Whinin 'Till I Lose My Mind

I liked Conway Twitty for several reasons. For one, we come from the same hometown in Arkansas. For another, he chose his last name after a town in Texas, my adopted home state. But what I liked most about him was that he saw his songs as ways for suitors to express their feelings. If a guy wanted to say something romantic (or even a tad risqué), but could not quite find the words, all he had to do was let Conway do the talking—buy her the record, or even better, have some deejay dedicate it to her.

That’s something else CT and I have in common. I too speak for a group that has something to say, but has the devil’s own time trying to articulate it. Conway spoke for the lovers; the Lorax speaks for the trees; but these, these bellyaching blamers have come to rely on me as their spokes-moaner.

You know the ones: they have it all figured out in their heads that their sorry situation cannot possibly be due to anything that they have done or left undone. They try to pin their pathetic plight on the politicians, big business, the fates, the flukes, the flakes, or the phantom. But they can’t quite string the words together in any coherent fashion. These folks stand ready, willing, and able to throw their hands up in resignation and have another beer.

My mission is to help these people give voice to their frustrations, so I have offered my services, free of charge, to write a country song especially for them. Now when a fellow is feelin frustrated and needs to lament his lack of character, all he has to do—if you’ll loan him a quarter—is press a few buttons on the jukebox. And it comes out somethin like this here (reach on down to about the key of C sharp, boys): 2-3-4

Honey, have I told you lately

How horribly I’ve been screwed?

Everyone I run into

Is low-down, mean, and rude.

I cain’t get a break to save

My worthless, rotten life.

That’s how come I lost my job,

My address, and my wife.

When I was only five years old,

I fell and skinned my knee.

But the government won’t let me

Draw my disability.

All my luck and bright ideas

Came to a screechin halt;

I’m just amazed how it’s always

Somebody else’s fault. 

Whinin ‘till I lose my mind,

Complainin just to keep from cryin,

Draggin my sad behind

Across the credibility line.

Belly full of cheap moonshine,

Misery’s my Valentine.

Honey, that’s the reason I’m

Whinin ‘till I lose my mind.

Everybody else has got a

Big, new house and car;

They prob’ly lied and cheated

To git to where they are.

They’re all out to gitcha,

It’s a gross conspiracy.

If you don’t won’t to miss the boat,

You’d best listen to me.

Everybody hates me,

That’s why I cain’t git ahead.

I’ve been singled out to lose;

They all wish I was dead.

All that I can think about

Is gittin my revenge.

I’ll teach them fools a lesson:

I’ll go on a drunken binge.

Whinin ‘till I lose my mind,

Complain just to keep from cryin,

Draggin my sad behind

Across the credibility line.

I’ll keep drinkin ‘till I’m blind.

Fodder for the daily grind.

How can life be so unkind?

Whinin ‘till I lose my mind.

Them educated idjits

Think that they is such big shots.

I may not have nothin,

But I worked for what I got.

You’d understand real good

If you’d of had the life I had.

You’ve heard of poor but honest?

Well, one out of two ain’t bad.

I cain’t concentrate good

‘Cause I worry about stuff.

When’s the gittin gonna git good?

I cain’t git enough.

Got collectors and the IRS

And lawyers after me,

And lots of them diseases

Like they show on the TV.

(Poor me, I’m)

Whinin ‘till I lose my mind

Complainin just to keep from cryin

Draggin my sad behind

Across the credibility line.

So mistreated and maligned!

Dwellin where the sun don’t shine.

Wish I could afford strychnine.

Whinin ‘till I lose my mind.

(Yodel the big finish):

Whi-EE-inin ‘till I loo-OO-ose my mi-Hind.

Just Say Gnaw

Listening to NPR yesterday morning, I heard a story about farmers in Colorado considering hemp as a cash crop. 

