Sunday, July 28, 2019

Emails To My Brothers: Four Knee Surgery Emails

So... how’d your knee surgery go?
     You: “Doctor, why does my butt hurt?”
     Your Doctor: “Don’t worry about it. That’s completely normal”
  
So... did you tell your wife that your knee surgeon told you to be sure to get plenty of sex to help with the pain?
     Him: "Sex releases endorphins, which is a natural pain-killer."
     Her: “Have a jalapeƱo pepper. It does the same thing.”
  
So... I don't know who told your best friend’s wife, but she posted on Facebook that your knee surgeon accidentally tied your torn meniscus to the wrong ligament, and now every time you bend your knee your penis gets pulled inside your scrotum. 
     Your best friend had a good laugh.
     “Who’s that guy?” he asked the toaster.
  
So... I'm glad your plastic surgery and liposuction went well.
     If it had been your previous doctor, you would have gotten only half a tummy tuck. Our dad tells me that the work you had done in your face was a success, and you look almost as good as our brother-in-law, back when he had his stroke. 
     I’m sure your wife kept those pain killers you’re not using. 

     Whenever you’re feeling frisky, she crushes one up and stirs it in with your coffee.
  
  
RaisingDad
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
  

Friday, July 19, 2019

Email To My Brother: Surgery

You know how the great female pop artist and ex-Disney star Britney Spears went into the hospital for a twisted ankle and came out with a boob job? Are you sure you’re not going into the hospital for knee surgery and coming out with a penis implant?
    Thinking about it, I was reminded of when I ran into your best friend Cali when he was taking his pet monkey for a walk in a Las Vegas casino.
    “Remember how my brother's girlfriends in high school always used to call him by the nickname of ‘Flaco’?” I reminisced, Flaco being Spanish for skinny.
    “They never called your brother ‘Flaco,’” he informed me.
    “They didn’t?”
    “No, Cali explained. “They called him ‘flaccid.’”

  
  
RaisingDad
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com. American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
  

Saturday, July 13, 2019

Email To My Brother: Which Knee?

Your best friend's wife posted on her Facebook account how, not only is her husband suffering from Alzheimer’s, but his knees are also giving out due to the massive weight they’ve had to carry all of his life.
   “How are your husband’s knees?” she asked your wife. “Are they giving him trouble?”
   “Yes,” your wife confessed. “Not his left knee or his right knee, but his weenie.”

  
  
RaisingDad
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
  

Wednesday, July 10, 2019

Email To My Brother: Dick

Your Wife: “Do you miss Dick?”

You: “I sure do!”

Your Wife: “Me, too. I miss him a lot.”

You: “Oh... you’re talking about your father.”

  

  
RaisingDad
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com. American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
  

Monday, July 8, 2019

Email To My Brother: The California Earthquake 2

Your wife posted on Facebook that, during the earthquake, you fell and a cucumber went up your butt... SIX times! 
   At least, that’s what you told the E.R. doctor.

  
  
RaisingDad
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
  

Saturday, July 6, 2019

Email To My Brother: The California Earthquake

My Brother:
     "The earth quake was so bad that I'm still cleaning up the damage. When it hit, I was thrown to the side wall and then on the ground. It bounced me around a couple of times. The house was rocking back and forth. Our neighbors were all running out to the street. Part of the street opened up and six or eight neighbors fell into a crevasse before it closed burying them alive. The water main down the street broke and water was shooting a hundred feet into the air. So high that a flock of birds flying by were hit with the water and they fell to the ground. People were grabbing them, saving them for food. I grabbed a couple of my guns and start rattling cover-fire. A group of ten came after Chewbaca and Sunny, probably for future meals, but I was able to force them back with my RK43. A couple of times I started running low on ammo. My grandson was brilliant and fearless. He low-crawled into the house, grabbed numerous boxes of ammo before low-crawling back to me. A couple of my female neighbors offered me their "favors" in exchange for some water and a energy bar. The old, ugly ones were turned back. The hotties? Well, they got their water and energy bars. Most houses are on fire. Zombies are roaming the streets. It was a bad earth quake. It was so bad I almost started praying.
     "I'd better get.
     "I have guard duty."
  
Me:
     When I spoke with our father this morning, he asked me, “Is it true they had an earthquake in California?”
    “Yes, pop,” I told him, unable to lie.
     “Was it bad?”
     “It sounded pretty bad, yeah.”
    “And your brother’s okay?” 
    He sounded worried.
    “Yes, pop. He’s fine.”
     “A building didn’t fall on him like in the new Spider-Man movie?”
     “No, pop. A building didn’t fall on him.”
     I heard him take a deep sigh.
     “Gee, that’s too bad,” he said.

  
  
RaisingDad
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com. American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
  

Thursday, July 4, 2019

Email To My Brother: Who Attacks? Moose Attacks!

Did you know there are more moose attacks than bear attacks?
     The next time you’re lying about your shoulder scars, say it was moose, that would be more believable, but if you insist on saying it was a bear, here are two facts to make it more believable (I’m listening to a caller to one of the podcasts I listen to, and he was attacked by a bear): 
     1) he didn’t get any stitches due to the possibility of infection, and 
     2) he HAD to get rabies shots. 
     He was walking with his wife, they were newlyweds, when the bear attacked. His wife—BAM!—she ran, leaving him to fend for himself. The guy fell to the ground, and curled up into a ball. The bear sniffed him a bit, and then took a nibble. 
     It got me to thinking about one way you can tell a story is going to end badly. When it begins like this:
     “We were hiking in the wilderness, and my wife was on her period...”

