Merle's Place

Traffic Ninnies

2010-01-31T11:54:00.001-07:00

So I picked up one of my girlfriends, Arlene and we headed off to Cedar Rapids yesterday to take in a movie, something about hangovers and having had lots of experience in the matter, it sounded good. Nowadays ya have to go to Cedar Rapids to see a movie because none of the local towns have a theater anymore on account of cable TV. Damn pain in the wazoo if you want to see a new movie and ya have a cravin for some Milk Duds to boot.

Well we no sooner get out on the two lane highway North of town and I’m tellin Arlene about my exploits as a Guide in Africa, (Lying through my teeth) when the traffic starts to slow down. Sure enough, after about a half mile a crawlin along we see the damn orange cones directing traffic down to one lane. Now the way these nitwits always do these things is they pick out where the traffic merges from the right so’s they can pinch it in from both sides and really make a mess of things. I think they think that’s funny and they have hidden cameras stashed in the traffic cones taking pictures of the expressions on people’s faces. Now if you factor in that half the cars are driven by nincompoops or worse yet, women, you got yourself unadulterated chaos. So there we sat watching people from both sides trying to get into one damn lane.

Well we put putted along at the break neck speed of 2 MPH for the next fifteen minutes realizing that the only hangover we were going to see was the one that sittin on your bum going nowhere produces. Finally after twenty five minutes of creeping along we get up to where you have the usual collaboration of five or six guys watching one guy with a shovel throw asphalt in a pot hole. But what burns ole Merles hind end is there’s this moron standing there with a sign that says “SLOW.” Judas A Priest, where was this genius two miles back when everybody was a slammin on their breaks? I mean, what is this guy, a misplaced table lamp with a sign?

Well, we get up alongside ole Albert Einstein and I rolled down my window and asked him if maybe 2 MPH might be a tad dangerous what with there being kids and women folk in the cars and that maybe his sign should say “Camp Ground” or something like that. I even suggested that maybe he could have a sign advertising where I could get a cold beer or a massage. I then asked the ninny if he could remember the year he finally graduated from the fifth grade.

Turns out I asked him some questions that were a bit intrusive; at least that’s what the Highway Patrolman told me after he pulled me over. I guess Mr. Sign Guy didn’t have a sense of humor concerning such matters. That’s another thing that ticks me off. They need to take the sign guy and the Highway Patrolman and place them both where they belong and this sort of thing wouldn’t happen in the first place. Ya don’t flout common sense in front of a man of my like me, not never. Oh and Arlene just sat there and laughed her ass off thank you very much. Beam me up Scotty.

Five Hundred Pound Gorilla

2010-01-28T10:53:00.001-07:00

Now as you’re all aware I’m an introspective, learned man so I tend to opine on whatever crosses my radar screen. It doesn’t matter whether it’s the “Cool Aid Crowd” blathering on about Global Warming or whether my hero Hulk Hogan’s just had another face lift, I’m gonna tell it like it is. So that brings me to the Massachusetts Senatorial election a week ago.

First of all, I’m damn glad I don’t live there. Can you imagine if you lived in Easthampton, Massachusetts? Hell, it’d take you a month of Sundays to write your damn return address on your monthly bills, but I digest. I’m talking about that Scott Brown feller, a Republican, winning a landslide in the most Socialist State in this here Union. Now I might not be from Harvard, as a matter of fact tenth grade was a bit of a challenge, but I’m guessing people were a tad riled up and wanted to send President Obama a message by voting for the guy that said he opposed everything Obama proposed. That’s what everybody with eye balls and a brain was saying.

Now don’t get me wrong, this here Obama feller’s probably a pretty smart puppy but I wouldn’t have voted for him cause he’s so left, he’s left of Louisville and that ain’t good. Now ole Merle doesn’t have a prejudiced bone in his highly muscular body and there are plenty of African American’s I’d have voted for in a heartbeat, just not this particular one. I mean when the Democrats start marching out guys like Al (The Sky Is Falling) Gore and Joe (Is My Mouth Open Again?) Biden you realize the white folks ain’t exactly got the market on Advanced DNA storage. But lordy, lordy when you walk into the room and there’s a five hundred pound Gorilla a standing there a lookin at ya, don’t look at your teleprompter and then look at me and tell me it’s a Chinchilla. It’s a standing there, it weighs five hundred pounds and it once starred in a movie with Faye Ray. It’s a Five Hundred Pound Gorilla, you ninny!

