29 December 2012
617
R. Linda:
Strange but amusing things happen, and usually, they are burps in the flow of life and, therefore, never get mentioned. However, I have a short list of these life burps and thought to share them.
The first one stars me mother-in-law, the Dragon Lady. She has a bad ankle and two terrible knees and walks with a cane. For Christmas, she wanted a . . . I still can't get over this . . . she wanted a treadmill. Yes, she did, and yes, she got one. A cheap one, she said, because . . . well, one look at her and an expensive workout machine would be a total waste. Now, why did she want this? To build up her "atrophying muscles for an eventual operation." Oh sure. For twenty years, this cane business has been going on, and for most of it, her favourite telly show was HOUSE because why? The CANE. She even has two of the canes featured on HOUSE, and the one she likes best is the one on the right with the flames:
So she gets the treadmill, gets on it, sets it to one mile and starts it up. She finds she isn't stepping in "time" with the second counter, which is throwing her stride off a little farther than it already naturally is. This so distressed her that she got a piece of cardboard and covered the counter up so she had no clue how long she'd been on the treadmill or the distance she had walked or, in her case, limped. Though . . . how do you use a treadmill with a cane? I ask ya! I bet she uses the one with the flames when she's on the treadmill.
So there was that.
Next are the anonymous blog comments that come my way occasionally. When that first happened (see me blog story of 12 April 2012, The Captain Gets A Shiny Cement Counter Top), I made a story out of the commenter's website and said then I would do no more making a website famous. I also believe I said I would not let any comment with a link go through. And I have not. UNTIL today, when I found a way to cut out the website's free advertising. I don't care how complimentary one is to me blog; the website does not get through unless you do the one thing I have asked all along. And that is ASK ME FIRST. Just a polite asking for permission, and Bob's your uncle, I might put your site on the blog. But I might also write a story about it, so keep those things in mind if sending comments anonymously WITH attached websites and anonymous comments without links are fine by me. This is my second public service announcement on this subject, and hopefully, it be me last.
Then there was the Weasil Christmas some years back when the young whippersnapper was not yet married to Amanda (he hadn't even met her, I think) and spending his single freedom celebrating the yuletide at his stepmother's manor house in Scotland. Now, the Weasil, as we all know, be a rather high-energy type that, if he isn't in the thick of it, will make the thick of it just to be in it. Yesss. So on this particular Christmas Eve of which I be relating, I have it on good authority that after the festivities of Christmas Eve went down in the main part of the house, the Weasil had retired to an old wing that had the original kitchen to the manor (a newer one built on the other side of the house) and this kitchen, forever referred to as the storeroom, he considered at his own personal disposal to do as he wished. Well, he bribed two footmen to covertly "steal" goodies from the new kitchen all week long (which set cook and staff to wondering first who was misplacing the goodies, then who was stealing the goodies, to who had lost their mind and had there really been goodies, to begin with?) and bring them to HIS kitchen. I know this sounds trite, but we are talking Weasil and FOOD. And being a man, men like their food more than much else. That old adage: If you want to win a man's heart, COOK for him applies mightily in the world of the Weasil. The only problem is if you stop cooking, he's outa there. Anyway, on this particular Christmas Eve, Wolfie had the misfortune of being held hostage in the manor house. Yes, that is how it be put to me; the word "hostage" seems to imply he was stuck there. Weasil idolises the Wolf (and I know he'll deny this now), but he does. So, being excited about Christmas, Weasil was not ready to take himself to bed, and he wanted some amusement. He had stockpiled enough food for another feast, and he had his partners in crime get ready. He invited a few of his cousins (also staying at the manor), and they were having a wonderful time carousing when the thought struck Weasil to "rescue" Wolfie from the staid, straight lace world of the other side of the manor house. This he did by sending a lackey to covertly slip a note into Wolfie's hand. The note was an invitation of sorts, or rather, as Wolfie put it, a "Cryptic message that said, 'if you value your sanity, you'll come to the old storeroom ASAP. Tell no one.'"
His curiosity getting the better of the Wolf, the scotch and roaring fireplace setting with the master of the house being slightly too tame. Suddenly, he politely put a hand to his mouth as if stifling a yawn and gave the hour as his excuse to go to bed. But he didn't go there, oh no, he took himself down the many corridors to the quiet of that part of the old house no longer in use, and onward to the very back of it, and down into its bowels whereas he approached the storeroom, he could hear merriment. As he rounded the corner, there hanging from a bough of green garland, in the middle of the wide hallway was a note, a toy dart gun, and a pouch of rubber darts. The note said, "You'll need this before you enter. Signed: A Friend."
"Ah," Wolfie said, taking it down and stealthily making his way to the storeroom door. He listened, and as the noise level was on medium roar, he heard the plan to lob his unsuspecting self with darts as he entered a fabricated Weasil ambush! "Um hum," he thought, and taking the darts out of the pouch, proceeded to load the rubber darts into his gun. With the ease of a seasoned thief, he gently turned the old doorknob, easing open the door but a slight crack. He saw the miscreants, some in loosened livery, some in their pyjamas. Some dressed still in party array, eating, drinking, toasting A LOT the wassail call, and all of them haphazardly shooting rubber darts on the ceiling beams, or too busy filling their faces to notice the door push wide and in the frame of it WOLFIE, who got a good one in on Mr. Weasil before all started scrambling and overturning furniture to either afford themselves time to load or keep out of the way of flying darts. There was a fully loaded dart gun on the table next to Wolfie, and he picked it up and double-barrelled his way in. Imagine the surprise the young scamps got when, all the while, they were in there plotting how to get the Wolf first!
