I Superglued Myself, And After Considering the Experience, I Can’t Recommend It

I superglued myself.  I’m not exactly sure it was Super Glue.  It could have been Gorilla Glue.  Or “Krazy Glue.”  We’ve got a closet full of them.    

The reason I superglued myself is because, as my loyal readers know, I am a very sensitive guy.  I am a “put the toilet seat back down” kind of guy.  A “take the garbage out only the third time I’m asked” kind of guy.  The kind of guy that doesn’t leave his clothes lying all over the bedroom floor – I politely pile them into a large heap at the foot of the bed.  Yes, I am that sensitive. 

Anyway, I woke up very sensitively, and went downstairs to feed my boss, Oliver the Cat, and make coffee – in that order.  (Oliver doesn’t tolerate insubordination.)

When I walked into the kitchen, on the counter sat one of my wife’s precious Christmas decorations broken into two pieces.  This really hit me hard – emotionally speaking – because my wife only has a limited number of decorations.  Albeit, that number is 1,355.  In fact (this is true), it takes 33 large boxes to store my wife’s limited number of decorations.  Each is very precious to her in its own special (did I say precious?) way. 

The victim was a small, plastic Christmas tree.  Here it is in its full glory –

Like a firefighter racing for the pole, I jumped into action.  I grabbed the sandwich bag full of super glues and went to work.  Yes, I did give passing thought to using plastic gloves.  However, that would have taken an extra 30 seconds, and I was on a mission. 

After EXPERTLY gluing the two halves together, I realized that I had also EXPERTLY glued my fingertips together.  My left index finger was now permanent affixed to my left thumb.

This is when my supergluing experience kicked in.  Like a jet pilot making a split-second decision after years of running emergency drills, I snapped into action.  I knew the longer I allowed the glue to hold my fingers together the stronger the adhesive would “set.”  So, with Herculean effort, I managed to pull them apart.  (Yes, I was very scared.)  They popped apart.  It actually made a loud POP!  It was such a loud POP that I was more than a little relieved to confirm that my fingers were still attached to their bodily appendages.  

I was so relieved my fingers were now separated that the coating of dried glue on their tips didn’t immediately concern me.  But after trying to wash, peel and then scrape the glue off – with ZERO success, I resigned myself to letting it simply wear off. 

However, when I got to my office and started to type, I learned a critical superglue-related disturbing, yet fun fact.  The coating of glue on the end of my index finger left me unable to feel the keyboard.  It was like the end of my finger had fallen to sleep.  It felt completely numb.

This is when I realized the full irony of my situation:

My sensitivity, had left me without any sensitivity.

In short, although I had superglued myself, I didn’t feel so super (glued).

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The Greatest Vomit Story Ever Told!

Official Disclaimer: Not the ACTUAL Fish that Swallowed Jonah

WARNING: I am not a certified Bible Historian.  But I DO know my way around a stone tablet.  In fact, one of my claims to fame is that I read the entire Idiot’s Guide to the Bible.  (Seriously, I have).  When I mentioned this to my minister, he got one of those sour looks on this face like he just ate a rotten peanut M&M.  It was clearly not on his seminary’s required reading list.    

Fortunately for you, my loyal readers, I have never let my ignorance on a topic stop me from offering my expert opinion, and I certainly have no intention of doing so now. 

My church is doing a sermon series on the Book of Jonah.  For the purposes of this column, I will refer to the name of my church as “Grace,” because its real name is Grace Community Fellowship, located at 989 Country Club Road in Eugene, Oregon, 97401.

There are two things I love about the Book of Jonah –

First, it’s not a book.  It’s about the length of a People Magazine article on the benefits of Botox.  The only thing shorter in the Bible than the Book of Jonah is the disclaimer on the inside cover that warns eager readers not to attempt to part the Red Sea at home. 

Second, it contains one the greatest verses in the entire Bible.  Here it is:

“And the Lord spake unto the fish, and it vomited out Jonah upon the dry land.”

I’m quoting the King James version so I can throw in the “spake unto” part.  That’s what we call “icing on the (vomit) cake.”

I don’t want to spoil it for you, in case you attend a church that is sinfully NOT currently studying Jonah.  Suffice it to say, however, that after three days in that fish, Jonah couldn’t have been happier to get vomited.  In fact, getting vomited was probably one of the best days of his life.  He probably remembered it fondly.  Perhaps even called it “V-Day.”

Picture it –

Jonah’s grandson, sitting at his grandfather’s knee, “Grandpa, tell me a story from when you were young.” 

Grandpa Jonah, “Have you eaten dinner yet, kid?  Maybe we should wait.”

