MY RESIGNATION

After much deliberation, I have decided to tender my resignation. Effective immediately, I no longer wish to be a member of the human race. The reasons for withdrawing membership should be obvious to most, however I will list a few considerations for clarity's sake.

Common Sense died and no one went to her funeral.

As proof I offer the following tidbits.

1. The government is considering issuing a FAT tax. At the same time, several states are banning TAG in school. God forbid the little tikes should run off a few pounds.

2. Looking for a needle in a haystack? Well, you better not limit your search for long, thin, sharp, metallic items with a point at one end and a hole at the other. Folks might think you are profiling.

The Haves and The Have-You-Lost-Your-Minds?

3. Money and fame is the name of the game. And if you don't believe me just ask Pete Rose, Jose Canseco, O.J. Simpson, Kobe Bryant, Robert Blake, Barry Bonds, Michael Vick, Nicole Richie, Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Mel Gibson.

Everybody's Talking And No One Is Saying Anything.

4. If I have to listen to one more loudmouth yacking in her cellphone, I'm going to lose it: I don't want to know about her colonoscopy. I could care less about his promotion. If you want to talk on the phone get out of the movie theater. Pull off the road. Get out of line. Step outside the waiting room. And for the love of God, take that silly looking headset of your noggin before I send you back to the proctologist.

CIGARS, HOT COFFEE, AND IDIOT SAVANTS

I was looking forward to the truck-load sale held at Prater's antique store. I'd missed the last three. My back was aligned like an contortionist's colon, but I managed to crawl out of bed and pulled into the parking lot as the first box of goodies was unloaded. Two regulars; a sawed-off, cigar chomping ex-marine with a crew cut, and a steely-eyed, tall drink of water with a bouffant hairdo, charged the box. They collided in a cloud of java spray and swirled smoke.
"Bitch!" The battle cry took wing above the heads of thirty early morning pickers. Some stopped to stare at the blistered arm aiming the cigar. Others continued to claw through the treasure laden box.
"Bastard!" The lady with the do fanned smoke from her face.
"You spilled coffee on me on purpose."
"I hope you get lung cancer!"
More boxes were unloaded. Folks scrambled for position. A teeny-bopper in a halter top pulled a sixties peasant dress from a banana box. Her squeals were drowned out by the Drill Instructor.
"Drop and give me fifty!"
"Fifty?"
The marine fought his way out of the flashback. He was alone.
I left him there, in a sea of civilians, armed with a single red-tipped cigarillo.

MY MOM’S A YANKEE

The guy would not shut up. He was standing in the kitchenware isle of our local thrift store, in a sleepy southern town nestled on the banks of the White Oak River on the coastal plain of the Tar Heel state. Three little kids were leafing through Dr. Seuss books. Frail, gray-haired grandmas dug through used linens. A young college girl picked up a T-fal skillet.

The man was railing against the South. He was a Yankee, A New Yorker by birth and a jerk by nature. In a loud, boisterous voice the condescending carperbagger did an impression of a southerner.

“There’s a Opossum in the gum tree, maw. Get me a gun and I’ll shoot’ um fer supper”. To a passerby he yelled, “Every hick down here has a truck bed full of empty beer cans, a shotgun, a fishing pole, and a welfare check in his hip pocket. Lazy motherf&#@ers. No wonder you lost the war!”

A mother collected her kids and left. The fine southern grandmas worked their walkers toward the front door. Most of the customers ignored him. Just another displaced Yankee with an attitude. We see it all the time.

Now, don’t get me wrong. My maw’s a Yankee. She spent the first 25 years of her life in the Bronx. Half my aunts and cousins are from up north. Most of them live here now, and some of them had a hard time adjusting to the culture shock.

When I told my Uncle Pete (an octogenarian Italian who moved here thirty years ago from the Bronx) about the guy in the thrift, he laughed and said, “Them damn Yankees are ruining the South.”

Maw said the same thing.

MY CAT SMACKED UP ON KITTY CRACK

Spaz likes to stand on her head after huffing catnip.

THE BIRDS, THE BEES, AND ME

My garden consists of two tomato plants, two Thai dragon peppers, two Habanera peppers, a Jalapeño, a Cilantro, and one sweet Basil plant.

I planted them in gallon buckets with rich, dark earth and I give them a shot of Miracle Grow every other week. The plants are doing nicely, thank you. Lush foliage. Sturdy stems. Plenty of blossoms on the tomatoes and peppers.

Problem is, I have little fruit for my labor. The bees are on Holiday, and despite the time I’ve put in, my table is suffering from lack of pollination. So is my sex life, but that is another story for another time.

Today I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands, so to speak. I bought some Q-tips, a pint of Canadian Mist, and a couple copies of The American Gardener. I’m going to pollinate the plants myself, with the swabs.

And you know what they say. “A rose’s a@# through a whiskey glass…”

If that doesn’t work, the magazines should put me in the mood.