Monthly Archives

November 2016

All Entries Business and Work Home Life Humor

38 Million Minutes to Go

November 18, 2016

Like most people, I was born with 38,894,400 minutes to do with as I please before I depart this earth and embark on my journey into the next life. If I’m lucky, I’ll be reincarnated as a sexier model of my earthly self, with a chance to marry Amy Darowitz, have 10 kids, go to Harvard Law School and become a managing partner at Cohen, Beckermann, Feuchtwanter and Hincklestein. Short of that, I’ll just have to make the best of the time I’ve been given.

Time is such a nebulous concept that I’ve felt the need to explore it on more than one occasion. The first time was literally the day after I was born. Lying in a bassinet, a diaper filled with digested Similac, time came to a screeching halt. Then I discovered that if I cried loud and hard enough, I could make anyone – including my mother – drop what they were doing and immediately attend to my personal needs. In essence, I had the ability to accelerate time. A few years later, I learned that I could slow time down by bringing home a crappy report card. “Wait until your father gets a load of this,” threatened my mother. Anticipating my father’s leather belt across my heinie, the afternoon couldn’t have moved slower if I was Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt. read more

All Entries Health Home Life Humor Medicine

Better Living through Drug Addiction

November 18, 2016

I’m hopelessly addicted to drugs. You name a pill, syrup, lotion, cream, antacid, vitamin, tranquilizer, hormone, douche or suppository and I’ve not only taken it, but I’ve abused it. Largely because I have an addictive personality. Anything worth taking is worth taking a lot.

In all fairness, I can’t take the blame for my wayward behavior. It began the day I popped out of my mother’s womb when the pediatric nurses started basting me with petroleum jelly and baby lotion like I was a Thanksgiving turkey. In those days, babies were always covered with something. Pediatricians were convinced by the drug companies that it was dangerous for a baby’s skin to come in direct contact with the air or sunlight without a protective layer of gook. Then came the decongestant drops and saline nasal sprays they shot up my nose – which would come in handy years later when I got addicted to cocaine.

Expectant mothers today are lucky if they spend 24 hours in the maternity ward. Doctors almost recommend that new dads just leave the engine running. Thanks to  new insurance guidelines, babies are delivered faster than you can lance a boil. When I was born, new mothers were allowed to wile away a week or more in the hospital after giving birth before they were sent home. That gave newborns plenty of opportunities to get strung out on all sorts of drugs and be exposed to leprosy from the guy down the hall. There wasn’t much to do in the pediatric ward as a child, so I started smoking cigarettes and hanging out with a rough bunch of newborns in “The Cribs.” We were constantly in trouble with the staff for soiling our diapers, spitting up our breakfast and peeing on people whenever they picked us up. By the time I left the hospital, I was hopelessly strung out on the Pedialyte they gave me to counter the dehydration from a week of projectile vomiting and diarrhea. read more

All Entries Education Food & Recipes Home Life Humor

Betty Crocker Means Good Nutrition

November 11, 2016

As a rambunctious kid growing up in southern California, I was lucky enough to live at home under the loving dictatorship of two middle-income parents. In exchange for a few menial tasks like mowing the lawn, pulling weeds and cleaning out the septic tank, my parents gave me a comfortable place to live, a weekly allowance and home cooked meals.

After I joined the Navy, it still didn’t dawn on me that I couldn’t cook. Why would it? Every day at five o’clock, we sauntered over to the mess hall, grabbed a dented aluminum tray, a knife and a spork and stood in line for whatever slop they were pushing on us that night. We spent the rest of the evening debating over exactly what it was that we just ate and how bad it tasted. But at least I didn’t have to prepare it.

It wasn’t until several years later that I had to figure out how to feed myself. By the end of my tour of military duty, I was too old to go back home and couldn’t afford a personal chef, so I was on my own. I’d either have to get married, learn how to cook or wither away to nothing. read more

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