So, that’s my Bible lesson for today.  In my expert opinion, the vomit verse is perhaps the most vivid (and certainly the most fun) verse in the entire Bible.  And I should know.  Remember, I’ve read the entire Idiot’s Guide to the Bible.

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Sominex Announces New “Impeachment Strength” Sleep Aid

Screenshot

Finally, our long national nightmare is almost over.  I am speaking, of course, of being forced to hear Official Cable News impeachment commentators tell us 1,000 times a day that the only beverages allowed on the Senate floor are water and milk.  For the record, I don’t buy that load of FAKE NEWS for a nanosecond.  If you think that there aren’t A MINIMUM of two dozen whisky flasks stashed throughout the Senate chamber, I’ve got some ocean front property in Arizona I’d like to sell you.

Whether you think this “historic” snooze-fest is a Galant Effort or a Witch Hunt, hopefully, we can join together to celebrate the new consumer product inadvertently discovered as a result of this impeachment trial.  Many successful consumer goods were discovered by accident.  Rogaine was invented as a heart medication.  Play-Doh was invented as a wall-paper cleaner.  Post-It Notes resulted from a scientist’s failed attempt to create a strong adhesive.  And now, thanks to the steadfast determination to keep the Russians from Stealing our Democracy (Oh, sorry, that was last week) … I meant, To Keep President Trump from Buying the Next Election, we now have one of the strongest sleep aids known to mankind.  One of these godless multinational companies needs to trademark the term, “Impeachment Strength” – and pronto. 

All of sudden, EVERYTHING is impeachment.

I overheard Oliver the Cat yesterday telling a neighborhood stray that he’s thinking about impeaching his political enemy, Milo the Dog.  From the bits and pieces, I could understand, Oliver thinks he has the votes in the House.  But he’s worried about the Senate.  Here he is looking worried (that or hungry – I’m not sure) – 

Meanwhile, I’m worried about one of my senators.  Ron Wyden has been representing Oregon since the Paleozoic Age.  I met him, and he’s a super nice guy.  But he’s got to be at least 110 years old.  These marathon impeachment sessions are brutal.  I can only hope that he’s keeping one of the approved Senate beverages close at hand, and by “approved,” I mean a whisky. 

Hang in there, Ron!

Screenshot

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The Biggest (and most insane) Impeachment Question

I’m NOT the only one pondering this critical question.  So is Oliver the Cat.  Here is Oliver doing some serious pondering (shortly before heading off to victimize a helpless bird) –

Whether you think the Democrats or the Republicans have gone off the deep end and are [insert your choice: 1. Evil, 2. Insane, 3. Dumb as a Bunch of Rocks, 4. Commies, 5. Nazis, or, my favorite, 6. Shameless Jacka**es], please pause and take time to laugh at our THIRD branch of government.  Why only laugh at the hijinks of the executive and legislative branches, when you can laugh at all three?

Case in point:

For the first one-million years of our republic, Supreme Court justices have worn plain, standard issue, black robes.  Tasteful, yes, but lacking that special panache.  That ended in 1995. 

That year, then Chief Justice William Rehnquist walked into the courtroom wearing four gold stripes on each of his sleeves.  I stole the photograph above from photographer Mark Wilson and Getty Images.  (If I’m prosecuted for this, I’ll claim some sort of journalist privilege, and as a backup plan – I’ll pray it’s only a misdemeanor.) 

Why did Chief Justice Rehnquist do this?  Where did he get such a notion?  Was it from his research into Western European judicial traditions?  Was it from a desire to inspire litigants as to the sacred role of the judiciary?  Not quite.  According to Adam K. Raymond’s article in the New York Intelligencer, “The embellishments were inspired by the ‘one worn by the Lord Chancellor in a local production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Iolanthe.’”

So, to be clear, Rehnquist went out to see a local play.  At the play, the head of the most powerful court IN THE WORLD, decided that he liked the cut of the Lord Chancellor’s jib, and the next morning he had his wife sew four gold bars on his sleeves.  The next time you hear the fancy legal term, “judicial discretion,” this is what they’re talking about. 

So, the BIG QUESTION?  Will our current Chief Justice John Roberts don the stripes when he enters the Senate chambers to preside over President Trump’s impeachment?  Is he too a fan of Gilbert and Sullivan?  Sadly, according to Adam Raymond’s article, the answer is, “no.”  But Roberts has surprised us before!  After all, he WAS the swing vote that upheld the constitutionality of Obamacare. 

Absolutely ANYTHING is possible!  For example, if you’re bored enough to watch the impeachment trial, and your mind begins to wander, you might keep yourself focused on the proceedings by speculating, what, if anything, is Roberts wearing under his robe?