I mean do I have stupid written all over my face? Well maybe on my underwear, but I digest again. To sit there and look the American people in the eye and say, “Why it’s the same anger that got me elected a year ago,” means you’re either eating Moron pills or you recently touched a five thousand volt power line. IT’S A GORILLA, IT’S A GORILLA! When the number one Socialist State in the ole U.S. of A. flips you the bird you might want to maybe scratch your head or maybe even your butt and ponder that for a minute or two instead of acting like you’re a nincompoop. Us folks out here in God’s country like good ole fashioned straight talk and a little honesty goes a long ways. I mean if ole Barack keeps this up they’ll remove the Presidential Seal on his lectern and replace it with the Logo from the “Twilight Zone!” A butt kickin is a butt kickin, and it ain’t no massage! IT’S A GORILLA!

Oh, and one more thing while I’m at it. He needs to see a doctor and have that neck looked at. I guarantee you he’s in pain. I was a watchin him speak last night and he’d say something and arch his head to the right. Then, after he read the next sentence on the teleprompter he’d say it and arch his head directly to the left. Then he’d read a sentence and yup, you guessed her, he’d snap it to the right again. I’m tellin ya he’s in pain. Maybe the Gorilla had something to do with it? Beam me up Scotty!

Handkerchiefs

2010-01-24T12:00:00.003-07:00

I was a sittin here this morning watching the football dummies on Sports Center and I just started shaking my head in total disgust. You know the show I’m talking about, the one where they have four guys and it’s a politically correct combination of two white guys that don’t know squat about football and two black guys that don’t know squat about football. Everything in TV land is in perfect harmony and they’re a babbling on about three step drops and four step drops and such. I’m sittin there thinkin to myself, “They’re just a babbling to see if maybe they can get their names inscribed on a plaque at the original “Tower of Babble.” You know the one that Charlton Heston was talking to God about in that movie.

Well as I’m watchin this I notice all four guys have on these real expensive suits, and I mean we’re not talking K-Mart here and they have $100 ties and matching handkerchiefs in the pocket of their jackets. Now, I don’t know about you, but the sight of a handkerchief makes me think of runny noses and snot. That’s why out here in Iowa people stuff the dang things in their pants pocket and the only time you’ll ever see one is when they’re a tootin into them and wiping their noses clean. You sure as heck don’t see silky pink or green handkerchiefs around here and there ain’t nobody gonna carry them around in their Sunday best. Oh no, they’re stuffed in the pants pocket and the only daylight they’ll see is when your nose runs. That usually earns you a dirty look from the good Reverend.

These football dummies are makin fools of themselves if you ask me. I mean if you run down to the Tractor Supply store and buy a three pack of hankies you’ll immediately notice they’re a dark blue or dark red with all sorts of lines and designs on them. Why do they make them like that you ask? To disguise the snot, that’s why. Good grief, you’d think these guys would know better, but that’s what happens when you get hit in the head a lot, you start wearin silk handkerchiefs in your suit pocket and a stupid grin on your face. God forbid one of these knuckleheads has to sneeze on the set. I’m telling you it wouldn’t be a pretty sight, what with high definition and such. I guarantee you they wouldn’t stuff it back in their jacket pocket. Nope, it’d go in their britches where it belongs in the first place.

The whole show’s silly from the fact that they don’t know diddly poop about football to the fact that from a fashion sense they’re a makin absolute fools of themselves. Besides, after listening to five minutes of three step drops and five step drops I get to the point where I want to scream, “Who cares about cellar steps you ninkompoops! Talk some football would ya! “Beam me up Scotty.”

He Said What?

2010-01-23T15:25:00.002-07:00

I was drivin home the other afternoon in my pickum up truck and decided to turn my radio on. No sooner had I done that and a guy on the radio was a askin me, “Are you currently thinking about your prostate health?” Huh, what did he say? Actually at that very moment I was thinkin about my neighbor Norma and a wishin summer and sunbathing would hurry up and get here.

Well this nincompoop started going on about givin your prostate vitamins because if you were getting old, it needed them. Now let me get this straight, I’m supposed to buy vitamins for my prostrate? Me? The guy with a back that loosens up about the time I’m getting ready to go to bed. Me, the guy with a big left toe that can tell you the current temperature within .5 degrees Fahrenheit? Me, the guy with the knee that sounds like it’s packed in cracked glass? I’m supposed to give vitamins to a prostate that only troubles me when I go to the doctor and he has that nasty smile and says, “Bend over Merle and let’s have a look.”

