Wednesday, August 15, 2018

Email To My Brother: Blue

I've heard those stories of me being a crybaby as an infant.
     And they're probably true.
     You have to blame our oldest sister for that. As an baby, she got me used to being rocked to sleep on a pillow on her lap. The way she got her husband used to it after they were married.
     “It was either that,” she once told me, “or have sex with him. I didn’t do it four times, and look what happened. We had four kids.”
     “Why didn’t you do it those four times?” I asked her.
     “He took off his shoes and I passed out from the smell,” she said. “It was a trick he learned from Bill Cosby.”
     I remember talking with our beloved late mother once, asking her about how difficult it was for her to take care of the many kids she had, and she said you were the easiest to take care of.
     “He was?” I said, surprised.
     “He was,” she assured me. “His head was so big as a baby, your father would wedge it between two blades of the ceiling fan, turn the fan on, and your older brother would be entertained for hours.”
     “How would you know it was time to bring him down?” I asked her.
     “When he turned blue,” she said.

 
 
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Sunday, August 12, 2018

Email To My Brother: Bedroom Points

I bet you’re getting plenty of “bedroom points” with all the fussing you’re having to do with the insurance company over this water leak situation. Showing your wife your files and transcripts and all the work you've had to do must be a real turn-on for her.
     “Honey, I just got off the phone with the adjuster, and he told me...”
     “Hang on. Give me a chance to put on my earplugs.”

 
 
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Email To My Brother: The Great Thing About Alzheimer's

I had forgotten about your ex-wife's older brother.
      It makes me wonder even more if they all had the same father. Four kids, and all four look different and have different personalities.
     Kind of like Princess Di’s two boys. One looks like Prince Charles, and the other looks like Princess Di’s red-headed bodyguard.
      My granddaughter is happy going to school. She loves playing and making friends. Poor thing, but she gets up at 6am to leave the house by 7 to get to school at 8. The good thing is she’s an early riser. Radford Academy is in the central part of our city, but the morning traffic can be a pain. Leave at 7am and you’re fine. Leave at seven-oh-five, and your fighting with everybody else who’s trying to get to work. It reminds me of one time when I was in California. We were at a softball game somewhere south of where you lived. The games were over. Your wife packed up your daughters and drove off. You and I tossed their softball gear into the back of my truck and we left a minute or two later. They had an uneventful drive back home. We got stuck in a traffic jam where all the freeways merge into one to go north.
     What a difference a few seconds makes.
     What a headache your water leak is turning out to be, and I’m not talking about the one between your legs. THAT headache will come later.
     If you lived in a retirement community like you planned, all you’d have to do is call the front office and they’d send someone over to fix it PDQ.
     Good thing you’re retired. You’ve got the free time to fuss with these people. I bet you haven’t heard the word ‘no’ so much since you were in high school trying to get laid. But what about the poor insurance purchasers who work? Like me, for instance. I’m on the road all day. Where would I find the time to spend hours on the phone, whether on hold or arguing with the person who gets paid to cheat you out of a decent settlement?
     Maybe an apartment is the way to go. If the rent gets too high, then I’ll just let the government house me. Heck, I could even rob a bank and live out my life in a low-security penitentiary. Free room and board. Three meals a day. Free medical. Sounds like a great way to spend my retirement.

     It reminds me of a joke:
 
     An old man went to prison. He was afraid because of everything he had seen and heard on TV and in the movies.
     "Don't worry," said another prisoner. "You like Italian food?"
     "Sure," the old man said.
     "That's great. On Mondays we have Italian Food Day, and the cafeteria serves spaghetti and meatballs, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo, you name it. You're gonna love it." He pauses, and then says, "You like movies?"
     "You bet I do," the old man said, this time a little more excitedly.
     "Well, on Tuesdays we have Movie Day, and in the theater they show the latest Hollywood movies. Three or four of them at a time. You're gonna love it." He pauses again, and then says, "By the way, are you a homosexual?"
     "No," the old man says, offended. "I'm not."
     "I guess you're not gonna like Wednesdays," his new friend tells him.
 
     By the way, how are old people treated in prison? When you’re an old man, do you still get beaten and sodomized? Maybe anal rape is one way to solve elderly constipation. That’s the great thing about Alzheimer’s. After being anally raped, beaten, and sodomized, you immediately forget the trauma.
     Maybe God has a plan, after all.

 
 
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Email To My Brother: What Does It Mean?

Our beloved late mother came to me in a dream and said, “You know that house on Cuba Drive, the one you grew up in?”
     “Yes, mom,” I answered.
     “In ALL the years we lived there, and to this very day, it’s NEVER had a water leak. Nor has it EVER had mold.”
     “What do you think it means?”
     “It means your brother is a dipshit.”

