other hand, attired in his festive tee shirt and tighty-whiteys, plopped in front of the television and scratched his back with a fork.

    As afternoon dragged toward evening, our eyelids grew heavy.  Our early morning rampage had finally caught up with us and, chocolate-fueled frenzy notwithstanding, we were sliding closer to sleep.

    Through lidded eyes, I remember my father lurching toward the kitchen.  Before I lapsed into a food coma, I heard a faint, “Boy, I sure could use a turkey sandwich with Miracle Whip.”

    Followed by a harsh string of colorful holiday expressions of goodwill as he found one of our pointed wooden arrows.

    “Hey,” Gary mumbled as he drifted off to sleep, “Santa’s back.”

    Let’s see Kwanzaa match those kind of holiday memories.

License To Brag

 Good evening, my two followers.  The following, while not nonsense, isn't exactly serious "stuff," either.  While there are plenty of topics upon which I could pontificate, my brain hurts and I don't want to get into anything too heavy.  Especially, since the 2,021th (or 2,025th) birthday of the Little Baby Jesus is a little over a week away.  Never fear, I'll get into meatier issues once the year turns.

                Having moved to Virginia from the Peoples' Republic of Pennsylvania in August, 2020 (golly, where has the time gone?), I've noticed quite a few differences.

                The weather (it was in the 70s today), the cuisine (Pizza Hut is considered a delicacy), and local major league sports (there are none) all tell me I ain't in Kans...err, the Keystone State anymore.

                But, and like Hillary Clinton, no small but (yes, the spelling's different...sue me...you know what I meant), our Wawas sell beer.

"Good one.  Huh, Rug?"

                I've noticed another thing which also sets us apart.  No, it's not that the Old Dominion will get a governor next month who didn't sport blackface in his yearbook (although there is that).  It's that there are a ton of personalized license plates tooling down the highways.

This guy is probably speeding down the highway.
FULL DISCLOSURE:  I don't think Virginia issues this one anymore.

                Motorists can select any number of possible designs to adorn their rear and front bumpers (the existence of a front license plate being another change from up north).  If you can think of a cause, Virginia has a plate for you.  Anything from a patriotic theme to the state bird to Ducks Unlimited, you can get it.  Well, you probably couldn't get one for the National Man Boy Love Association (although, in this day and age, who TF knows?), but if you're a bird watcher, y'all can get a special plate!

I think we can forget about the "National Man Fish Love Association," though.

                Plus, in addition to that, motorists can insert any cutesy message they wish (as long as it's not pornographic).  For instance, I saw a license plate with "IH8NOVA" on it, which I can only assume means the owner has no great love for Fairfax and Loudon Counties.

                Which makes sense.  Northern Virginia sucks.

                Big problem with this approach, however, is that I sometimes will creep up on them while trying to figure out what it is they're trying to say.  This, of course, is a major detriment to highway safety.  Especially when I'm drinking that beer I bought at Wawa.

                NOTE:  I do not drink and drive.  I pull into a parking lot.

                Now some of you may be thinking that Virginians are a whimsical lot prone to creative self-expression and trumpeting of a particular cause.  Well, okay they are a tad whimsical (for instance, bless their hearts, they think grits is Diet Cream of Wheat).  But, I believe that a lot of the motivation behind this is that, at only $10.00, it's pretty cheap to have one of these things.  Not for me, mind you, I prefer a generic state plate.  Both because I don't want to spend money I don't have and because why chance road rage by some Freemason who objects to my Knights of Columbus license plate?

                However, if I was to get a personalized plate, it would be something along the lines of one I saw yesterday.  This was a special one honoring the driver/owner as a Desert Storm/Desert Shield Veteran.

Hard to believe this was thirty years ago.
I had brown hair back then and everything worked.
What is none of your business.

                As I crept up on him at the red plate (okay, maybe "creep" is an unfortunate term), I thought that that was a nice way to recognize this man or woman's service.  Then, I wondered if that is something I would like to have (yes, I am also a Desert Storm/Desert Shield veteran).  The more I thought about, though, the more I realized that if I was to commemorate any bit of my service, it would not have a picture of the Southwest Asia Service Medal on it.

                No, instead I'd have a picture of the National Defense Service Medal for all the world to see.

I had been in the Navy fourteen years before I was eligible to wear this.
The 1970s and 1980s were good times.
Except for our livers.

                Especially to my service friends, the National Defense Medal is considered a bit of a "geedunk" medal.  It's thought of as the military's "participation trophy."  Meaning, if you're wearing the uniform during a specified timeframe (e.g., Korean Conflict, Vietnam War, Gulf War, Global War On Terrorism), you get to throw it on your uniform, even if you're just in Boot Camp.

                NOTE:  Space precludes from explaining the origin of the term "geedunk."  You really should thank me.

                I get it, I really do.  We all get one.  However, to me, "national defense" is what our service was all about.  Whether in basic training, onboard a ship, recruiting Midwest farm boys, flying surveillance missions over the Red Sea, or guarding a South Dakota missile silo, everyone pitched in, everyone was essential to safeguarding our nation.

                Hell, even the Marines kept the crayon industry in business.

                With that in mind, I am most proud of my National Defense Service Medal.  Don't get me wrong.  I cherish the others, even that Coast Guard one.  But, I signed up to defend my country.  Without national defense, all of them would be moot.  National Defense gives us a life which is free.

                And the ability to have a "Bowler" license plate on our car.

Admit it.  You thought I was kidding.

Next time:  Christmas silly.