Yeah right, I’m gonna rush right out and buy me some prostate vitamins. I’ll do that right after I pick up some Ibuprofen for my back, a brace for my knee and right after I chop the damn big toe off. Oh, and right after I buy me a bottle of Jimmy Beam which is probably all the vitamins my prostrate needs in the first place. Now where was I? Oh, I was thinkin about Norma and suntan lotion. “Beam me up Scotty.”

Pom Poms er Pons

2010-01-18T13:56:00.003-07:00

Merle here. I mean I have to be here if I’m not over there. Being an intellectual I have come across another puzzling aspect of man’s stupidity and being deeper than a toilet at Mile High Stadium I decided to investigate. I’m talking Pom pom’s here, which through exhaustive study I’ve already discovered they’re spelled Pom pon’s. It’s French so it also figures the idiots would miss-spell the damn word.

Now you’re probably wondering what got ole Merle a lookin into Pom pom’s, (American Spelling) so here’s the straight poop. I was watching the Saints, Cardinals game yesterday and the sideline cameraman kept on a photographing this gorgeous blond cheerleader. Well he held the camera so close to her God given talents that I was a countin freckles and curves . Now I admit, I was enjoying myself because when God created this girl, he was obviously in a good mood and since God’s a man, he’d indulged himself a bit. Well I was a sittin there a droolin when she kept on gettin them dumb, tassel things in the way of my high def viewing, if you get my drift. As a matter of fact, it was downright irritating!

Now this whole cheerleader thing leaves me a tad baffled. I mean even when I was in high school nobody paid any attention to what they were a yelling. So here, in this game, you have half dressed twenty year old babes and they’re out there a gyrating up a storm and they’re leading cheers? Give me a break! They’re leading men into sin and perdition maybe and the only sound ya hear is the drunken idiots in section ten singing “I wish I was an Oscar Meyer Weiner, that is what I’d really like to be, cause if I was an Oscar Meyer Weiner,” well you get the idea. Ain’t nobody yelling “Go Team,” “Go Baby” maybe, but I’m figuring the crowd’s more “Offensive” than offensive, the sport version spelled here with your standard small B. Well the Pom pom’s kept on a getting in the way so I decided to oogle it, er ogle it, sorry, Google it! Here’s what I learned.

A pom-pon is, at its most basic level, a decorative ball of fluff. And the basic fluff gets in the way a lot I might add.

Cheerleaders using Pom-pons during a football halftime show.

See, the damn things can get in yer way!

Cheerleaders use pom-pons for a variety of reasons including attracting the attention of a crowd, (I guarantee you that ain’t what’s gettin the crowd’s attention) accentuating movements, (BS, they get in the way of movements) distracting an opposing team, (Pom pom’s ain’t what’s distracting the other team, see ta ta’s and return to previous square!) and adding an element of sparkle to a cheer, chant or cheer/dance routine, (Ole Merle will tell ya what adding the sparkle) especially at cheer competitions. Most often, pom-pons are used in pairs (Don’t get me started!) (one for each hand) by each cheerleader, but this may vary based on the particular requirements and choreography of a routine or cheer. In Australia, the term flogger is used rather than pompon. (That’s why I’m considering moving to Australia) The Aussies are a least honest if not sober.

So there you have it. Pom Pom’s are the stupidest thing ever conjured up by the mind of man. They may distract, but they distract from what’s important if you again get my drift. After a thorough study of the subject I can conclude they have zero functional purpose. Now, the twenty year old blonde’s a completely different story. Beam me up Scotty!

She Called Me What?

2009-11-19T12:52:00.003-07:00

Just about the time you think you’ve seen the worst case of customer service, you ain’t seen nothing yet, “ESPECIALLY THE SERVICE! I opened my MasterCard bill yesterday and there was a charge for $29.99. The .99 cents is another story, I mean, oh gee thanks, you didn’t charge me thirty bucks. How nice, but then I digress. (Is that like depression?) The little problem was I didn’t use the product, hadn’t used the product, and wasn’t about to use the product there, WHY DID I GET CHARGED THE $29.99?