So, stay tuned, and enjoy the show!

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Oliver the Cat Adopts “Peace Through Strength” Policy to Address Provocations of Milo the Dog

Following extensive research into 20th Century military tactics, Oliver the Cat has adopted Ronald Reagan’s “Peace through strength” policy.  Oliver would like you to know that he is NOT a Republican.  He is a card-carrying Libertarian.  (Well, if he had pockets, he WOULD be a card-carrying member.)  This policy is in keeping with one of Oliver’s favorite sayings – the old adage that, “The best defense is a good set of sharp claws.” 

Oliver is adopting this in direct reaction to occasionally having to share his home with his nemesis, Milo the Dog.  Oliver is convinced that Milo is looking for the first opportunity to wolf him down like a Taco Bell Chalupa. 

Oliver employs a three-step defense –

Step one: When he sees Milo, he immediately “puffs up.”  This is that technique that you’re supposed to use when you see a bear.  You lift you coat and raise your hands to making yourself look bigger.  In Oliver’s case, he shoots his back up into an arch that would make St. Louis jealous.  If he does this one more time, we’re going to have to take him to a cat chiropractor.   

Step two: He fires a “hiss” louder than an eighteen-wheeler releasing its air brakes.  (Seriously, Freightliner would be impressed.)

Step three: He charges at his enemy like a rocket.  I’m not sure what Oliver would do if he ever caught Milo, but I’m not interested in finding out.  And I’m quite sure that Milo’s “mom” (my daughter) is not.

Poor Milo, on the other hand, is outmatched on every front.  Milo is curious about Oliver, but he doesn’t seem to hold any grudges. 

Milo only has one true enemy: Skateboarders.

My daughter warned me that Milo “goes nuts” when he sees a skateboarder.  Even so, I was completely unprepared for the level of insanity when he spots one.  He saw a skateboarder half a block away while I was walking him, and (I am not exaggerating) he almost jerked my arm out of its socket lunging toward him. 

It is my fervent hope that one day these two furry knuckleheads we be able to achieve a lasting Détente.  In the meantime, (and I cannot stress this enough), it is critical to the safety of all mankind that we keep the launch codes away from Oliver.

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Nothing Says Buying in Bulk Like Watching a Kid Sneeze Directly into the Bin

My sister-in-law recently told me she liked to buy grocery items in bulk. You know – pasta, flour, rice, et cetera – from those big bins.  I told her that those bulk bins were dangerous because members of the “general public” had direct access.  It simply wasn’t sanitary.  I asked her why she was wasting time.  I suggested that she just have some snot-nosed kid sneeze directly into her mouth.  She told me I was an idiot, and pointed out that the bins were sealed. 

It is true that some bulk containers are sealed.  Those are the bins that have a lever at the bottom.  The lever is designed so that when you lift it, three times what you want shoots out like [redacted] from a goose.  Here is an example (of the bins, not the goose) –

Most bins, however, have lids designed to lift and expose their contents to the diseased ridden “general public.”  Here they are –

You might think that my comment to my sister-in-law was just an effort to get under her skin and, in general, be a jerk.  I want you to know that I am deeply offended by this.  Anyone who’s been reading my columns should know that, OF COURSE, this was my intention.    But I also said it because of something I witnessed the week before.  It happened in a natural food store near my office.  (I was there because it is near my office, not because it caters to women who last shaved their armpits during the Eisenhower Administration.)

Anyway, I was headed back toward the deli, and this took me right past the bulk food section.  A kid was lifting the lid from one of the bins.  He looked about seven or eight.  He stood for a moment pondering the contents.  Then, suddenly, he reared back and sneezed right into the bin with the blunt force of a Cat 5 hurricane.  Then he nonchalantly shut the lid …  and OPENED ANOTHER LID!

This got me thinking about lid height and the chances a kid might sneeze into a particular bin.  (The FDA really should pay me for this valuable research.)  Let’s take a look at this display for our research purposes –

These bins are positioned three rows high.  The lowest one is the perfect height for a communicably ill child to lift the lid and unleash a spray of virus thicker than a crop duster. 

My tireless research has resulting in the follow scientific findings: 

You should only buy food from containers positioned high enough so that children cannot access them.  By employing this important safety measure, you will only be eating food which has been sneezed on by adults. 

Bon appetite!

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Rose the Sheep Enjoys Much-Needed Support from Woman’s Bra

This Picture Used Completely Without Permission from UPI

I’ll begin by apologizing for this udderly ridiculous story.

