Pathetic Sick Man Alert Involving Angry Chest Badgers

Yes, we are aware that one of our high school friends is recovering from a very, very serious back problem, and that the global economy is being dragged down the tubes by China.

But the blog is a sick man, and we need to whine.

Shut up.

We are now on on Day 18 of Killer Horror Chest Gunk That Is Not Flu, But Which Is Way Worse Than Ebola With Angry Chest Badgers.

We are now on our second doctor and third antibiotic.

And we are pretty much coughing our head off today because Doctor Number Two said that, most of the time, cough medicine is a very bad idea.

Which means this blog has spent $45 on three bottles of cough medicine that, turns out, has actually thrilled the 10 billion killer horror virus germs in our chest and bronchial tubes, which feel like angry chest badgers on crack.

They are very, very angry because the blog has thrown everything at them but the kitchen sink, and yet they continue burrowing like mad and breeding.

(I cannot wait to hear the doctor’s comments about yesterday’s chest x-ray: “old, round patient presented with what appears to be 10 billion killer horror chest badgers, for which there is no treatment protocol, so we are going to go play golf.”)

In addition to the three, count them, THREE ANTIBIOTICS, we have attacked the chest badgers with potions and lotions and natural whup-ass recommended by my sister, Junior’s girlfriend the natural food and meds expert, and from my late Mom’s arsenal of cure-alls, including:

  • Colloidal silver
  • Black tea with a whole lemon and honey
  • Tea made from “sage” (and possibly mud) from the Missus’ garden
  • Cough medicine with expectorant
  • Cough medicine without expectorant
  • Cough medicine with built in phlegm
  • $28 worth of Lemsip
  • A No. 2 washtub of freshly squeezed lemon juice (from the Missus’ garden)
  • A bucket of Vitamin C tablets and pills and dust PLUS…
  • Small silver packets (shaped like McDonald’s ketchup) of the super duperest, purest, most natural form of concentrated Vitamin C on the planet, which, as we understand it, is made by using the super collider super conductor to collapse the universe, squeeze out every Vitamin C atom, and then suck the suns from 10 million galaxies right out of their orbits and in to the little silver packets (which cost $1.50 each), creating a Nuclear Vitamin C paste that tastes like chewable vitamin C tablets that have been rolled through a hospital tuberculosis ward.
  • Vicks VapoRub, applied liberally to my chest, the soles of my feet inside woolly socks, and to my moustache (and, thus, my eyeballs)
  • Throat lozenges purchased from gas stations, pharmacies, health food shops, and a guy named Iggy who hangs out behind the pool hall
  • Oil of Eucalyptus (inhaled over the bathroom sink, just before horking up numerous lungs and a tennis shoe)
  • Ibuprofen
  • Panadol
  • Codeine
  • Asthma inhaler
  • and, while we do not recall consuming moonshine or heroin, we could be wrong

This is because, even on the blog’s best of days, keeping track of stuff is not our strong suit.

So the blog trying to keep an organized  record of when we took all of the above, using the Missus’ cute little square sheets of papers, in a rainbow of attractive colors, is the ultimate effort in futility.

This is because a) we almost certainly have early onset Alzheimers due to high school football concussions, according to the Missus; b) what was the question; and c) no one on the planet, including ourownself, can read the blog’s handwriting.

To wit: “I think that either says, ‘took 2 ibuprofen and both antibiotics’ or possibly ‘gargled with squirrel juice and licked 2 emus’.”

And to top this off, the blog’s temperature has at times SOARED to 38 degrees Celsius, which, if you convert it, must be well over 900 degrees.

Touch and Go

It makes the humble blog uncomfortable saying this, but, considering our numerous near death experiences, and being subjected to weeks of New Zealand’s awful daytime TV shows, we have been far braver than the Yanks on a Train.

While we don’t begrudge the French government giving these guys all sorts of honors, the blog figures that, at the least, we deserve the Congressional Medal of Honor, an iron lung, some very old Scotch, and a new hobbit puppy.

But that’s just the blog. All heroically pathetic.

Coughing at the bottom of the world.

In the cold, New Zealand winter rain.

Blerg.