So I made a critical decision and decided I’d find out why they charged me for something I didn’t have. Well I first tried to see if I couldn’t get the answer by using my computer. I mean I’m getting pretty damn good on the contraption. I even learned how to book mark my favorite girlie sites! Well, they wanted my user ID and the product number in order for me to talk to anyone. Now that presented a small problem, BECAUSE I DIDN”T HAVE THEIR DAMN PRODUCT!!!! So I found the 800 number on the bill and called that.

Well what happened next would fit well with Obama’s new government health care program, specifically the department that figures it’s cheaper if you just killed yourself to save money. I got put on hold and listening to Elton John, only it sounded like he was singing under water. He’d start croonin and it sounded like he was gargling the song and then in the middle of the gargling some English gal’d come on and thank me for waiting and then she called me a “Query!” I’m not kiddin! I’m sittin there innocently listening to Elton John, that Elton John and she’s callin me “Query!” Well, I listened to Elton John gargle, Peter Gabriel gargle, Dianna Ross gargle, Billy Joel gargle all the while this English gal’d come on and thank me for waitin and tell me something about my “Query.” I was beginning to get a might pissed off!

Well this had gone on for fifteen minutes and I was so dad blamed mad I thought I’d spit up on myself. I mean I was listening to the Beatles gargle and they were gargling “The Long and Winding Road” and I had to pee and all of a sudden there was a person on the line and she sounded like a human being. I said in a very pleasant voice, “You people trying to kill me? I mean give me a knife and I’ll cut my throat right now after listening to the top twenty all time gargles?” (Thus I see value in this for getting rid of folks and savin on health care) Well of course she was trying to be nice and so she apologized and said “Give me your E-Mail address and tell me what can we do for you today?” So I start to give her my E-Mail address and I’m explainin away how nobody ought to be charged for something they don’t have and then it struck me like a ball peen hammer, I WAS TALKIN TO MYSELF! That’s right, after waitin over fifteen minutes to talk to a human; the human dropped the call to the complaining human.

Yup, you got it right! I had to call back in, listen to more gargling and the English woman kept saying the “Query” word over and over. As I was listening to “Queen?” gargling the Bohemian Rhapsody, (That was funnier than hell) another human popped onto the line and away we went. Well, long story short I got my money back, she apologized and was real nice up until I asked her what she was doing that evening and then informed me I wasn’t being called a name, that Query meant question. So I posed a query to her. “Why the hell don’t the English speak English?” She dropped my call. Another grand example of “Outstanding Service!” Now I’m going to the John and gargle myself to death.

We'll Be Right Back

2009-11-15T12:39:00.000-07:00

“We’ll be right back!” Jeez Louise I’m gettin sick and damn tired of those words. I got all worked up the other day cause my favorite football team, "Da Bears" was playing the pukes from Cincinnati. I settled myself onto the couch in my officialy logo’d Bear Snuggy, with a snoot of Jimmy Beam close by ready to watch “FOOTBALL!” Now listen closely brothers and sisters. “I turned the Boob tube on to watch Football.” I didn’t turn the damn thing on to watch commercials and promos about some dufus comedy that the supposed experts said was the funniest show ever. Yeah right and then it gets cancelled two weeks later on account watching paint dry was a lot funnier.

Anyways I took a sip of my Beam, settled back all comfy in my snuggy and then spent the next thirty minutes listening to several boobs goin on like they actually knew a thing or two about the game of football. Of course after each asinine comment the “Lead Boob” would promo a television show about Cross Dressing Christian Couples and then say, “We’ll be right back.” Unfortunately for me, he and his trio of “Boobettes” fulfilled their promise and they indeed came right back. Well, finally after six minutes of commercials, one where sexy girls floated up a guys nostril while he shaved and then another one where a guy my age talked about how you could give Mr. Winkie a drug and you’d get laid that very night and then finally a guy my age was a talkin about peeing too much THEY ACTUALLY KICKED THE DAMN FOOTBALL OFF AND SOMEBODY GOT TACKLED and then, then, then they broke for another commercial where I learned about feminine Hygiene and Beer that would attract beautiful half naked women and then finally, it was back to the game.

