THE STORE CARD?  

Nowadays it seems — every time I go shopping at the store, drug store, grocery store, hardware store, etc., nine times out of ten when I get up to the cashier’s counter I'm asked, “Do you have your ____ card, sir?"

“No. I don’t have one.”

“Would you like to get one, sir?”

“No thanks.”

“It’ll only take a minute, sir”.

“NO.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“YES I’M SURE, and NO, I DON’T WANT ONE!”

"What's the matter, sir? Don't you want to save money!"

I didn't answer. This was one of those stupid loaded questions like, "Are you still beating your wife?"  and I wanted to choose my words carefully because I thought I had seen my Preacher over on Aisle 4 and I didn't want to be the topic of next Sunday's sermon.

It had gotten quiet in the store except for the incessant chewing gum popping by the clerk.  She turned toward me, folding her arms across her chest as if to say, "Well jackass!  I'm waiting."

"Ma'am", I began. "Ma'am . . .  your obstinate insistence that I should obtain one of those flipping store cards in order to save money, in your opinion, Ma'am, and your uncaring snot-nosed bag full of discourteous rudeness and self-serving air of arrogance, has put me in a foul mood that I wasn't previously in before entering this store.

Not only have you been rude to me, Ma'am, but you've also been rude to all those people in line behind me, by keeping them waiting.   Who knows, Ma'am?  One of those people in line might be a closet serial killer, and you'd have been the trigger that set him or her off.  Why can't you keep a card behind the counter for people like me who don't want to carry around twenty or thirty different cards, one for each store?  Then all you'd have to do, ma'am, would be to reach down, grab it, and scan it. 

Ma'am?

What, Ma'am?

Do I want what, Ma'am?

No, Ma'am.

I don’t want my %#@&% receipt."

My new cellphone.

I’ve just bought another cell phone. My first in five years.

My new phone makes more sounds than my old phone, and I don't know yet, what all the new sounds mean.  Being an old man, I already had strange noises coming from my body.   Now I have more.

The other day, I was blowing my nose a bit too vigorously causing me to fart.  Then my cell phone rang, scaring me so bad I had to sit down.  I wasn't sure what to expect next.  

I remember when cell phones first came out. I carried on a conversation with a guy at Kroger for five minutes before I discovered that he wasn't even talking to me.  

And I can’t get used to the vibrate mode. It tickles.  I’m close to seventy years old, so, I guess, a little tickle every now and then is a good thing, and I've started calling myself just for the sensation.  

My girlfriend and I call each other with our phones in the vibrate mode, while sharing a glass of wine. Don’t knock it.  You ought to see our selfies.  

cab

Buying New Underwear


There’s an inherent problem with buying new underwear you might not be aware of, and it’s more complicated than you think. (We’re talking about men’s underwear here, not ladies.)

Let’s say you have twelve pairs of underwear in your underwear drawer. A pair for every day of the week, and a spare pair, or two,  for unexpected events.  Some of them, not all, are starting to lose elasticity.

Half-way through the work day, you find yourself with “droopy drawers”. Your underwear has slipped down and is only covering half of your butt, the important half, but never-the-less, walking becomes uncomfortable. You find yourself “duck” walking, like one of those hip-hop jive guys you see down on the street just to keep your drawers from sliding down around your knees.

It’s time for new underwear.

After reviewing your size, you snug ’em back up, zip-up your fly, buckle your belt and head out to the closest Walmart to buy six new pairs. You could buy more than just six pairs, but just in case you get the wrong brand, or there’s a problem with the size, it's better to stick with just a few until you know for sure. Proper fitting underwear is important.

Here's the problem, the "rub" with buying new underwear.

After washing the new underwear, to take out the “itch factor”, you fold them up nicely, just like the others and store them neatly away in your underwear drawer. The next morning, it’s decision time. Time to choose a pair of underwear for the day. Which pair do you think you’ll go with, the old, stained, “loose as a goose” pair, or a pair of the bright, clean, snappy-elastic drawers. You’ll choose the new ones, of course. As long as old and new underwear is lying there next to each other, you invariably will always, pick the newer pair.

