Monthly Archive for August, 2010

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I Broiled My Butt So You Don’t Have To

Published on August 25, 2010 in Baby Boomer. 7 Comments Tags: .

(Music up: Dragnet Theme)
(Music fade…)
It’s 3:05 a.m.
I’m working the Vanity Watch out of South Smallburg.
My name is Sixty, my partner is Colonel Potter.
Somethings just burn my ass.
This is that story…
(Music up: Dragnet Theme)

J.D. at I Do Things has a great theme for a blog and she does a lot of things so I don’t have to…

So then there was that time I was covered in tar.

The end.

Oh, you want details. Well, you would.

I’m adapting imitating stealing her theme for today.

Nancy and I were feuding about the amount of time I was spending on the river. As a result, things were frosty at the old Conclave ala Kayak. We weren’t speaking.

This means I lost my best adviser and counselor to save me from myself. Things thawed after a day and we resumed our normal lives: she had Bunco last evening (earlier this night).

I decided it would be a great time to broil my butt.

- – - – - – - – - -

A great coupon for tanning I did boast,

My kayaked skin was as brown as toast,

Bajan folks would soon be our host.

Into the local tanning salon, I did coast,

With my skinnier ass as white as a ghost,

And therein lies the tale of my roast…

- – - – - – - – - – -

Earlier, during our break in day-to-day conversations, I got a great deal at a tanning salon. I’ve never been to a tanning salon. I have a nice overall tan this year and it would be nice to hit the Barbados beach without my normal golfer’s tan.

Aside: a golfer’s tan is worse than a farmer’s tan (dark brown arms and face – lily-white everyplace else because they wear short-sleeve shirts, but long pants.) A golfer’s tan is dark brown arms and face, dark brown from the just above the knees to just above the ankle, because golfer’s wear short pants, but socks that usually cover the ankle.)

Normally I would consult Nancy and perhaps even she would have indulged and gone with me, guiding me through the SOP’s for technology tans.

I had a Kayaker’s tan. I usually only wore a bathing suit while yakking in the river. (And yes, every time I would pull my shirt off over my head after we were on the river, Kenny would say “My eyes! My eyes!” Every. Single. Time.)  But since other guys were doing it I felt it would be OK, even with moobs that just won’t go away no matter how much weight I lose.

When I met Cassy at the front desk of the tanning salon, she was very helpful – by that I mean she didn’t bust a gut laughing when I said I was a virgin when it came to tanning beds. OK, I didn’t actually say virgin to her, I said it was my first time.

She was young enough to be my grand-daughter and I played on those feelings.

Bed 9, she said.

Whuck? I said.

Do you want me to go back with you to explain how it works?

Yes, please.

This is the doomsday clock, you have 5 minutes to get ready and get in the bed. This is the button to start the bed, this is the button to control the fan, the bed has been sanitized. Take off your clothes, (NO! AFTER I leave…) and put on these winkies to protect your eyes, get in the bed and in 20 minutes the bed will automatically turn off.

I did all that. As I’m lying there I’m thinking, this is kinda pleasant and recalled the days on the Beaufort beach. Then it dawned on me. I’m naked. This is a tanning bed. There are parts of my body that have not seen the sun except for very brief “pit stops” along the river. Draining the snake, if you will.

Holy shit! I grabbed my package to keep it covered. It took both hands!

There was no way I could cover my ass at the same time.

You know how a sunburn doesn’t hurt until a few hours later?

My ass started burning a couple hours ago.  Not the kind of burning you get from too much Thai food, my cheeks are on fire!

Sleeping is not an option – lucky you! I Broiled My Butt So You Don’t Have To.

Since we’re talking about my ass, let me update you with my new favorite toilet graffiti…

The oldies:

  • Here I sit, broken-hearted, tried to shit but only farted.
  • People who write on shit house walls, roll their shit into little balls, people who read these lines of wit, eat those little balls of shit.

The newest:

But don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I took a couple Ass-burn tablets and will await the sunrise.

BTW: that full moon you saw glowing last night? You’re welcome.

Ahahahaha, Deer Whistles are Back!

Published on August 23, 2010 in Baby Boomer. 1 Comment Tags: , , .


Fraud, fake, hoax.

Deer whistles, little gizmodos that we’re supposed to shell out good money for to protect our massive, well-insured, Mad Max, road chewers, from smashing into Bambi, are back!

I remember the first time deer whistles were popular. It was about the same time that geezers were adding a daytime running light to the center of their car grill to alert oncoming motorists that a car was heading toward them. The car makers liked this so well, they lobbied NTSA to have running lights be mandatory. They then jacked up the price of cars by a few hundred bucks.

Gearheads about the same time started adding an anti-static strap to hang beneath the car so it didn’t spontaneously combust from all the electricity created when the rubber meets the road.

Deer whistles didn’t work then. They don’t work now, but all those Volvo-driving eco-freaks will rush out to Sharper Image and spend $89.00 to protect the wildlife.

Except deer whistles don’t work. (Did I say that already?)