Well on the very first play the quarterback threw and incompletion and the “Color Guy" who was actually white said the ball was poorly thrown. Well damn, how’d he figure that one out seeings how it sailed five feet over the receivers head? On the very next play the tail back fumbled and, you guessed it, they said, “We’ll be right back.” Then I was treated to some guys messing with Sasquatch, a drug that’d probably kill ya if ya ever took it and a Taco Bell commercial that was promoting a hell of a lot more than taco’s. Why even ole Merle turned a tad pink in the face. I mean, women dressed in black promotin tacos? What's this world coming to? Then it was back to the football game, at least I think there was a game going on. So, after being treated to six replays of the dumb ass fumbling the football, the other team marches up to the line of scrimmage. Of course the quarterback didn’t like the play he had called so he immediately calls a time out and you guessed it, the magic words “We’ll be right back” were uttered and I was then treated to a laxative, a lizard selling insurance and Neanderthals bowling before it was back to the game where the idiot white colored guy told me the quarterback had been confused with the defense, that’s why he called a time out. DUH, Really?

I finally gave up, turned the damn game off and put my “Girls gone Wild” 3D video on and spent the rest of my Sunday afternoon marveling at the wonders of the fairer sex while I provided my own, highly insightful, commercial free commentary and not once did I say “We’ll be right back.” After all, I had the remote and all I had to do was just hit the damn pause button when we had to go to the John and I was the only one there, so there was no sense in tellin myself what I already knew. I knew I'd be right back. No sense beatin a dead horse! Beam me up Scotty!

You're Kiddin Me, Right?

2009-10-15T12:04:00.003-06:00

There it was, right smack dab on the TV screen! Why, I couldn't believe my baby blue's. It was a Jim Beam commercial and it actually said the following: "Best enjoyed responsibly." Huh? I certainly enjoy it and I have multiple reasons for enjoying my Beam, but what strikes me funny is the word "Responsible" never EVER crosses my mind when I'm pounding down some Jimmy Beam. Quite frankly Myrtle, after a couple of snoots of Jimmy, I couldn't spell the word responsible with an open dictionary and a tutor standin next to me. Hell, I'm too busy singing, "Hunka, Hunka, Burnin Love," while toolin around the neighborhood on my John Deere ridin mower a little after midnight! Why Wally Sims threw a hammer at me the other evening. Party pooper! What's this world comin to anyway?

Khloe' Kardashian

2009-10-15T11:53:00.002-06:00

I was standin in the line at the Supermarket the other day and as you all know, that’s where I read a lot. Well my eyes were yanked out of their sockets by this cover story of some gal named Khloe’ Kardashian and she was a wearin a blue bikini and the Headline Screamed, “Don’t Call Me Fat.” Well, I was stunned because lookin at that body evoked a lot of calls for sure, but none were associated with the word “Fat!”

I mean there was the, “I’d like to call you up,” thought. There was I’d like to call you, “Baby, baby, baby” thought. There was the “Call of the wild,” thought and of course there was the “put in a call for some Viagra,” thought, but nowhere was I a callin her fat. The girl must be brainwashed or something. I mean if she showed up out here in Iowa she’d be steppin over more guys than cow shit. She was that good looking. That damn bikini was a promotin her talents better than any Hollywood talent scout ever could. Hell, just lookin at that picture was givin me heart proliferations and I had to step back for a minute so as to collect myself, but then I got to thinkin. (I’m, if nothing, a thinkin man.)

I thunk, “Don’t let the body fool ya Merle, she still a Kardashian and you have no idea how what they'd do to earth males while makin love.” I remember that Kardashian gal on Star Trek and she was one weird lookin chick. Why in another couple of years this Khloe’ gal’s gonna have one of them funny foreheads too and if she puts on any weight so’s she’s actually a tad heavy, then all you’re ever gonna do is look at that damn forehead and wonder just what the hell’s under them bumps anyways? I stepped back up close and looked at the picture to see if I could see any bumps that were a growin on her forehead. Sure enough, Martha, the checkout gal thought I was a starin at the more prominent bumps currently surrounded by the blue bikini and she bellowed, “Merle you pervert! You drool on our magazines one more time and there’ll be hell to pay.” I hollered back, “I’ll be payin you for my groceries Martha, and that’s hell enough!”

You know, maybe if you could keep a Kardashian gal at the proper weight and you didn’t mind travelin all over the Universe it wouldn’t be so bad, the forehead and everything. Sure they're amoral, powerful and intelligent beings, but that sure would beat the hell outa being married to a pain in the wazoo like Martha. Beam me up Scotty! “Oh, and Scotty, is that Kardashian gal up on the bridge?” Ha, ha I crack myself up sometimes! "Oh! Hi there Martha, let me see your forehead. Just a kiddin!!”