To make a long story brief…..NEVER, NEVER BUY NEW UNDERWEAR WITHOUT THROWING THE OLD UNDERWEAR AWAY first.

Old, tired and stained underwear will never mingle comfortably, with bright, new briefs.

cab

Ten Tips for Taking Lunch to Work
 

Tip # 1
I prefer making lunch for work the night before and after my third beer of the night. This provides that much sought after and easily obtainable "element of surprise”, to next day’s lunch.  If you don’t drink beer, fixing next day’s lunch will be a drudgery.

Tip # 2
Don’t feed the cat at the same time you make lunch, especially after the third beer.  Mistakes happen.

Tip # 3
Always pack more lunch than you’ll need for one meal, that way, you won’t go hungry.  A “backup sandwich” will always come in handy, someday, when you badly need it.

Tip # 4
Pack a wet washcloth in a zip-lock baggy with your lunch.  You can use the washcloth for your face and hands after eating.  This adds a touch of sophistication to your meal—-making your workday more civilized.  You can even throw in a chocolate mint if you like.

Tip # 5
If you pack soup, make sure you include a spoon.  It’s hard to eat soup with a fork, and somewhat embarrassing.

Tip # 6
When packing a peanut butter sandwich for lunch don’t make it the night before and stick it in the fridge.  Peanut butter does not age well in the fridge and looks like HELL.  Wait until morning to make the sandwich.

Tip # 7
If you use a cooler to carry your lunch in, keep it clean.  Dried mustard, ketchup, axle grease, and the occasional blob of gum, will make your lunch look unappetizing.  If you use a paper bag, put your name on it.  It’s hard to explain how you “got into” someone else’s lunch by mistake, especially if you had forgotten which lunch was yours, due to strict adherence to Tip # 1.

Tip #8
If you prefer a sandwich for lunch, cut it in half, use two zip lock sandwich bags, one-half sandwich in each bag.  Trying to stuff a whole sandwich into just one of those little sandwich bags, invariably mashes the sandwich, and the bag won’t zip due to food junk in the zipper.  For more variety, mix it up on the bread.  Pumpernickel for one sandwich, rye for the other.  Take cornbread or crackers for soup. The following, Tips 9 and 10 refer to microwave ovens and the safe, courteous use thereof.

Tip #9
If you use a microwave at work to heat your lunch, and this is very important, learn what foods can and can’t be heated in a microwave without offending the noses of your co-workers.  Broccoli is a “NO NO”, along with any type of fish product.  Never, never put sardines in a microwave.

Tip #10
Popcorn.  Taking a bag of popcorn to work is very easy.  Popping it safely, on the other hand, can be a different matter entirely.  Do not walk away from popcorn while it is popping.  Burnt popcorn can damage the microwave. Burnt popcorn stinks.  If the microwave is in a public lunch room, and your popcorn burns, you WILL DEVELOP A REPUTATION quite possibly a nickname.  Being know as “Ole Smokey” or “The Popcorn Pooper” could follow you for the rest of your working career.  Maybe even longer.



Have a nice lunch. 

C. Allen Benson

 A Bladder Exercise for Beer Drinkers (Men Only)

I drink a lot of beer at night. Every night!  A strong and healthy bladder, to me, is very important.
To this end, I’ve worked-up an afternoon exercise to help strengthen the bladders of other, fellow beer drinkers, across America.  Calisthenics for the bladder, if you will.

WATER.

That’s all you need.  WATER. Well . . . . . . not quite all. It goes without saying when you combine “water” and “bladders” there should be a bathroom nearby.

Here’s how I personally do the exercise.  (You may have to change some things to suit your own, personal preference.)