  
  
RaisingDad
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com
@JimDuchene
  

Monday, July 1, 2019

Who Wants Ice Cream?

as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
  
I love my granddaughter.
     When I wrote about her in the March issue of Desert Exposure, judging by the response I received, I’m not alone. My father loves her too, but he’s also afraid of her. When she’s running around like a miniature version of the Tasmanian Devil from the old Bugs Bunny cartoons, he hangs onto whatever he can for dear life.
     She’s four now, but when she turned three we began looking into putting her in pre-school. My granddaughter’s pretty special, so we wanted to find her someplace equally as special. Luckily, we found Radford, a private school that’s been in business for over a hundred years. Like my ex-wife, it doesn’t look a day over 95. She loves it there, and now doesn’t mind going to bed early, which was not always the case.
     Once, I was trying to put her to bed, but she had other ideas, so I told her, “If you don’t fall asleep. I’m going to get mad.”
     "And you’ll yell at me?” she asked, her eyes wide.
     “No,” I laughed, “I won’t yell at you.”
     “You’ll just say it loud?”
     I laughed again.
     “Maybe a little loud,” I said, and kissed her goodnight.
     The next day, we were getting rid of some of my beloved mother’s things. It was mostly junk. The rest was trash. I offered my buddy Maloney the well-worn rocking chair my father had bought her a lifetime ago.
     "I don’t want your garbage,” Maloney told me.
     "Your mother-in-law might like it,” I suggested.
     And she did.
     “She thought it was a gift from your father,” Maloney kidded me later.
     One man’s trash is a frisky old lady’s treasure.
     But mainly, my granddaughter and I went through a plastic trash bag containing an avalanche of religious cards. Cards from various religious charities asking for money and giving cheap jewelry in return. My mother was an easy mark, you could say. Actually, she just had a soft heart for the tired, the poor, the ailing masses yearning to be healed.
     My granddaughter kept some of it. She was fascinated by the cheap jewelry, the colorful pictures. A Virgin Mary here. A resurrected Jesus there. Jesus would have loved my granddaughter. When He said, “Let the little children come to Me,” my granddaughter would have been the first to run into His arms.
     As we sorted through it, she’d go, “This was grandma’s and now it’s mine?”
     “Yes,” I’d tell her. “That was grandma’s and now it’s yours.”
     She couldn’t believe her good fortune.
     Mostly it was colorful rosary beads, one smelling of roses. There were also keychains, and a bracelet made up of little wooden squares with pictures of the Virgin Mary, Jesus, and various saints that I bought for my mother once when I was downtown.
     One thing we unearthed that I remembered from my childhood, was a picture of Jesus with His eyes closed. If you held it over a light and then went into a dark room, the picture would glow and Jesus’ eyes would open. My grandparents had a similar picture of Jesus in their bedroom. If you walked from one side of their room to the other, His eyes would follow you. They had thirteen children. Not all of them lived. I can’t imagine their heartbreak, but it was a different time. Still, how they had so many kids with that creepy picture of Jesus hanging over their bed, who knows?
     My granddaughter was fascinated by that glowing picture. She kept holding it over a light, then we’d go into a closet and watch the miracle happen.
     “That’s Jesus,” I explained to her, and, in the darkness, I heard my granddaughter blow Him a kiss. Jesus became her friend. Later, she asked me if she could have an Andes chocolate mint, her favorite.
     “Does Jesus want you to have one?” I asked, playfully.
     “Yes, He does,” she said.
     Later, she said, “Jesus wants me to have another one.”
     So I gave her another one.
     “Be sure you share with Jesus,” I told her, and she did.
     She broke the candy in half. One piece was smaller than the other.
     “Jesus wants the smaller one,” she told me.
     Crazy kid.
  This past Easter, I gave her a chocolate bunny. If she’s going to have candy, I prefer chocolate because it at least has SOME nutritional value. Ice cream, too.
     "Do you want some, daddy?” she asked me.
     She calls me “daddy” because she hears my daughters call me that. I, however, always refer to myself as “grandpa”.
     “Yes, thank you,” I told her, then added, “What about Jesus? Are you going to share with Him, too?”
     She thought about that, and then, with more insight than I, said, “He hasn’t come down yet, so I can’t.” Reconsidering her words, she assured me, “When He comes down, I’ll share with Him.”
     Kids are innocent…
     ...but they're also very funny.
     Like I’ve said, my granddaughter's quite the handful, but she's always fun, so I like to spend as much time with her as I can.
     As I was writing this column she passed some gas.
     VERY loudly.
     "What was THAT?" I teased.
     "That was my tummy," she answered. "It said it wants ice cream."
  

Did she get her ice cream?
  

Email To My Brother: Headshots

Me:
     There's been a rash of people this year getting beaned in the head at baseball games.
     My question is this:
     How does the ball know?
     I never hear the ball hitting the shoulder, the chest, the back, or the groins/legs/tushes of people going to or coming back from the snack bar or bathrooms.
     It’s always a head shot.
     How does the ball know?

  
My Brother:
     ...the ball knows.
  
  
RaisingDad
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com. American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene