To all my followers out there…

In the next several days, we Floridians will be experiencing some rough weather. Hurricane Irma is headed our way. We will survive. We’ve been through hurricanes before. But this one does look different. Keep us in  your thoughts and prayers.

Just so you know I have scheduled posts through the next several weeks as I always do. On the other side of Irma, I will do a post about my experience with this hurricane.

I love you guys. Thank you for sticking with me. You are the best.

Here’s a waiting-for-the-storm haiku:

I am a manly
man who can withstand all things.
‘Cept hurricanes. Help!

Uncle Bardie.

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Picture-taking

The woman sat on a bench in the park. She worked on her journal.

Just behind and above her was a statue of a man, lauding the benefits of birding. His feet rested on her shoulders. His hands held a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Several birds rested on his bronze shoulders.

The woman glanced up. A photographer pointed his camera at her. She went back to jotting in her journal. “He’s taking my picture again. This is the third time.”

Tom was not a professional photographer. He liked snapping pictures as he roamed the city on his day off. “Why doesn’t she move out of the way so I can get a clear shot of the statue?” He moved a little to his left.

She continued her journal entry: “He must think I’d make a good model. I think so too.”

To avoid her, Tom moved around to the side of the statue. She stood up and moved back into his lens vision. He moved again. She moved too. This happened several times. Every time Tom changed his lens viewpoint, the woman changed her location. “Get the hell out of the way,” he thought. There was anger in his thoughts. Then, in resignation, he dropped the camera to his chest and walked away.

Journal entry: “I don’t want to be pushy but I just have to know. Does he plan on publishing my photograph?”

The woman went after Tom. Tom knew he was being followed, so he turned the corner and hurried into a hotel and hid behind the curtains. As she walked through the door, he noticed how interesting her face looked. Hmmm. He snapped several pictures. Then she was out the door. He rushed after her and out the hotel door. She was gone.

The Uglies

Let’s face it. We all have a bit of the Uglies in us. When I say Uglies, I mean Ug-a-lug-lies.

From time to time, those Uglies have to burst loose. There’s no two ways about it. Oh, sure. Later we’ll do a Flip Wilson and say, “The devil made me do it.” That’s ‘cause we’re embarrassed we let our dumbass show.

When we see others do the Uglies, we don’t let them off the hook that easy. We want them to get their just desserts. Either that or some of that instant karma John Lennon sang about.

This goes even more so for fairy tales. We want the Wicked Witch of the West to melt. We want the mirror to shatter on the Wicked Queen. She wanted Mr. Mirror to give her the fake news that she was the fairest in the land. We want He-who-must-not-be-named to have his name stamped on his rear-end. And not just stamped. Branded. Ouch! That’s got to hurt.

Nowhere along the way do we consider that they may not be villains and that they might have a bad case of the Uglies themselves. If we give them a chance, those Uglies might wear off and these folks might turn out to be decent human beings. Who is to say that Harry Potter didn’t have a very good press agent. Once Voldemort was branded with that He-who-must-not-named label, there was no getting off scot free for him.

It may be that Humpty Dumpty woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Or that the king had the Uglies and pushed Humpty off the wall. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put the Dump back into Humpty Dumpty. At least, that’s what the king told the press. And we know the reason the Chicken crossed the road. She was run out of Dodge with her own set of Uglies.

Consider the Cinderella story. We want Cinderella’s wicked step mom to lose. And not just loose, but loose big time. After all, her daughters are real works of art. They’re haughty and persnickety. In fact, that’s their names, Haughty and Persnickety. And Step Mom is not interested in love. She’s only interested in the cash. Bet you’d kick the romantic out of your head if you were as poor as a dormouse and had four mouths to feed.

Let’s just consider Step Mom’s side of things. She marries a guy because he’s got a steady job. Her first husband ran off with the Spoon. He left her with two daughters who were always crying, “Feed me.” She met Cyndi’s dad at the local Parents Without Partners. They hit it off. Before you can say Abracadabra, they did a Vegas and wallah! Problem solved. Then Dad had to go and get himself hit by a truck. Of course, he didn’t have any life insurance. The only income Step Mom had coming in was the alimony payments from her first husband.

Since the girls were about to turn eighteen, Step Mom had to find a new source of income. She got herself a real estate agent certification and started flipping houses. Six months later, the floor fell out of the housing market. About that time, both of her daughters needed glasses.

On top of everything else, Cyndi was a handful with her “just wait till I tell my uncle” attitude. What was a mother to do? This was reason enough for Step Mom to let her Uglies burst lose. There was a ball and she was darned sure that one of her daughters was going to hook up with the prince. Come hell or highwater. And under no condition was she going to allow Cyndi to take their shine away.

For every nickel with a heads, there’s a tails to be considered. After all, it was a rich man who said, “Money can’t buy happiness.” The same fellow who said, “In God we trust. All others pay cash.”

If it quacks like a duck and looks like a duck, it still may not be a duck. It may be an actor who takes his role as a duck seriously. What else can you expect from a method actor? You never know what a person is going through when they are acting out their Uglies.

And, for God’s sake, do not, under any condition, allow your Uglies to burst through the dam. Best thing is to get ready to duck. That guy, who passed you three seconds ago, may have stolen a leprechaun’s pot of gold. The lep is trying to run him down. If you chase him, you may regret it. He could burst your windshield or run you down.

Either that or he has a gub. “A gub?” you ask. “What’s a gub?” That is a whole ‘nother story.

Shy?

Peek-a-boo. Bet you can’t take my picture. Snap. Oh, no. You didn’t get my face. Snap. Only got the top of my head. Snap. Laughing. Keep it up and you might just do your job. Snap. Missed again. Snap. No selfies for me. Snap. Hey, that’s not fair. You caught me when I least expected it. Snap. Hey, c’mon. That’s not fair. Snap. Give me that camera. Snap. C’mon. Snap. Thanks a lot. Snap. I had better not end up on Instagram. Snap. Or any of those other grams. Snap. All right. Snap. That’s it. That’s the last one. Hey, where you going? Don’t you want to take my picture. C’mon back. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please. Pretty please with Kodak on it.

Oh, Get Over It

“I tried to stop. Honest I did,” the woman said.

“My car. My beautiful car.” The man was crying. “Look what you did to my beautiful car.”

Then she turned on him. “Oh, get over.” At that, she walked back to her Chevy. She was tired of men crying every time they got a little scratch. She waited for the police.

“She hit me,” the man said when the police arrived.

The cop said, “Oh, get over it. I hate it when men cry. Grow up.” He finished taking the man’s statement. The man’s name was Phillip Mason. The cop then rubbed the scratch on the man’s car. “Nice Porsche.”

“Not anymore.” He passed his insurance card over to the cop. “Give it to her. I don’t even want to get close to her.” He walked the card over to Jane Hughes, gave it to her and took her information. The cop walked her card back over to Phillip. Then he said to Phillip,” I’m going to have to write you a ticket.”

“What? But my car,” Phillip wanted to scream. Instead he cried the words.

“Seems it’s your car that caused the accident.” The cop pointed to all the people standing around. Then he passed the ticket over to Phillip and had him sign the paper. “Next time be more careful. You could hurt somebody with that thing.” He pointed to the Porsche.

The cop went back to his cruiser, then drove away.

As the crowd dispersed, Phillip got in his Porsche and cried out to God, “Why me?”

God whispered back, “Oh, get over. At least, you get to drive around in a Porsche. I’m still driving an Edsel.”