Later, he found his 'friend' was Weasil's step-mummie, who was all too wise to the young whippersnapper's ways.
And lastly, because I just can't help meself. I want to know which one is the donkey?
Gabe
Copyright © 2012 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
Strange but amusing things happen, and usually, they are burps in the flow of life and, therefore, never get mentioned. However, I have a short list of these life burps and thought to share them.
The first one stars me mother-in-law, the Dragon Lady. She has a bad ankle and two terrible knees and walks with a cane. For Christmas, she wanted a . . . I still can't get over this . . . she wanted a treadmill. Yes, she did, and yes, she got one. A cheap one, she said, because . . . well, one look at her and an expensive workout machine would be a total waste. Now, why did she want this? To build up her "atrophying muscles for an eventual operation." Oh sure. For twenty years, this cane business has been going on, and for most of it, her favourite telly show was HOUSE because why? The CANE. She even has two of the canes featured on HOUSE, and the one she likes best is the one on the right with the flames:
So there was that.
Next are the anonymous blog comments that come my way occasionally. When that first happened (see me blog story of 12 April 2012, The Captain Gets A Shiny Cement Counter Top), I made a story out of the commenter's website and said then I would do no more making a website famous. I also believe I said I would not let any comment with a link go through. And I have not. UNTIL today, when I found a way to cut out the website's free advertising. I don't care how complimentary one is to me blog; the website does not get through unless you do the one thing I have asked all along. And that is ASK ME FIRST. Just a polite asking for permission, and Bob's your uncle, I might put your site on the blog. But I might also write a story about it, so keep those things in mind if sending comments anonymously WITH attached websites and anonymous comments without links are fine by me. This is my second public service announcement on this subject, and hopefully, it be me last.
Then there was the Weasil Christmas some years back when the young whippersnapper was not yet married to Amanda (he hadn't even met her, I think) and spending his single freedom celebrating the yuletide at his stepmother's manor house in Scotland. Now, the Weasil, as we all know, be a rather high-energy type that, if he isn't in the thick of it, will make the thick of it just to be in it. Yesss. So on this particular Christmas Eve of which I be relating, I have it on good authority that after the festivities of Christmas Eve went down in the main part of the house, the Weasil had retired to an old wing that had the original kitchen to the manor (a newer one built on the other side of the house) and this kitchen, forever referred to as the storeroom, he considered at his own personal disposal to do as he wished. Well, he bribed two footmen to covertly "steal" goodies from the new kitchen all week long (which set cook and staff to wondering first who was misplacing the goodies, then who was stealing the goodies, to who had lost their mind and had there really been goodies, to begin with?) and bring them to HIS kitchen. I know this sounds trite, but we are talking Weasil and FOOD. And being a man, men like their food more than much else. That old adage: If you want to win a man's heart, COOK for him applies mightily in the world of the Weasil. The only problem is if you stop cooking, he's outa there. Anyway, on this particular Christmas Eve, Wolfie had the misfortune of being held hostage in the manor house. Yes, that is how it be put to me; the word "hostage" seems to imply he was stuck there. Weasil idolises the Wolf (and I know he'll deny this now), but he does. So, being excited about Christmas, Weasil was not ready to take himself to bed, and he wanted some amusement. He had stockpiled enough food for another feast, and he had his partners in crime get ready. He invited a few of his cousins (also staying at the manor), and they were having a wonderful time carousing when the thought struck Weasil to "rescue" Wolfie from the staid, straight lace world of the other side of the manor house. This he did by sending a lackey to covertly slip a note into Wolfie's hand. The note was an invitation of sorts, or rather, as Wolfie put it, a "Cryptic message that said, 'if you value your sanity, you'll come to the old storeroom ASAP. Tell no one.'"
His curiosity getting the better of the Wolf, the scotch and roaring fireplace setting with the master of the house being slightly too tame. Suddenly, he politely put a hand to his mouth as if stifling a yawn and gave the hour as his excuse to go to bed. But he didn't go there, oh no, he took himself down the many corridors to the quiet of that part of the old house no longer in use, and onward to the very back of it, and down into its bowels whereas he approached the storeroom, he could hear merriment. As he rounded the corner, there hanging from a bough of green garland, in the middle of the wide hallway was a note, a toy dart gun, and a pouch of rubber darts. The note said, "You'll need this before you enter. Signed: A Friend."
"Ah," Wolfie said, taking it down and stealthily making his way to the storeroom door. He listened, and as the noise level was on medium roar, he heard the plan to lob his unsuspecting self with darts as he entered a fabricated Weasil ambush! "Um hum," he thought, and taking the darts out of the pouch, proceeded to load the rubber darts into his gun. With the ease of a seasoned thief, he gently turned the old doorknob, easing open the door but a slight crack. He saw the miscreants, some in loosened livery, some in their pyjamas. Some dressed still in party array, eating, drinking, toasting A LOT the wassail call, and all of them haphazardly shooting rubber darts on the ceiling beams, or too busy filling their faces to notice the door push wide and in the frame of it WOLFIE, who got a good one in on Mr. Weasil before all started scrambling and overturning furniture to either afford themselves time to load or keep out of the way of flying darts. There was a fully loaded dart gun on the table next to Wolfie, and he picked it up and double-barrelled his way in. Imagine the surprise the young scamps got when, all the while, they were in there plotting how to get the Wolf first!
Later, he found his 'friend' was Weasil's step-mummie, who was all too wise to the young whippersnapper's ways.
And lastly, because I just can't help meself. I want to know which one is the donkey?
Gabe
Copyright © 2012 All rights reserved
