Occasionally True Random Thoughts

If you've ever seen anyone three sheets to the wind you can no doubt appreciate why there is no such thing as getting four sheets to the wind.

In the very near future, I fully intend to perfect an invention that will allow a person to absorb the contents of any piece of literature, with complete and total comprehension, into their brain while they sleep. Been working on the REMemberator for quite a while. But I'm running out of time and, quite frankly, there's still a whole bunch of that book crap I wanna cram into the old bean before I bite the big one.

Recent studies have shown that 69.4% of all pennies are located on the ground. Further studies have led researchers to the conclusion that by the year 2025, the sidewalks of most major metropolitan areas will be comprised primarily of copper.

I just saw a potato chip commercial featuring Mr. And Mrs. Potato Head, enjoying the advertised product immensely. In a related story, the World Health Organization, once again, and in a unanimous gesture of solidarity and with great vehemence, has advised against any and all forms of cannibalism.

Kermit the Frog is a hand. So is Miss Piggy, for that matter. And I have it on good authority that they both have been known to take exceedingly long showers.

I have a reunion coming up. Forty years -- I can hardly believe it. But this time, I'm ready. I had the neighbor kid show me all the current techniques for unhooking a bra. It was a four week course, but I think I got it now.

I love music -- who doesn't? Not a big lyrics guy, though. Except for maybe Elton John's stuff, and he didn't even write his. I just like the way the tones sound, how they move, the way they meld together. Do I feel bad about the words thing? Not a chance. Most of the time I can't understand what the hell they're saying anyway.

To anybody anywhere, everybody everywhere, who does crossword puzzles at all; seriously, pay attention now: William Inge wrote Picnic. Picnic playwright, four letters? It's Inge, dammit: I-N-G-E, Inge. Move on, for Pete's sake. Just do the Sudoku and go to bed. You need rest.

When we were seniors in high school, my friend Doug -- valedictorian of our class and quarterback on the football team -- convinced a bunch of us fellow gridders to play a practical joke on the rest of the school. We all spread a rumor that Doug -- a high profile student if there ever was one; everyone knew Doug -- had been secretly diagnosed with a rare inoperable heart condition and his future was uncertain. By the end of the week the rumors had spread like wildfire and been blown so far out of proportion such that Doug wasn't expected to last the school year. Fellow students, faculty, and staff were stunned. Girls were seen crying in the hall between classes. It got pretty bad. Most of the fellas thought it was hilarious. At the time, I remember feeling a little like an ass.

Doug died a couple years ago after suffering many years of -- you guessed it -- a rare heart disease. He was 54. I try not to think about it too much but when I do, I feel a lot like an ass.

After many years of extensive scientific research, I have concluded that it is very difficult to milk a cat.

I enjoy reading the introductions in the fronts of books, sometimes more than the books themselves. Nothing better than a little insight into what lies ahead, always some biographical information and literary flattery about the esteemed author, from a supposed expert in the field. Problem: About half the time, I've never even heard of the expert. Where can one read about them?

Psst -- McGarrett, over here. Yeah, ya know that proof you were looking for? Turns out it's not in the pudding after all. Also, Chin Ho went home to take a shower.

Currently, my beloved Minnesota Twins are a bad baseball team. Last season, my beloved Minnesota Vikings were a bad football team. In a charity basketball game played by the two teams during the break between their respective seasons, nobody scored. In basketball. That's hard to do.

Progress is a good thing, I'm all for it. But enough is enough, already.

When I was seventeen, on Youth Sunday, I delivered the sermon at our church. For the occasion, I remember my face being painted half white, half black. I really don't remember why we did that but I could make a pretty decent ballpark guess. But I have no idea what I said, what my message was. Again -- words, words, words. Never been a big fan.

Anybody know what a comb is used for? I forget. I saw one the other day. It was on the ground, right next to a penny.

Cell phones are great, but certain scenarios have gotten a little out of hand, I think. My ex used to keep one in bed with her while having sex, just in case I called.

Again, we're talking about my ex.

My father died last fall. My favorite memory? In a state softball tournament championship game, 57 year-old daddy-o, having already batted an inhuman 15-16 in the tournament -- all singles, sprayed all over everywhere, barely between and/or over everyone -- came up in the bottom of the sixth, with us up by a ton, the game completely out of reach. The exasperated opposing pitcher, who had already experienced far too much of my father during the tournament, literally rolled the ball up to the plate and yelled, respectfully as well as exasperatedly, so everyone in the park could hear, "There! Hit that, old man!" This one's true, I swear.

I miss disco. There -- I said it. Whew! What a relief. I feel like I just came out of the closet. Which reminds me; anyone wanna buy fourteen or fifteen pairs of plaid bell-bottoms?

I always go left sock, right sock, left shoe, right shoe -- always, every time. I may be in a bit of a rut, a two foot deep rut.

Please accept my sincerest apologies. That was uncalled for.

Once upon a time, I figured out how to tie my own shoes -- no help from older sis, mom, or pop. My way is a little unconventional, perhaps -- or so I've been told -- but hey, it works; they stay tied. I can't tell you how many people, since I was about three, have told me that I tie my shoes wrong. Wrong? I think not. Incidentally, these are the same folks to whom the phrase get a life was originally intended.

What does "Queer as a three-dollar bill" mean? I've never even seen a three dollar bill. Whose picture is on it?

For quite a few years now, I've been contemplating growing sideburns. They look pretty cool on most guys but ... I'm just not sure, for me. So I've decided to grow just one, see how I like it, before making any kind of rash decision.

See, now if my REMemberator had been at your disposal ten minutes ago, you would have been done reading this piece about ten minutes ago.

Actually, exactly ten minutes ago.

Talk about incentive. Back to work.