Gettin Gas While Gettin Gas'd Up

2009-10-04T11:40:00.002-06:00

Judas A Priest, when did it become so damn difficult to get ten gallons of gasoline? I swear, if they put anymore buttons on them damn gas pumps I’m gonna be forced to repeat the eighth grade. I remember when I was kid we’d stop at Arty Detbarn’s Shell station in town and the whole process of filling your car with gas involved telling Arty to “Fill er up.” That was it! “Fill er up Arty.” Now how difficult is that? Ole Arty’d put the nozzle in after removing the gas cap and then he’d come up and even clean the windows while the gas tank was being filled. It was up close and personal service. It was so up close and personal the ashes on the end of Arty’s cigarette would tumble off and into your lap while you sat there and you got a good look at Arty’s nose hairs and arm pits as he stretched across the window with his squeegee. Arty was as hairy as a Shetland pony he was. Now those were the good ole days. In no time you were gassed up and on your way.

Well the nincompoop that bought ole Arty out recently installed those new fangled gas pumps with all them buttons and screens that you couldn’t see in bright sunlight if your life depended on it. I stopped in yesterday for a fill up and I swear, I’d probably been better off stopping off somewhere else to perform heart surgery or something.

I got out of the car wistfully thinking about the good ole days and Arty’s nose hairs and put my brand new credit card in the slot and swiped it. Nothing happened. I squinted at the screen and finally realized it said I needed to "insert my card again. So I swiped the bugger again and nothing happened again. I could feel my blood pressure a rising a tad. Well I squinted a little harder and realized this pump wanted me to insert the card in the reverse fashion of what every other gas pump on the planet wanted. I swiped the card with feeling and heard the pump go “Beep.” Well, havin gotten a “beep” meant something positive must be goin on so I squinted at the screen again.

Now it wanted my damn zip code. What the hell did it need my zip code for? I wasn’t mailing anything for crying out loud. Realizin nature was a callin I went and quickly punched in my zip code while tappin my foot on the ground to distract myself. Nothin happened “Again.” So I squinted at the magic screen one more time and it said “Hit Enter.” Well for crying out loud! I hit enter and nothing happened. I looked at the frickin magic screen again and it said “Enter Your Zip Code!” Well I slapped the damn thing upside the whatever and stalked into the gas station and low and behold there was this little feller and as they say, “He ain’t from here!” I said “The damn thing ain’t workin! How many times do I have to enter my damn zip code to buy a tank of gas?” Well the little dim wit looked at his dim wit screen and he said in a foreign accent, “There's is nothing on my screen. You must enter your zip code if you want to get gas.” I got a couple of inches away from his face and I said, “BEEN THERE, DONE THAT!” He said, “No you didn’t or it would be on my screen.”

Well I realized I was a getting nowhere with the little nitwit with the accent so I went out and put my zip code in one more time. Now I really had to go to the john and I was literally clackin my knees together. Well after I hit Enter it went “Beep.” Flushed with victory I grabbed the nozzle and hit the Regular button. Nothing happened. Well I squinted at the magic screen again all the while describing it’s mother and it said, “Do you want a car wash?” I started jumpin up and down a screamin “I want gas damn it, I just want frickin gas!” Well that wasn’t workin so I hit the “No” button and it went “Beep!” I whirled around and quickly squeezed the nozzle. Nothin happened. I glared at the screen and it said, “Would you like a donut or a cup of coffee?”

Well the town cop “Dougy McWilliams” eventually let me off with a warning but not before he said, “Merle if I ever get called down here again on account you’re a kickin somebody’s gas pumps and beatin it with your fists and I’ll run your ass in for sure. You got that?” Well I finally got the damn thing to go “Beep” one more time and was putting my hard won gas in her and noticed Dougy coming back out of the station with a frickin donut and a cup of coffee. Hmm, I thought to myself, maybe that stuff works after all. I started wistfully thinkin about Arty’s nose hairs as I put the nozzle back on the pump and then headed up the road to Jake Timmon’s place. I was thinkin maybe I’d talk to him about buyin a horse.

Technology Be Damned!

2009-09-26T11:21:00.000-06:00

Jesus A, what’s the world coming to? My brother Cliff talked me into buying a computer last year and cuz he said, “I needed to get with it, the Internet was where “it” was at.” Well, I wasn’t necessarily concerned about ole “It” but I bought one none the less and it indeed changed my life. Ruined it might be more to the point!