One of the comments in the story got my attention:

“…hemp can be used to make just about anything: rope, paper, plastic, clothing, shoe polish, car parts and even dog chew toys…”

Some possible product names for the dog chew toys:

Malamute Munchies

Mutt Stash

Lassie Grassy

Bowser Wowser

Kibbles ‘n Blitz

Scooby Doobies

McGruff Stuff (help take a bite…)

Old Meller Yeller

Coo-Coo Cur Chew (Iams the walrus)

SeesPotRun

Pongo Bongo

Buzz MacKenzie

Wal-Mart will want to get in on it: Ol’ Roy Oh Boy!

Bullet Bites

Chuckleberry Hound

Snoopy Whoopee

This one already exists: Jolly Joints (From our friends at Blue Buffalo).

Clifford’s Big Red Eyes.

Something to please even the finickiest Fido—you know how picky they are about what goes in their mouths. Your dog will dig ‘em.

“And Toto, too?” Yes, Toto, too!

Now, to sing us on outta here, Perry Como with "Hot Diggity (Dog Ziggity Boom)."

Another One Bites the Crust

One last time break out the Zingers and the Ring Dings

Blow up red, yellow, and blue balloons

While we build strong memories a dozen ways

And Yodels a cupcake bucket-kickin tune

 

I thought that hombre had no expiration date

What a sugar shock to find that he did

Makes me want to pack up my lunchbox

And ride into the sunset with Twinkie the Kid

Who thought we’d live long enough to lose our Ding Dongs?

We were marvelously made and Wonder Bread

It won’t seem like Christmas without Ho Ho’s and Sno Balls

Without visions of chocolate donuts dancin in my head

 

We’ve come many miles and Mini Muffins

Now it’s time to say so long to Suzy Q

Later, alligator; after a while, Chocodile

Mrs. Freshley and Little Debbie will have to do

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hhD_13mbJQY

Pieces of Ain’t

Listen to the thunder rollin.

Listen to that Beale Street guitar.

Listen to the River overflowin.

And listen to me wonder where you are.

I'd give my right eye if I could see you.

I'd give the world to have you around.

I'd give my right arm just to hold you,

And my low down life to be on higher ground.

Watch a monkey romance a football.

Watch an old dog runnin in his dreams.

Watch me try to figure out what happened,

And change horses in the middle of extremes.

I'd give my right now just to be then,

And everything if nothin had gone wrong.

I'd give my right away to see you later,

And my right here to have been there all along.

Feel a prayer bounce off of the ceilin.

Feel forgettin somethin once well known.

Feel a hobo's heart on Christmas mornin,

And feel me plannin how to carry on.

I'd give my right leg if I could stand it,

Give up the ghost for somethin to live for.

I'd give my right mind not to lose it,

And my best shot not to miss you any more.

Lesser love is kind of like a freight train:

The first few miles the most excitin part.

Sends a certain satisfaction screamin through my brain,

But it don't do nothin for my heart.

Excitin me, shakin me, but it ain't takin me home.

Listen to the thunder rollin.

Listen to that Beale Street guitar.

Listen to the River overflowin.

And listen to me wonder where you are.

I'd give my right eye if I could see you.

I'd give the world to have you around.

I'd give my right arm just to hold you,

And my low down life to be on higher ground.

Nickname Brands

Brother John and I were eye rolling about some of the names they come up with for store brand\knockoff products. We’ve seen Dr. Thunder, Mountain Mojo, Chazoo (chewy fruit wads), Panner Peanut Butter, Panburger Partner, Corntown (cereal), and Casa Mamita Salsa Verde, to name a few. (What’s especially fun about Salsa Verde is that it’s a red sauce.)

In a sincere desire to help, we thought we’d nominate some other possibilities. John, as is his habit, came up with the best ones:

Nurse Practitioner Pepper

Taco Knocker (fast Mexican food—you get it fast, you lose it fast)

Himhe Bars

I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butterfingers

Non-dairy Powder Ways

Uncle Jemima Syrup

Aunt Ben’s Rice

Cherubim Soft (facial-quality tissue you use nowhere near your face)

8-Up

Step-Popsicles

Supernatural Light (beer that makes you see…things…some weird damn things)

Coyote Brand Chili

Schmucker’s purple-flavored wiggly stuff (with a name like Schmucker’s, it better be good)

Dinky Debbie (cheap snack cakes that are even cheaper—if not in price, in quality)

iPhony (for making prank calls)

Inexperienced Giant (vegetables in tinhorn cans)

Tater Toddlers

Kansas Fried Chickens (“Try our Breakfast Dust Bowl!” Wash it down with a Gnu-Grape of Wrath.)