I recently stumbled upon a scientific breakthrough in veterinarian medicine.  Sadly, the tsunami of fake news flooding recent headlines has practically drowned out this important, Pulitzer Prize worthy story written by Ben Hooper for UPI.  My regular readers know that I believe strongly that writers must stand behind the accuracy of their stories.  I will not attempt to dodge that responsibility here.  However, because I stole all this information from Mr. Hopper’s article, the SOLE blame for any and all errors should, of course, fall on his shoulders.    

A surprisingly little-known fact is that New Zealand sheep are particularly well-endowed.  You may be familiar with the various breeds of sheep.  There are wool sheep, “rack of lamb” sheep, and “Mary had a little lamb” sheep (bred specifically for counting).  In New Zealand, however, unbeknownst to the rest of us in the civilized world, debauched sheep ranchers have been breeding a line of sheep called Marilyn Monroe sheep.  I’m just kidding!  They’re called Dolly Parton sheep. 

Anyway, Mr. Hopper’s story explains that there is an unfortunate sheep condition that can cause a sheep’s udder (SUPER GROSS WARNING! You should really stop reading here) to hang so low that, “it can be traumatized on the ground.”  (Ouch!  Even my nipples are hurting at this point!)

I know what you’re thinking.  This is a ripe opportunity for some creative soul to rip off that classic song that goes, “Do your ears hang low?  Do they wobble to and fro?  Can you tie them in a knot?  Can you tie them in a bow?”  People discover meaning in life by finding a need and then filling it.  (Do the world a favor.  Fill this void.)

The name of the sheep in the risqué lingerie photo above is Rose.  She’s sporting a maternity bra size 24J.  The vet cut holes in Rose’s bra so she could nurse her three lambs.  (Mr. Hopper’s story insinuates that the third lamb is the one guilty of injuring Rose’s “sheep bosom.”)  During her pregnancy, it apparently, and without warning, dropped like a fat man from the gallows.

Rose’s plight has inspired me to begin manufacturing a line of bras for domesticated animals.  Why stop at sheep?  Have you ever taken a good look at the udder on a Holstein cow?  Talk about one of God’s creatures in need of a little support!  And don’t think for a moment that nanny goats couldn’t use a little relief.

I’m going to see if Victoria’s Secret wants to partner with me to start a dairy line.  We’ll give the new company a seductive name – “Victoria Secret’s Udderly Fabulous.”

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How To Become A Chicken Wing Hero

I don’t want to compare myself to the freedom fighters in Hong Kong, but there arise moments in our lives where we must choose to either step up and act for the greater good or back away and allow wrong to prevail.  Good versus evil.  I came to such a crossroads recently.  It tested my very fiber.  Was it on a dusty street in a communist country?  Not exactly.  It was at a Safeway chicken wing bar. 

It occurred at the end of a long day.  I stopped by Safeway for some takeout.  Safeway has a chicken wing cart near its deli.  They put out six flavors.  Among them are BBQ, Buffalo, General Tso’s, and my favorite, Salt and Vinegar. 

This is where the trouble began.

I marched up to the chicken wing bar and found, for the third visit in a row, that all the Salt and Vinegar wings were gone.  COMPLETELY gone.  Yet again, I found myself staring down at an empty stainless-steel tray.  My disjointed reflection on its bottom mocked me. 

Here is the injustice: All the other trays with the other flavored wings were filled to the brim.  Salt and Vinegar wings were apparently the crack cocaine of chicken wings.  People were literally gobbling them up.  And by people, I mean people who got off work earlier than me.  Which, by the way, means that they probably weren’t working as hard as me, and therefore, did not deserve the tasty Salt and Vinegar wings nearly as much as me. 

This was my fork in the road.  This was my Birmingham.  This was my Tiananmen Square.  This was my Hong Kong.

I marched up to the deli counter and demanded to speak to the chicken wing manager.  (I was going straight to the top.) 

An older woman in a hair net emerged and said she was the manager.  I laid out my complaint in no uncertain terms.  Why in the world were they making the same quanity of all the flavors, when any moron with an IQ above room temperature could tell that Salt and Vinegar were the most popular?  It was an outrage!

The hair net lady listened patiently.  Then she explained that the store was sent a box with packets of the same amount of each seasoning for each flavor.  They used all the seasoning each day.  They were making all the Salt and Vinegar wings they could.   

Dagnabbit!  The hair net lady had me CHECK and MATE!  I had dared to step up to the precipice of the chicken wing powers, but the chicken wing powers prevailed – THIS TIME. 

I would need to retreat and regroup.

So for today, but only today, I’ll let the freedom fighters in Hong Kong take all the glory.