“We tested them strictly from an acoustical point of view,” explains Scheifele. He found that the whistles typically produce a signal either at a frequency of 3 kilohertz (kHz) or 12 kHz. Both, as it turns out, are problematic.

The hearing range of white-tailed deer, the most common species in the United States, is between 2 kHz and 6 kHz, so the animal is not capable of hearing the 12 kHz signal.

I have a carburetor that gets 500 miles per gallon, but Big Oil is paying me millions to keep it off the market.

But Deer whistles don’t work.

Geeky Animated Gif Monday

Published on August 23, 2010 in Baby Boomer. 0 Comments

Actually, I think this is pretty damn clever – and revealing. We all need to develop one “go-to” pose for the camera.

Here are the tips I have gleaned from this gif:

  • find your good side
  • don’t show teeth
  • tip your head down
  • arch your back
  • close your eyes slightly
  • ignore those around you

You’re welcome.

Nails Trimmed, Bordello Shot, Left Blood Behind, She Said “You’re a Fatty” and Dot Indian Wedding

Published on August 21, 2010 in Baby Boomer. 10 Comments Tags: .

Saturday checklist:

  • nails trimmed
  • bordello shot
  • left blood behind
  • woman said “You’re a fatty.”

And that was just at the vet!

Boy did that piss me off. This ole bitty (younger than I am but still…) who was on her way to Wal-mart to buy cigarettes, ding-dongs, and Old Milwaukee beer, made that crack about Sedona as we walked in the door.

Sedona

Yeah, well, she has a glandular condition. It’s her high-boy gland.

That’s what I should have said. Instead I said something equally withering.

Awwwww, what a thing to say.

Really, that did shut her up!

Derby was there too, but he doesn’t stick up for Sedona much. He’s independent that way. After the vet, I toted the two furry friends to a pet store. I was very impressed with the sign on the front window.

I paid $33 to wash two dogs.

And I did all the work.

But I would do it again. After years of bending over the tub and my knees getting bruised from the tile floor and using 17 towels to semi-dry everybody off, it was worth the money. The pet store had one of those stand-up stainless sinks, with a flex water hose, and all the shampoo and conditioner I wanted. To dry the pooches was a stand-up grooming table with the collar restraint and a heavy-duty blower dryer.

Everybody left happier, smelling better and drier.

When I got home the normal greeting by my bitches was missing – even Oliver was gone. No Sofi, no Nancy, no Oliver.

Nancy was watching the Indians gathering at the Smallburg International Convention Center for the Expansive Arts for a traditional Hindu wedding.

Her friend Anne was decorating her horse as a part of a wedding ceremony. (Anne is on the right.)

Wow. Do those Indians know how to throw a wedding.

We watched the guests arrived, dressed to the nines (or the Dot Indian equivalent.)

Not at all like the other Kentucky Weddings we have observed.

Arrving on a horse (or in a carriage) is a tradition. It’s called the Baraat:

Baraat
The groom arrives at the wedding ceremony location with his baraat of family and friends.  The Baraat gathers together and everyone dances in celebration.

Since grooms often didn’t marry wimmen from the same village this let the bride beat it out the back of the Mahal if she chickened out. There was sure plenty of noise to announce his arrival. It sure looked like fun!

I sure am glad we live in a diverse community.  The old battle-ax in the vet’s office would have probably been there with her beer swilling redneck friends chanting anti-Muslim slogans at a bunch of Hindus.

In India, the groom is the most important person in the wedding party.

Now that IS like the Kentucky weddings we have attended.

Have You Noticed How Loud Sun Chips Bags Are?

Published on August 19, 2010 in Baby Boomer. 3 Comments Tags: , .

Kathy at The Junk Drawer noticed how loud the Sun Chips bag is, so she did some research and found out she wasn’t alone. She threw up (not literally) a blog post about it a while back, snagging comments from around the innerwebs, made a short video and now is recoiling from the limelight.

Kathy. Kathy. Kathy. Carpe Diem.

The Wall Street Journal noticed the Sun Chips Loud Bag phenomenon:

They quoted Kathy, (but without mentioning her blog!) Her cow-orkers were dismayed that they included her age. Kathy said it was no biggie, just a number. “It’s not like they put my weight.”

Morning Express with Robin Meade commented on Sun Chips loud bag.

CBS Radio contacted Kathy to get some sound bites.  She watched Pepsi-co (owners of Sun Chips) visit her blog, and NBC poked around a little.

We both observed the incestuous relationship among the mainstream media. If the WSJ has it, it will go viral, and it’s started. The innerwebs will eat this up. Next up a nightly news program, then a Sunday morning news show, and round and round.

Kathy has discovered something about herself: she might be just a “little afraid” of all the attention.

But her family thinks she is a rock star. I wrote her that after Mythbusters does a segment, or Mike Rowe’s Dirty Jobs, will she be a rock star in my eyes.

Her time in the glare of the spotlight will last  until the next big thing grabs our attention.

Like this airplane paint job…