Re-Mi-Fa-So-La-TiRitos    

Maxwell Hovel (good to the last rat dropping)

Dairy Heir to the Throne (“We’ll make you feel like a Dairy Heir!”)

SHAM (“Made from real meat—no specific animal implied—from our driveway to your table!”)

Lizard-Ade

Bear Huggies (“Sure, they’re too small, but at this price you’ll make them fit.”)

Chef Boy-Are-We (You kids hungry enough to eat this crap? “Boy, are we!”)

Secrete (“Chemically clogs your pits so you don’t go around smelling like a human.”)

Show-Me State Motor Oil (“Show me the dipstick!”)

Paul & Mary Pan Peanut Butter (“Try our new Dragon Puffs—they’re magically suspicious.”)

I know you’ll want to add your own.

Munch Ado about Nothing

Last summer, we had some construction projects going on around campus. I decided to have lunch with the crew—it’s fun to fraternize with folks from whom one can get a straight answer without having to form a committee.

The first day I joined them, a fellow named Gus unwrapped a sandwich and said, “Oh, no, not again! Sardines and mustard.” He shook his head, his expression leaving no doubt about his displeasure and disquietude. “Oh, how I loathe sardine and mustard sandwiches!”

He asked if anyone wanted to trade. No one did. Gus didn’t even rewrap the sandwich; he balled it up, slam-dunked it into his lunchbox, and flipped the lid.

I felt kind of sorry for ol’ Gus.

Next day, the same thing happened. “Sardines and mustard: Is there a sorrier sandwich anywhere on Earth? I can’t eat that $#!+!” Slam! Splat! Seethe!

This went on for three days. You know how a chronic complainer can start to get on your nerves and wear you out after a while. Finally, on the fourth day, one of the other guys said, “Gus, for cryin out loud, if you hate sardine and mustard sandwiches that much, why don’t you just ask your wife to stop makin ‘em?”

Gus’s eyes widened; he sat up straight and said, “Wife? I’m not married. I make my own sandwiches!”

Now, if you and I are feeling a bit smug and uncharitable, we might be tempted to cast aspersions, expressing doubt about the man’s mental wellbeing. But, before we do, let’s take a step back and ask ourselves if we might not be guilty of the same thing as Gus. I don’t mean the sandwiches. Let’s dive a little deeper: What was Gus doing?

He was complaining bitterly about something over which he had complete control.

Of course, you and I would never do that. . . . 

(This is not an original story, just my version of it. I do not remember where I first heard/read it. th)

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004RA47O4  

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Fraudulent Frog Skins, Mock Money, Misleading Loot

I was at my favorite convenience store a couple of weeks ago. Since I’m in there almost every day, I’ve gotten to know the manager. She told me she found a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill while preparing her cash drop for the bank.

I asked her how she knew it was a fake. She said, “It just didn’t feel right.”

She handed it to me. It looked fine, but like she said, it just didn’t feel right. I can’t explain it exactly, but after handling the genuine article for so long it’s easy to tell when something doesn’t feel right.

If we mixed in and handled enough of those counterfeit bills, after a while, we might get to where we couldn’t tell the difference—or even know which one was real to begin with.

It’s the same with our attitudes, outlooks, and actions. When we react in a way we know is wrong, even if we get away with it, it just doesn’t feel right. We know it.

 Counterfeit money is illegal, plus it harms the overall economy. A counterfeit person is perhaps even worse. It’s not illegal, necessarily, but it’s a crime nevertheless, a crime against ourselves and those who are counting on us. And we’re not fooling anyone, at least not anyone who is familiar with the real thing.

Like our old pal, Shakespeare, said via Polonius in Hamlet: “To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”