Starting at about three or four in the afternoon, (there needs to be about seven hours minimum between the end of the bladder exercise and the commencement of the nightly beer consumption), what I do,  is to take my ounce,  BPA free, Nalgene water bottle and fill it full of ice water.   The idea here, and pardon my elaboration, is to expand and deflate the bladder over a period of two hours.  The bladder is expanded by drinking water.  The opposite,  or bladder-deflation,  is accomplished by peeing.  The routine is to drink, then pee; drink, then pee; and drink, then pee.  I call it the DRINK THEN PEE BLADDER EXERCISE PROCEDURE or D. T. P. B. E. P. for short.

An afternoon of trotting back and forth to the urinal not only builds up the bladder’s stamina but stretches like a balloon, the bladder’s side-wall muscle. A strong side-wall muscle is essential when it comes to peeing forcibly, and to beer drinkers, there are not many things more important than peeing forcibly. If you’ve ever worn white socks with sandals in a public place, and have to go stand in front of a urinal in the bathroom, you know what I mean.  If your pecker pushing power is not up to snuff, gets loose, and your pecker points in the wrong direction those white socks may take a direct hit.  No one, but no one, will believe that your socks have been TYE DYED.  If you’re re-joining a party, and your wife is there, she will not be happy.

Not only will this exercise keep you from being a weak pee’er but it will also increase the volume capacity of your bladder, and that or course; means fewer bathroom breaks.  The downside is, you quite possibly will develop a “sloshing sound” when you walk.  But hey, everything's a trade-off.
Try this exercise for a couple of weeks and see if it helps your nightly beer drinking enjoyment. If you have any tips or methods of improving on this exercise, please let me know.

 C. Allen Benson

             The Great Anti-Clockwise Twisty-Tie Crusade

In my quest for quirky retirement activities, I've come across a small group of individuals who believe as I do, that all twisty- ties on bread, bun, and bagel packaging, have been improperly installed for the past sixty years.

It all started back in '58.  Several of the major bread companies got together and developed a standard still adhered to today; that of placing twisty-ties on bread, bun, and bagel packaging with a clockwise rotation twist.  This means that opening a loaf of bread, buns, or bagels, would require turning the twisty-tie to the left, or counterclockwise.

We think this is backward and regressive.

Call us bohemians if you must, but our small group believes that a higher power, i.e., the great Master Baker, originally ordained twisty-ties be removed from bread, bun, or bagel packaging by turning the twisty tie to the right in a clockwise direction instead of counterclockwise, but the ordaining was systematically ignored.

Our group, the Anti Clockwise Twisty-Tie Federation of North America, meet once a month, car-pool it on down to Kroger, Wal-Mart, or Publix and congregate in the bread department.

Inconspicuously, we each grab a loaf of bread, buns, or bagels, undo the twisty-ties halfway, cross the two ties over each other, then coil them back in the opposite direction.

We then, nonchalantly, move on to the next store, and the next, and the next.  Our goal is to cause enough consumer annoyance as to eventually effect change in the packaging of loaf bread, buns, and bagel products.

If you have ever had a conniption fit trying to remove the twisty-tie on bread, buns, or bagel packaging, you've experienced our handiwork.

Rise up.

Join us.

We knead you.

Don't Kill Off the Dog

(This post is directed to my fellow moviegoers and Bob.)

I've finally gotten enough tequila inside me to address a pet peeve of mine that's been festering for decades, if not longer.

Have you ever sat down to watch a movie when an animal, usually a dog, has been introduced into the opening scene?

You have?  Then you might possibly know where I'm headed with this.

The dog is most likely, killed-off.  Am I right?

It gets shot, ran over by a garbage truck, or dies from a rattlesnake bite.

When this happens, we the audience, you and I, collectively sigh.  "Oh, no!  Not Fido."

Well, I've got breaking news for you moviegoers.  The dog's demise is only a ploy.  A hackneyed, overused ploy, that a few lazy writers use to push their plot along.

As the movie starts, the camera pulls back to show a wide shot of a crowded park.  A few people are picnicking.  There's an ice cream truck surrounded by kids tugging at their parents for ice cream money.  Old folks are sitting on benches feeding the pigeons.

The camera zooms in and shows us a dog chasing a bouncing ball.
It's a young bulldog with a happy look on his face.

Ominous music fades in.

(Spoiler alert ahead.)