 

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So Many Miracles Surrounding My Mom’s Death

miracles happen

 

(Editor’s Note: After the previous post on abortion, I’m not sure how to get back to funny.  So I decided to publish this piece about “my miracles”.  I wrote this and three other stories as part of what I’d hoped would be a book on miracles. That did not happen, so this will.)

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One of the hardest things I ever did was emigrate to New Zealand in 1993, but that’s what was required by my young family.

My Mom had a chronic, debilitating lung disease that not even the Centers for Disease Control could diagnose.  I knew she was not going to get better.  So moving halfway around the world was really hard.

Thankfully, we got to stay with Mom and my step-dad C.B. for about a month while waiting for NZ Immigration to give us the go-ahead.

The delays and red tape about drove my Missus crazy.  But I saw it as a time of grace that gave me precious extra time to spend with Mom.  This was enormously important to me, because I didn’t know if I’d ever see her again.

We made the most of our time, cherishing the simple things.  Mom and I would take short walks, talk, eat, play with my 4-year-old son, and laugh a lot.  Then at night, I would beat Mom.  Either using a hand-held pounding machine or the cup of my hand against her back.

Afterward, Mom would work as hard as she could to cough up the phlegm that was trying to kill her.  The massive nightly effort would leave her breathless and exhausted.  For the rest of the night, she’d sit quietly, breathing oxygen, trying to recover, and watching her son, his wife, and her grandson who were soon to move to the other side of the world.

You can imagine the flood of tears when we left for the airport.

But my tiny Mom was tough.  Despite her mysterious disease, she hung in there.  After we got settled into New Zealand, Mom, her oxygen bottle and C.B. came for a visit.  It gave her peace to see where we lived and to be reassured that we were safe and had a good life.

When she went back to the States, Mom’s chronic lung condition got progressively worse.  It weighed heavily on my mind, and my heart, and created an impossible dilemma for me.  I was a senior manager in a small P.R. firm, and the sole bread-winner in my family. I could not jet home every time Mom’s health took a turn for the worse.

A dozen times a day, I’d ask myself, “When should I go home?  What if Mom dies before I get there?  What if I go home and she gets better, and I fly back to New Zealand, and then she gets worse again?  What if I can’t get the time off?  What if I have to quit my job to go?  How will I pay for my family’s needs?”

I prayed countless rosaries, seeking answers and peace.  Even so, the constant worry was wearing me down.  I just did not know what to do.

Then one Sunday afternoon in 1995, I was in my bedroom in New Zealand, ironing my shirts, staring out the second-story window, worrying about Mom, praying, and sighing to the depths of my weary soul.

That’s when I *heard a woman’s voice say, “Go home.”

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We Were Lied To About Abortion. We Have to Stop

(A very serious one about abortion)

 

Oh little baby, you’ll never cry, nor will you hear a sweet lullabye. 

Oh unborn child, if you only knew just what your momma was plannin’ to do.

You’re still a-clingin’ to the tree of life, but soon you’ll be cut off before you get ripe.

When I was a senior at Norman High School, in 1974, I remember happily buying the new Seals & Crofts album, then getting really angry at the lyrics to the cover song.

It was the year after the Supreme Court ruled on Roe v. Wade, five years after Woodstock’s “sex, drugs and rock’n’roll”, and six years after Pope Paul VI released his encyclical Humanae Vitae (Of Human Life).

I was a heathen and a virgin.

The LAST thing I wanted was some “anti-abortion” musicians moralizing their way into my bedroom.

Turns out, nobody else did either.

We were Baby Boomers, and it was all about us, not some unborn child.

Sadly, that sweet song could do precious little to hold back the abortion tsunami.

So now, 42 years after Roe v Wade, these are the *facts:

  • more than 77 million babies have been aborted in America
  • so far this year, 646,283 babies have been aborted in the land of free and the home of the brave
  • 193,941 of these babies were aborted by Planned Parenthood, America’s biggest abortionist
  • Recently, Planned Parenthood managers were caught sipping wine and talking about “crushing above and below” so organs from aborted babies could be harvested and sold
  • Planned Parenthood apologized for a manager’s “tone”
  • The Senate fell three votes short of defunding Planned Parenthood

Lord Have Mercy

All of this has made me ask, Dear Lord, how did we get to this point?

