Sometimes topics simply demand more research than a deadline allows.
I couldn’t do justice to this week’s topic, so I’m kicking the can down the road by dishing out another batch of research-free random thoughts.
I’ll confess to being impatient with people who pepper conversations with a slavishly recited “They say.” You know, like “They say that for everybody in the world, there’s a double.”
I guess their proclamation means every time you see an obituary, a fertile person somewhere is griping, “I’m not in the mood, but we owe it to the world to crank out a replacement!”
Don’t get me started on the classic “They say that deaths always come in threes.”
I’d love to retort, “Not any more they don’t! THEY died. All three of ‘they’! Oh, frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
I’m leery of people who declare authoritatively that there is no such thing as coincidences. They get all excited when a church building burns down but a painting of Jesus survives unscathed.
They declare it a miracle and attach a deep (if cryptic) spiritual meaning to it. But the blind guy, the lame guy and the leper in the crowd feel a little miffed. (“Too bad Lot’s wife isn’t here. Somebody could rub salt in our wounds.”)
One of the medical offices to which I took my mother had a prominent sign announcing, “Due to federal privacy law, we cannot allow photo or video taking in this office.”
But that’s the only office in which I’ve seen such a notice. I guess the other providers don’t care if some budding cinematographer shouts, “We’re on a tight budget for the prison scene, guys. Use those tongue depressors for shivs. What’s your motivation??? Your motivation is to finish this scene before you spend too much time around that loser with ringworm!”
I’ve known naïve people. I’ve known gullible people. I’ve known countrified people. Not one of them ever admitted to falling off the turnip truck.
I’m starting to think the whole stereotype was started by the rival rutabaga cartel. (“I didn’t fall off the turnip truck, but this IS my first rodeo. Do I get a prize if I can stay on the zucchini for eight seconds?”)
I’m self-conscious about my chest, so I’m not too keen on “shirts and skins” matches to start with. But seriously, if you can’t remember who is on your team and who is on the opposing team without the assistance of hairy nipples, maybe it’s time to become the equipment manager.
On a related note, I’m not really seeing the appeal of “going commando” vis-à-vis undergarments. Is it really empowering to think, “Ha ha … you don’t know that there’s nothing between me and my grimy jeans”? (Granted, it’s a better secret than “Ha ha … you don’t know I stopped to read an old magazine and got too close to the loser with the ringworm.”)
Seriously, is it truly that sexy to be able to get “nekkid” a split-second sooner? Wait until a Paris designer comes up with polyester pants with attached flame thrower!
Speaking of going up in flames, don’t feel bad if a few of these jokes died. THEY SAY someone somewhere is about to crank out sufficient replacements …