The music is a dead giveaway and pardon the pun.

The dog, that puppy, that baby, that innocent creature is about to meet its demise.  

We, you and I, as a responsible audience, at this point, should be asking this poignant question from those miserable, good-for-nothing, booger-eating writers who were about to injure Fido.  "Do you really have to kill the dog off?"

WRITERS!

LISTEN UP!

Stop using the death of an animal as a sympathy crutch, then calling it good writing.  It's not.

Why don't you use a few clever twists to advance the plot instead?  Use the part of your brain that God gave you to write with instead of the mind farts you refer to as ingenuity.

Let the dog live.

The movie could have gone something like this.

(MY change to the plot.)

As the opening scene starts, the camera pulls back to show a wide shot of a crowded park.  A few people are picnicking.  There's an ice cream truck surrounded by kids tugging at their parents for ice cream money.  Old folks are sitting on benches feeding the pigeons.

The camera zooms in and shows us a dog chasing a bouncing ball.
He's a young bulldog with a happy look on his face.

The camera continues to follow along as the dog closes in on the ball.

Suddenly, the ball hits a tree root sticking out of the ground, takes a five-foot jump and smashes into the butt of a well-manicured poodle in the middle of doing her doggy-doo.  The speeding bulldog isn't able to stop in time, his foot lands in the middle of the poop "a la grass" and he slides headfirst into the poodle's owner, putting a doo print smack dab on the woman's thigh.

The bulldog's owner, by this time, catches up to his dog, grabs the leash, slips in the same place and falls backward.

You guessed it.

The camera pulls back.  Everyone, including the she-poodle, seems to be embarrassed by it all.  Everyone except the bulldog.  He just appears mildly irritated.  Probably because his ball got lost in the hubbub.

Together, both the poodle's owner and the bulldog's owner, rush over to the ice cream truck, dragging their dogs behind them, looking for napkins, paper towels, or anything else with which to clean smeared dog poop off of one's self.  The parents and kids line in front of the ice cream truck parted, sensing the urgency of the situation.

Needless to say, the ice cream truck's business came to a halt, as the couple stood off to one side, unceremoniously dabbing at themselves, cleaning up.

The bulldog lives to chase more balls, the dog's owners have cemented a lasting relationship, and the she-poodle has an admirer.

This is how it's done, writers.

REMEMBER IT.

WRITE IT DOWN.

As the camera pulls away and the credits come up, in the background you can see a young toddler reach down to pick up a stick of chocolate ice cream from the ground.

The camera fades to black as we hear a hysterical mother yelling.

"No!  Sweetie! THAT'S NOT ICE CREAM.

 D-O-N-'T!"

Frontal Nudity in Downtown Asheville

My wife and I checked into the Hampton Inn on the outskirts of Asheville during our first trip ever to North Carolina.  We wanted to visit the Biltmore, a gift to my wife from me, and do a little shopping downtown.

As we were checking in at the front desk we overheard this couple checking out of the motel, asking the clerk about a woman in downtown Asheville, who was strutting around bare-breasted.

"It's not, you know, illegal here in Asheville," the clerk answered. "And you're not the first ones that asked about her either. She comes out about this time every Summer for a couple of weeks, you know, then goes back to where-ever-it-is she belongs. There's been, you know, a couple of complaints from businesses downtown but for the most part, they just, you know, ignore her."

My wife and I took casual note of the conversation and went back to tending our own business, looking forward to visiting the Biltmore, doing some shopping downtown, and oh yes . . . . the inevitable wine tasting experience.

It took a good part of the morning to make it through the whole house at the Biltmore. The mansion was a little on the warm side . . . . being the middle of June and all, but we took it all in stride. We wound-up outside at the stables next to the courtyard area. I seated myself at a table off to the side, got myself a mint tea and enjoyed the cooling breeze while my wife engaged herself with the gift shop.

After "lunching" at the Deerpark Resturant, we headed downtown for more shopping. I was missing my regular afternoon nap, which means that my awareness of downtown Asheville was somewhat dulled, and for the moment, I was content to just be the chauffeur. This was, after all, a "gift" trip for my darling wife.