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Trying to Measure Up to Big Dog Michael Deaver

 

I never knew radio great Paul Harvey, but sometimes I can hear his voice.

I always wanted to do great things, which is probably why I started out as a reporter.

I had a good nose for news and was pretty good at finding the truth.

But, as it turns out, I was also blind as a bat at times, blinded by my ego, and nowhere near greatness.

In 1992-1993, I was a new consultant in Dallas with “the largest privately owned P.R. firm in the world.”

My biggest client, a real estate giant, had asked us to find a hotshot speaker for their Annual Meeting.

I wanted General Norman Schwarzkopf, one of the great military giants of the 20th century, and the Ultimate Alpha Male.

I just knew my real estate Big Dog clients would LOVE hanging out with Stormin’ Norman.

But my choice was not astute.

My boss, however, was astute, and recommended former long-time Reagan aide Michael Deaver.

This did not sit well with me.

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Join the Army and See the World… or Buy a Cute Little Camper Van in New Zealand!

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*What could possibly go wrong?

The Missus and I need a big house so we both can have our own space.

And in the land of semi-retirement, you watch your money pretty closely.

So, of course, we just bought a little camper van.

In our defense, it’s not really a camper van.

Certainly not like the big one that two families squished into 20 years ago to tour all of New Zealand.

That one had eight berths and a stove and fridge and pooper and shower.

That kind if serious camper van now rents for about $400 per day.

So, when you throw in insurance, diesel and campground fees, etc, it costs about $9,000 to get our of your driveway.

Which poses a dilemma.

How do you quityerbitchin’ about living in the most beautiful country in the world yet never actually seeing any of it?

The answer came last week from above. Or at least the internets.

I was looking for a cheap car, using my super-braniac search engine words “moving to Australia.”

And poof.

There, among all the actual cars, popped up the cutest little camper van you ever saw.

I mean, it’s called a Mazda Bongo Friendee.

How could that not be a thing of happy destiny?

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The Best Part About Torrential Rains & Flooding in New Zealand Is…

Not our actual gutter. But close…

… Oh, we don’t know, there are so many things to choose from.

Probably the best thing about torrential rains is when the Missus dispatches the blog to our house’s slick metal roof, at night, when it is pitch freaking black, to clear out the gutters, because her bat-like sensors just KNOW they are clogged.

No, actually, the best part is when the Missus — being all kinds of helpful, as the blog was risking life and limb on the slick metal roof, at night, in a winter downpour — hits me right between the eyes with a 10,000-candlepower spotlight.

Because when you are soaking wet, and crouching on the very edge of the slick metal roof, at night, scooping crap out of the gutter by hand, you really want to be blinded by the light.

And get bonus points for retinal detachments and vertigo.

Yes, all were just awesome.

But, in retrospect, the best thing was — when the blog had shed his soaking wet blue jeans and goose-down puffer jacket, and was just about to climb into a hot bathtub — hearing a siren shriek from the basement.

One with a Singaporean accent; able to penetrate 12-inches of reinforced concrete and/or my forehead.

A siren song that meant that the basement was flooding, and that having a soggy, frostbitten butt was the very least of the blog’s worries.

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Hellooooo Grown Up Musician Son, Let’s Talk Retail

headphones-clip-art-headphones-clip-art-7

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Don’t mind my 26-year-old musician son as he grumpily digs through the mall trash bin.

He is not foraging for food, like many starving musicians.

He is looking for the plastic packaging that he shredded about 30 minutes ago to get to his new headphones.

Why?

Because we have just had the following Father-Son chat at the mall coffee shop, after Junior strolled up holding new headphones .

Dad: “Heh, I bought some of those headphones.  The look cool, but they really suck.”

Grumpy Son: “They so do!”

Dad: “Take them back. Just put them inside the packaging, and take them back.”

Grumpy Son: “I threw it away.”

Dad: <Rolling eyes> “Seriously? If I had a dollar for every time we have had this conversation about packaging. And receipts…”

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