The Dog Convention

1 07 2018

Recently, my good friend, Bobby Long, posted the following poem on Facebook and I felt compelled to write a follow-up to give the story a proper ending.


The Dog Convention

There was a Great Dog Convention.

They came from near and far.

Some came on bicycles,

And some came in cars.


Y’know, before they could enter

Or even take a look,

They had to take their butts off

And hang it on a hook.


But before they even got seated,

(every mother, pup and sire),

An old dog hollered from the back,

“Run for your life. It’s a FIRE!”


The crowd of dogs began to panic

And nobody stopped to look,

They grabbed the very nearest butt

From the very nearest hook.


And this is why, even today,

A dog will drop a bone,

To sniff another dog’s butt,

To see if it’s his own.

(Author unknown)


As Paul Harvey would say, “And now for the rest of the story.”


It was the second annual dog convention

And every dog had come

The air was filled with apprehension

For each had another’s bum


For it was only in the year before

Old Rex, the cock-a-poo

Had everyone running for the door

And pulled the great switcheroo


So, all the dogs that came that day

Were hoping to acquire,

The same butt that they had last year

Before the bogus fire.


They came, they sniffed, they searched about

But not a dog could find,

The old butt that they longed to have

Their own long-lost behind


So, finally they all took a vote

And passed a proclamation

Each hoping that this edict would spread

Throughout the doggie nation.


For it seems that they could all agree

This sniffing ain’t so bad;

As, it gave each dog a chance to see

A butt they never had.


So, this is how it’s going to be

From now to kingdom come

All dogs running around with glee

To sniff each other’s bum.

(author: Bill Taylor)


Biker Duck

10 06 2018

In 1995, singer/song-writer/composer, Neil Sedaka wrote his own lyrics which he then put to several pieces from classical masters such as Tchaikovsky, Chopin and Beethoven. So, more recently, I decided to take the classic duck walks into a bar routine and write my own joke but put to poetry. It’s just a little verse that simply popped into my head one day.


A duck walked into a biker bar                                        

And said he’d like a beer.

The bar-keep said, “We don’t serve ducks,

Now waddle out of here.”

So parched and lonely he left the bar

And returned the very next day.

The bar tender told him, “We only serve bikers

You need to go away.”

But never one to be deterred                                                   

The duck returned once more

He gave the bartender his toughest look     

As he waddled through the door.

“Barkeep, a round for the house!”

He yelled with a snarly grin

Then come outside and show me

Where I can park my Schwinn.


My PC Has Gone PC!

27 05 2018

Who could forget this modern marvel?

The personal computer first became available in 1981. At the time, I was the safety director for the City of Durham, North Carolina and as my co-workers were surrendering their IBM Selectric typewriters for new IBM computers and struggling to learn new terminology such as MS-DOS, RAM and floppy, I was doing all within my power to avoid letting anyone put one of those infernal contraptions on my desk. My hope was to be able to complete my working career and reach retirement before this new technology was forced upon me. Of course, that didn’t happen. Technology moved faster than crap through a goose.


Not only was technology trucking along at warp speed, the world was also changing socially. The workplace was no longer accepting of “blue humor,” and rightfully so. The office is not an appropriate venue for off-color jokes or innuendo, particularly in mixed company. Long gone is the pin-up tool calendar hanging in the maintenance manager’s office. And while these are positive changes, somewhere along the way, progressives (see definition below) decided to take it to the extreme and, political correctness was born, and with it, the nation of the offended.


Anti-Ridiculous, Not Anti-Progress

Until recently, I considered myself a rebel. A holdout against political correctness. An advocate for normal speech. By that, I mean, I still use gender-specific terms like freshman, ladies and gentlemen, and husband and wife. I still refer to a dead guy as a dead guy and not a permanently static post-human mass. I still call a lady a lady. And don’t even think of inviting me to speak at your commencement because I will invoke the name of Jesus while on your campus. If someone is deaf, I will say he is deaf. Oh, but then some hyper-sensitive progressive would likely correct me, saying, “He’s hearing impaired.” Excuse me, libiot, Merriam-Webster (FYI-that’s the paper version of Wikipedia.) defines deaf as, “lacking or deficient in the sense of hearing.” He lacks the ability to hear! He’s deaf!


Anyone who uses a computer is familiar with spell-check and auto-correct-those helpful yet annoying features of Microsoft Word that automatically correct our spelling errors or replace the words we want to use with those Microsoft thinks we want to use. Well, recently, I had an experience that I couldn’t believe, although I shouldn’t have been surprised. It was one of those head-smack’n moments when you suddenly realize the absurdity of something and smack your hand against your forehead.


I was using my work computer to write something about confined spaces. I typed in the word “manhole.” Immediately, a red underscore appeared below “manhole” along with a message box. The message was suggesting I use gender-neutral language such as “a utility access hole.” How dare it! A machine telling me to be politically correct! I won’t take that from my mama; I’m certainly not going to take it from a plastic box full of doo-dads and doo-hickeys held together by screws and solder.

This is PC run amok!


As a result, I no longer consider myself a mere rebel. I am now a crusader against political correctness. I suppose it’s only a matter of time before artificial intelligence takes over completely. Hopefully, I’ll be raptured before that happens.


Progressive: a left-leaning loon who goes to extreme measures to shove their own ideology down the throats of normal people. Progressives can usually be found loitering in large clusters at college faculty lounges, newspaper offices and Barbra Streisand film festivals.