"THERE SHE IS", my wife yelled! "SLOW DOWN!  THAT WOMAN OVER THERE.  SHE'S NOT WEARING A BRA. Don't you see that woman on the bus bench?  Look at her . . . . she's . . . . . BRALESS."

My awareness returned with a snap and I almost hit a parked cop car. "Turn around! Go back," my wife yelled. "I want to see if what I think I saw is really what I saw. Get closer."

"What'ya mean get closer?" I yelled.  Half believing what my wife was asking me to do. "For what possible reason on God's green Earth could you possibly have for . . . . . .

I didn't get a chance to finish. The half-nude woman began chasing our car. She was flopping-about and running after us . . . hands waving in the air. "C. Allen . . . . C. Allen . . . . is that you? C. Allen . . . high school . . . . remember?  History Class. Remember?Longtime no-see . . . . C. A-l-l-e-n."

The Day I Almost Killed the Cat

Static electricity is, by far, one of the worst, scum­of­the­earth annoyances around. When it's cold outside, I either get zapped at, sparked at,  or discharged on, all winter long. It's so bad in my house, I can't even pull the metal chain on the ceiling fan without getting damn near electrocuted.

Last year, on a cold December day, while my wife was out shopping, I decided to watch a ball game on TV and enjoy a couple of beers. As is my custom, and much to the chagrin of my wife, I keep the front door wide open with the outer, storm door, pulled shut and latched. This gives me the ability to see my wife’s car when she pulls into the driveway from the comfort of my easy chair and gives me enough time to pick up my empty beer cans.  (You husbands know what I'm talking about.)

The second half of the ballgame was about to commence when the doorbell rang. There, all huddled together on my front porch stoop were a few of those nice, religious type people that go from door to door in the neighborhood handing out pamphlets and talking about someplace, probably in Texas, called Armageddon. “They’re just looking for converts,” my wife would always say. “Don’t you dare sign anything.”

Forever trying to be a good Christian, I always invited them in. This time was no exception. I figured they could stay inside a few minutes, get warm, leave me a pamphlet, and be on their way. My hypothesis was that their visit to my house was penance for not accompanying my wife to the mall, as I should have. What happened next was an accident, I swear to God.

Grabbing the beer with my left hand, I slid off the couch, slipped on my wooly slippers, and sauntered on over to greet my visitors. As I reached for the metal latch, a giant three­foot yellow spark leaped from the door and zapped me with a shock so intense it knocked me sideways against the wall. My Budweiser hit the floor spewing foam all over the front of my pants. The sudden movement and vocal (“dammit­to­hell”) expletives must have created quite a negative impression on the group because they quickly vacated my front porch leaving behind hundreds of pamphlets scattered all over the yard.

Standing out in front of my house with a wet crotch and a foamy beer can, I watched as they sped down the street on their bikes,­ shirt tails and butts, flapping in the wind. My neighbor walked over and asked me what happened, to which I replied. “I think I’ve just been blacklisted by the Holy Brethren of Mount Ararat Worshipers.”

That night, over supper, I told my wife the whole story.  To my dismay, she was not overly sympathetic. She’s not plagued by static shocks like I am and thinks I’m making too much fuss. “Man­up”, she's said time and time again. “Grin and bear it like a man."

Her continued disinterest troubled me somewhat and caused me reflection for several days. She just did not understand my plight. I needed to find a way to help her feel my pain.

The next morning, I came up with a plan. A good one if I do say so myself. On Sunday nights, right after the local news, my wife usually falls asleep on the couch. It’s her only nap of the week and her way of dealing with the stress of Monday mornings. Her nap is short but noisily intense.

We have avocado ­colored shag carpeting in our living room which fit right into my plan. I'd put on my wooly slippers, drag my feet over the floor until I was sure I had built up a nice static charge, sneak on over to where she was sleeping, gently touch my finger to her earlobe, and then ZAP! She'd receive thousands of electric volts, wake up with some ringing in her ears, and finally, come to the realization what I had been saying was the truth all along. Static shocks are the scum of the earth. We'd share the same plight each winter, and she'd no longer assail me for being such a wimp.