I don’t care whether it’s banking, shopping, Social Networking, (Bout as Social as a room full of lard) or surfing (I thought you needed water) them neat sites where them young fillies take off their britches, it just ain’t worth the aggravation. I mean I did think them sites where you could meet the girl of your dreams were neat but then my computer came down with a virus and it cost me $199 to get it cured. Now that right there’s pretty damn stupid if you ask me. When I showed Cliffy what my computer was doing he told me “Merle, you idiot, you got a virus!” Well I felt perfectly fine, but I took the computer down to Doc Keltchen to see if he knew what the hell to do. I’ll never do that again cause he laughed my ass right out of his office and then Cliffy directed me to the place where I’d bought the damn thing in the first place and $199 later it was cured. Stupid if you ask me. My Playboy magazine never got sick.

Then I had another problem with it one day where it just sat there and stared at me. I started hitting buttons and keys and cursing the damn thing and it just sat there. I finally called Cliffy and he said, “Merle, boot the damn thing.” So I did. Did I tell you I had to buy a new computer after that one. I never did hear the end of it from Cliff and he’s always bringing it up whenever the family gets together. Burns my butt listening to him carry on about it. “Then the Nitwit picks it up and kicks it across the room” and everybody laughs. Well, I ain’t laughing that’s for sure. I was out another $900 and I was still faced with the fact that Clifford was my brother and I couldn’t change that.

The other thing that drives me bananas is no matter what you do, where you go on it, ya gotta do a profile and you have to have a password and if the password ain’t to their likin, you gotta do another one. Hell I got so damn confused I started writing the damn stuff down on my kitchen wall with magic markers and crayons so’s I could remember what was on what. I’d write “Banking: Username: “Me ya Dumb asses, Password: Ollie Ollie all in free.” Sears Account: Username: “Merle ya dumb asses, Password: buttscratcher.”

Well, it gets mind boggling at times it does, although I kinda liked the way the kitchen wall started lookin. It was sort of New Age meets The Dead Sea Skrolls if you ask me. As a matter of fact I liked it so much I thought I’d look into maybe getting a patent on the design so I “Gargled” it and sure nuff, I needed to fill out a profile and give them a username and password. I said screw it and went and got me a snoot of Beam instead.

I hate this new technology stuff and I swear I dream at night of the good ole days when a telephone was a telephone and it was stuck to the wall with a dial on it that had clearly marked numbers on it and in those days you didn’t have nitwits driving through ditches cause they were on the phone talking to their nagging wives. I dreamed of the day when you”Mailed” somebody and it had a stamp, not an E, and you actually said something intelligent instead of something that covered your ass. I even dreamed of the day you could go down to the bank and talk to a real person like Arlene and she’d help ya figure out why you were off a couple thousand dollars in your checking account. Never once would Arlene say, “Merle, if you want your account information say one, Merle if you want your interest rate say two, Merle if you’d like to borrow more money say three.” No Arlene’d say “Merle, you poor man, how’d you end up with a negative $2,000?” Of course she’d always be wearin something slightly revealing and smell like a million bucks so it’d help me forget I was over-drawn a couple thousand dollars in the first place. Personal service like that is a thing of the past, it is. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to soldier on. “Beam me up Scotty,” Nice thing about ole Jimmy Beam is you don’t need a damn password to get in it. Naw, ya just sip it till you “PASSOUT.” Ah, the simple life! TECHNOLOGY BE DAMNED!!!!

The Little Fellers

2009-09-03T12:22:00.000-06:00

I’m feelin a tad blue today on account the Little League World Series just ended. I just love watching them little fellers cause they kids play the game I loved as a boy for all the right reasons . I don’t care where they come from, Japan, Taiwan, Mexico or God forbid, Long Island, they play my game with a passion and love that brings a lump to ole Merle’s throat. Them dumb ass Big Leaguers could learn a thing or two about the true meaning of the game and they ought to be required to watch a minimum of at least two games to smarten em up a bit. Why, it just might do em some good around contract time, although that’s probably wishful thinking on my part.