  
 
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Email To My Brother: No "Thank You" Sex

That mold-removal and no-mold certification you just got on your home?
      Sounds like a scam.
      Anyone can buy a few fans at Walmart to pretend to dry out mold, run off a few copies of fake certificates on their printer (How do you think I became a doctor?), sign and give them to the rubes on the midway. Pay off the right government employees, and you can charge a ton telling home owners, “Yeah, sure. All the mold is gone.”
      “Can I have some documentation?”
      “Yeah, let me write it back on the back of this napkin.”
      “Thanks.”
      “You bet.”
      “That’ll be six hundred dollars.”
      “SIX HUNDRED DOLLARS!”
      “These are expensive napkins.”
     Sounds like a headache.

     A headache that wasn't alleviated with some 'thank you" sex from your wife.
     Things were easier when we lived in caves. There was no #MeToo movement when you clubbed a woman on the head and claimed her as your mate.
      No sex?
      Then you clubbed her a little harder, and found yourself a new mate

 
 
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Saturday, August 11, 2018

Don't Tell Your Mother

as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
desertexposure.com
 
There’s an old joke:
    An elderly man with a hearing problem suddenly lost his hearing completely, so he immediately went to his doctor. After many failed attempts at communication, the doctor finally looked in the old man’s ear and discovered the problem. He asked his nurse for some forceps, and then used them to extract a suppository from the old man’s ear canal.
    “Here’s the trouble,” the doctor told him, showing it to him.
    “Oh, my goodness,” the old man replied. “What the heck did I do with my hearing aid?”
    I told you last month that my father uses a hearing aid, sometimes to what he thinks is his advantage, but I've never told you how I found out.
    Back when my beloved mother was still alive, I used to go over and join them for breakfast on Saturday mornings. My mother was an old-school cook, so for breakfast she would fry up some bacon, cook the eggs in the grease, and then refry some refried beans in what was left over.
    It was delicious.
    That’s what she would call a healthy breakfast, and--you know what?--there are some nutritionists who would agree with her. Dr. Robert Atkins is one. Vinnie Tortorich is another. I’ve heard him on the Adam Corolla podcast, and he says there’s nothing wrong with red meat and saturated fats. Grains and simple carbohydrates, on the other hand, are what’s making our nation fat. I can’t tell you what’s true, all I can say is we’re a pretty fat nation. Anyway...
    "Go see if your father is awake," she told me one such Saturday. "Tell him his coffee is ready."
    So I did.
    I walked down to my parent's room and knocked on the door.
    There was no answer.
    So I knocked again.
    Still no answer.
    "Pop," I called out.
    Nothing.
    "Pop!"
    Nothing.
    "POP!"
    Finally, he answered.
    "What?" he yelled back.
    "IT'S ME!"
    "Who?"
    "YOUR SON!"
    "What do you want?"
    "Are you awake?"
    "What?"
    "ARE YOU AWAKE?"
    "You're talking to me, aren't you?"
    My father, the comedian.
    "MOM SAID TO TELL YOU YOUR COFFEE'S READY!"
    "What?"
    "MOM SAID TO TELL YOU YOUR COFFEE'S READY!"
    "WHAT?"
    "MOM SAID TO TELL YOU YOUR COFFEE'S READY!"
    There was a pause.
    "Come in," he ordered.
    I guess, so he could hear me better.
    I knew my father's hearing had been getting steadily worse for some time, just like my hearing is doing these days, but I had never had this kind of trouble conversing with him before.
    When I opened the door and looked in, I saw why.
    He was already fully dressed, and sitting on the bed with his legs over the side. I saw him reach into his nightstand and pull out two small devices that he put deep into his ears. I was surprised, to say the least.
    "Pop?" I said.
    "What?" he said back.
    "How long have you had hearing aids?"
    He thought about it.
    "Oh, I've had them for a while now."
    Now it was my time to think about it.
    "Mom must be happy," I said, finally.
    "About what?"
    "That you've got hearing aids."
    "Oh," he said, matter of factly, "I haven't told her yet."
    "You haven't?"
    "No."
    "Why?"
    "Because," he said, in his don't-tell-your-mother tone, "I like hearing what she says about me when she thinks I can't hear."
 
If a deaf person swears, does their mother wash his hands with soap?
Find out at RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com, JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com, or @JimDuchene. 

   
 
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Sunday, August 5, 2018

Email To My Brother: Books

I told my daughter and granddaughter that you and your wife were going on an Alaskan cruise.
     “The next time we’re at the book store,” I said, “I want you to find a bunch of female-authored mystery books for your aunt.”
     They assured me they would.
     “She’s going to need all the help she can get,” I continued, “to come up with reasons not to have sex with your uncle.”
     I thought about what I just told them, and then added, “And make sure they have looong chapters. That way, when he’s pressuring her, she can tell him: ‘Let me just finish this chapter first.’

     "Old as he is, he’ll have fallen asleep by the time she does.”
 
 
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