It was time to put my magnificent plan into action.

After a few minutes of foot­dragging on the carpet, I knew I had an unusually large charge built­up because I could feel the hair on my arm tickled as it waved back and forth, like ripe wheat swaying in the breeze on a remote Kansas farm.

As I was in the process of scooting on down to the end of the couch where she was sleeping it dawned on me. What if my clever plan should fail? What if the static shock should have no effect on her? What if she just woke up with my finger in her ear and no ZAP.
Too many "what­ifs" for me. Being the perfectionist that I am, I needed assurance that my plan would work. I needed PROOF. What I needed was a TEST SUBJECT.

The cat, her cat Fluffy, was asleep on the other end of the couch curled up in a gray ball, with one ear pointed straight up, like sleeping cats have a tendency to do. I reversed my foot-dragging direction, got down on my knees and slowly crawled across the floor toward Fluffy, my index finger poised for the spark. The hair was still twitching on my arm meaning that the high voltage amperage charge was still there. This was going to be good, and quite amusing.

Bracing my left hand on the floor I used my right index finger to sneak up on Fluffy’s ear. Closer and closer I sneaked. Three inches. Two inches. One inch ­ BANG, SCREECH, YEOWWWW, POOF!

The shock bounced my entire body up off the floor. My finger was still bent into a pointing position but had turned grayish black and all covered with goo. Burnt cat goo. There was a small puff of smoke rising toward the ceiling and a horrible stench in the air. My head was hurting and Fluffy was missing.  And of course, all this commotion woke up my wife.

I got up off my knees and wiped my finger on the back of my pants. “What in the hell are you doing down there?” she asked. “I dropped my car keys and thought they went under the couch”, I answered. “Sorry. I woke you up, didn't I? Go on back to sleep”.
Fluffy was outside, okay but dazed. I scooped her up to carry her back inside. As I reached for the metal door, the second time today, (you guessed it),  ZAP! ­

The Smiling Elephant

We have a restaurant here in Nashville known as The Smiling Elephant. It's a great place to eat and relax.  I was obliged to eat lunch there the other day while my pet Guinea pig was at the vets down the street being neutered.

I'm not adverse at trying new places to eat but I'll be the first to admit I don't know a damn thing about Thai food. I was pleasantly surprised.

For my drink, I ordered Lemon Grass tea. That sounded pretty straightforward to me---might taste like funny lemonade, and I thought it was worth a try. The tea was almost to my liking. It tasted more like grass than lemon and could have used a sweetener, but what-the-hey, I was savoring the experience by putting-on-airs at a fancy restaurant while my Guinea pig was being "altered".

For my entree, I ordered the special. I can't pronounce the name of the dish but it had a couple of "moo's" in it. This didn't make a lot of sense to me because the dish was mostly curried pork over rice. Why would a pork dish have the word moo in its name? Pigs don't moo, that would be a cow, or beef--not pork. The K-something moo C-something moo came with half a barbequed egg. I'm not kidding, the description of the dish included one-half of a barbequed egg. I asked the waiter which half of the egg they used. He replied the right half. I then asked him what they did with the other half. Sensing that he was on the spot here to come up with another witty answer, a glint came to his eye and he came back with "we use it in another dish".

He was on a roll and I was too, so I asked him, "How do you barbeque an egg?" "At night," he said. "That way, it won't slip through the grill."

At this point the conversation was getting a little too weird for me, so I just let his last comment slide. If I made him mad by saying something I shouldn't, he might consider spitting in my moo moo pork and half a barbequed egg on the side, dish. I didn't want to take the chance.  There are a few people in the world you don't want to make mad and your waiter is one of them. Your barber is another. I could think of a few more--------but someone would have to buy me a beer, first.

If you're ever in Nashville and want to "Thai-one-on" so to speak, The Smiling Elephant is your place.

C. Allen Benson