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Brace for Impact – The First Annual Edwards Family Year-end Letter

I always enjoy reading “Year-end Letters” from families updating us on their activities during the prior year.  I especially enjoy their humble nature.  For example, here are a few excerpts from a letter I received last year:

“Guess who just got accepted into Harvard?  As if any of us doubted he’d get in!” 

“Jim got an enormous raise!  ‘Somebody’s’ shopping for a new Escalade!  Ha ha!” 

“Who says air travel sucks?  Our family flew to Monaco last August in first class ‘pods.’  We arrived fresh as daisies!” 

Well, I’ve decided to get in on the act.  So, without further ado, I present the inaugural Edwards Family Year-end Letter –

The Edwards Family Year-end Letter

We have MUCH to be thankful for this year!  

Where to even begin?

We celebrated a VERY thankful Thanksgiving.  Timmy was released early for good behavior, so he was able to join us for the first time in three years!  (Those of you who were able to attend his trial know he was railroaded.  Everybody but those stupid jurors know eye-witness testimony isn’t reliable!  Plenty of people wear spiked purple hair and have a Mickey Mouse tattoo on their neck.) 

Little Suzie got a lesson about corporate greed this year.  After only five days on the job at McDonald’s, Suzie was shocked to learn about an unreasonably strict rule.  Apparently, buried in the fine print of the McDonald’s employee handbook is a rule that says being late for your shift three days in a row is cause for termination.  But Suzie’s a fighter!  She’s already written an email to Bernie Sanders asking him to do something about this injustice once he’s sworn into office.

The whole family (minus Timmy, of course) had a more exciting summer vacation than we’d planned.  Long story short, we checked into a cozy Motel 6 just off the highway near Seaside.  (Well, it used to be a Motel 6.)  It turned out the place had a catastrophic lice infestation.  Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!  We’ll remember that vacation!

I should also take this opportunity to address the rumor that I had an affair with a stripper named Candy from Newport a few months back.  First of all, her name is Candi, with an “i”, and NO, I did not have an affair.  And even if I did, it would have meant nothing to me.  (Honey, I swear!  It meant nothing to me!)  So, please take anything you hear about me during the coming year with a grain of salt.

That about wraps up the year! 

The entire Edwards family wishes you and yours all the luck we’ve enjoyed as we begin the new year!

(Important Author’s Note:  The real Edwards family does not have a son named Timmy.  We do not have a daughter named Suzie.  And I do not know any strippers named Candi, with or without an “i”!)

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Oliver the Cat Takes Time from His Busy Day to Teach a Philosophical Lesson

As you may recall, Oliver the Cat showed up on our doorstep last winter and informed me and my wife that he was now living in our (his) home.  So far, Oliver has been quite reasonable.  With few exceptions, he has let us have the run of the place. 

You may also recall that I didn’t have much trouble identifying his breed.  He’s not a Siamese cat.  He’s not an American short-hair cat.  He’s an “Alarm Cat.”  Oliver begins meowing like a tsunami siren at 5:30 every morning, and if I don’t spring up like a firefighter racing for the pole, then he starts whacking his paw against our bedroom door.  Oliver has all the patience of Saddam Hussain.

As it turns out, Oliver is also the first feline Philosophy Professor.  Let me explain –

We live in Eugene, Oregon.  Oregon is famous for its rain.  Out of the 365 days of the year, on average, it rains 366.  (This is just in case it’s a leap year.)  Well, Oliver isn’t much for rain.  He might go out and prowl around the porch, but Oliver’s more of a sunny-weather cat.

So, here’s the deal.  We usually let Oliver out through the front door.  He’ll make it clear he wants to go out by running straight for the door and then freezing and staring at it like he’s a statue.

When I open the door, Oliver always sticks his head out to survey the situation before he exits.  If it’s raining, he’ll do a U-turn and head back in. 

But that’s not the end of it.  Oliver will then run down the hall to the back door.  I will then dutifully go open that door for him as well.  You see, Oliver figures that just because it’s raining outside the front door, doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s raining outside the back door.  I’m not saying that Oliver does this every time he sees it raining outside the front door, only 99% of the time.  (I’m guessing Oliver flunked Earth Science in middle school.)

Because I am a little slow off the dime, it took me a while to figure something out.  It’s a lesson I keep trying to remember:

Oliver is not the only one looking out the front door and then checking the back.  Oliver isn’t the only one who can’t see the big picture.  It’s me.  Here I am sitting on this little blue planet in this vast unending universe, which I can only describe as an impossibility.  And I regularly make the mistake of thinking I have even a modicum of understanding of how it works.  In short, I am not much smarter than Oliver the Cat. 

Thank you for helping me remember this, Professor Oliver.  See you at 5:30 a.m.

**************30****************

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