I Could Care Less!

20 05 2018

I could care less. That’s not right. Yet, so many people say it that way. The correct term is, I couldn’t care less. To say, I could care less, implies that it is possible for me to care less than I do. It says, I have more care to give. If I’m trying to express the fact that something is of absolutely no concern to me, then I would want folks to understand that I could not (couldn’t) care any less than I already do because my bag of care regarding a given issue is empty. I have no more caring. I couldn’t care less.


Think of it this way. I could not care any less about the royal wedding than I already do. If so then I could care less. But, because I am at the abyss of caring about the royal wedding, it is impossible for me to care any less. Therefore, I couldn’t care less about the royal wedding. I couldn’t care less what the bride was wearing. I couldn’t care less how much was spent on the wedding. I couldn’t care less where everyone sat. I couldn’t care less who was invited. Any questions?

Whoa! That was Weird!

4 05 2018

I’m sure I’m not the only one who has those moments when you realize what just happened and you just say, “Whoa! That was weird!” For example: Major League Baseball fans will remember Dale Murphy, all-star outfielder for the Atlanta Braves back in the 80s. I would turn the channel to TBS to see the Braves game or just come upon it while surfing the channels and every time, without fail, Dale Murphy would be at bat-not Ozzie Virgil; not Rafael Ramirez; not Glenn Hubbard or Bob Horner-but always, Dale Murphy. It was uncanny.


Or, I might see a road sign indicating my exit is three-quarters of a mile away. When I read the sign my immediate thought, as would be most Top Gun fans, is something like, “Call the ball,” or “Maverick has the ball,” both, lines from the movie Top Gun. Then I get to my hotel room, turn the television on and Top Gun is playing on TV.


And, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen or heard something that made me think of a movie I haven’t seen in years only to have that movie show up on television within the next few minutes or hours. Or like last night when I was mixing up a marinade, I yelled to my wife in the other room, as I stood befuddled in front of the open refrigerator, “Do we have any soy sauce?” At the exact same moment, I said soy sauce, I heard it on television. It was if I were lip-syncing the words.

he ball,

One recent Saturday morning, I got out of bed and walked to the bathroom, as always, with a song in my head. It was one of those songs that you just can’t get rid of and keeps playing over and over in your head until you feel it’s going to drive you crazy. In the shower, it played. Cooking breakfast, it played. While I ate, it played. All morning long, it kept playing. I tried to recall if I had heard the song recently but, it being an old country song from 1973, I could not recall when I even had an opportunity to hear it. So, I jumped into the car to make my regular Saturday morning grocery store run and when I started the car and turned on the radio, that song was playing-not just playing but it picked up at the same place in the song in which it was playing inside my head! It was as if my head had been tuned into Sirius. I sat for a moment and thought, “Whoa! That’s weird!”

Anything like this ever happen to you? Tell me about your weird experiences.


21 01 2018


Kids will be kids.

Last Wednesday morning it began to snow and the snow didn’t stop until it was nearly a foot deep. Or, as my good friend, Jim, would say, “axel deep to a Ferris wheel.” Then, true to form for the South, the next morning, the sun shined bright, the temperature rose to nearly sixty and everything began to melt. As you might imagine, after two days of unrelenting, copious melting, the ground is good and soggy.


So, today, Saturday, on my way to the store to do my weekly grocery shopping, I drove past a park and noticed there were a number of parents with their toddlers in the park. The little tykes were having a blast playing on the swings, sliding down the slides into the mud pool awaiting at the lower end, and doing what kids do in a park. I thought to myself, why would responsible parents bring their one, two and three-year olds to play in a park when the ground was so wet and muddy? Then (smack my forehead), like the floor when I fall, it hit me…these parents had been shut up in the house with these little hellions for three days and were at the end of their rope of tolerance. They were dying to get out of the house. Also, I’ll point out, this park was in one of the more “progressive” neighborhoods with “Resist” signs in the front yards of the older refurbished homes owned by young parents who believe spanking is a form of child abuse. Guess they figured they had better get out of the house before they snapped and betrayed their theory that little Aaron and Moonbeam should never experience spanking. Regardless of their parental theories, I can’t say as I blame them.


Move Over Edison, There’s a New Inventor in Town!

26 11 2017

I consider myself somewhat of an inventor. I came up with the idea for the GLH System, but Ron Popeil, the most prolific inventor of our time, beat me to the patent office. You remember the GLH System, don’t you? GLH stands for “Great Looking Hair.” That was the hair-in-a-can. You get a color that matches your hair and spray your bald spot. What could be easier?


I was about 8-years old sitting in churchone Sunday morning, behind Lloyd Sturgis. Mr. Sturgis was about 180 years old with a grey ring of hair surrounding a large patch of bald, freckled scalp. The sunlight, streaming through the window behind me, lit up this bald spot and I thought to myself, if he had some grey paint, then he could paint that spot and it would blend in with his hair, and wouldn’t reflect the sun.


Then there was bacon scented underwear. Okay, I realized when I looked back and saw every dog in the neighborhood following me that I hadn’t thought that one through.


But this one is a sure-fire winner. I call it the writer-printer. It’s a machine with a standard keyboard. Above, and in front of the keyboardis a roller with a knob on each end. You simply roll a piece of blank paper in behind the roller, and using the keys, you type your message. At the same time, you print out a copy! Time saved! No separate printer to buy and hook up. Let’s see you beat me to the patent office this time, Ron Popeil!

The Writer-Printer