Now what really caught my eye is how them kids from the other countries act the same as kids from the ole U.S. of A. They cheer, they cry, they spit and they pick their noses just like our kids. Got me to thinking the other day that maybe we could promote something like “World Peace” by requiring all the nincompoop adults in the world to watch every last game right to the very end. What they’d see is “kids being kids” and “parents being parents” and if ya didn’t look close you wouldn’t have a clue where in the world they were from. A few of them dumb ass politicians might learn a thing or two also about good sportsmanship and God forbid, classy behavior.

I mean did ya see them kids from Taiwan after they lost the championship game to the kids from California? They wiped the snot off their noses, dried their eyes and went over in front of the nincompoop parents from California and took their hats off and bowed like young gentlemen. Pure class it was and it got me a tad choked up. California winning the whole thing just made me gag cause I was a pullin for the kids from Texas and that little rascal Wyatt Willis. What a cool name! The little bugger could hit the ball too.

Now I never did have kids on account I was always trippin the light fandango and I wasn’t good at the honey do stuff, so the Little League World Series is my “Family Time.” In the summer time there’s nothing in a boys heart that beats baseball and as a matter of fact that’s just what “BEATS” in a boy's heart, “BASEBALL!” Girls don’t ever get it, never did, never will, but at age twelve they take a big time back seat to my beloved game. There’s not a girl on Earth that feels better than having a 34 ounce Hank Aaron Louisville Slugger in your hands and there ain’t a single twelve year old, pig tailed cutie pie in the world that smells better than a well oiled Rawlins Baseball Glove and there will NEVER be anything prettier than a slow curve ball on the outside corner of the plate.

Seems like just yesterday ole Merle was a scratching at the dirt like a red headed rooster and feelin the stitches on the baseball while decidin whether to throw Dicky Peterson a curve or just plain drill him in the noggin on account I didn’t like him much. I could hear ole Cooder Fitzpatrick over behind the bench a hollerin, “Go ahead Merle, throw the little fart the bender, throw him the bender!” Boy, I sure do miss those days. It’s kind of a bitch getting old and everything. That’s why I enjoy my Little League World Series so much. Good kids, good baseball, and it takes me back for a while to a time when I could "get the ball up there in a hurry" as they’d say back then. Oh, and by the way, I threw Dicky Peterson a curve and he’s probably still got back pain to this day after whiffing on that one. Damn I’m blue, where’s my hanky?

Undercover Work

2009-08-23T11:50:00.002-06:00

Merle here, with my latest report on women. If you ain’t a woman, you might want to read this on account that means you’re a man and this could be real helpful when you’re a dealin with the Mrs. Next time, and you all know you’ll be a dealin with her, that’s the law! I’ve been trying to figure women out now for the better part of fifty years now depending on whether puberty was officially christened on my eleventh birthday or twelfth. I do know I was a peeking through the keyhole at my cousin Gena when I was eleven, so I’m leanin towards eleven. She was thirteen and had a pretty nice set of brand new hooters and that one cost me a bloody nose on account she also had a couple of pretty good fists to go along with the hooters. Milkin cows by hand’ll give ya some pretty good meat hooks.

Well one of the great mysteries in my life is why women tend to be a tad crazy at times. I was over at Arlene’s the other night and she seemed perfectly normal one minute and then the next minute she was a bawling her eyes out a claimin I just wanted to be around her on account of the sex and not because of the person she was deep down inside. Well, hello! Why else would a feller want to be around a woman? I sure as shag don’t give a tinker’s damn about getting in touch with my inner feelins and a chattin about flowers and stuff. What’s wrong with sex? Well it left me absolutely mystified it did. She was fine one minute, a flirtin and everything and the next thing you know, the damn burst and so did my evening of undercover work.

I decided it was time to get to the bottom of all this and I set to pondering. What was it that was different about women and men besides the various and a sundry parts etc? Then it hit me like a flash. The damn critters shave their underarms! Now think about that for a minute. So’s I headed for the john while makin sure there was nobody a hidin in the house with a camera like them pooperazzi’s and I got out the shavin cream, my double edge razor and I set forth where no man had dared go before. Well twenty minutes, six band aids and a plugged up sink later I had reached a level of deep understanding concerning Arlene and her kind. I “REALLY” reached a deep understanding when I sprayed my pits with my Old Spice Xtra Strength deodorant. I thought somebody’d set my pits on fire with a match and five gallon can of unleaded 89 octane gasoline. I spent the next hour a walkin around the house a flappin my damn arms like a friggin Sea Gull a squawkin away. Not sure if Sea Gulls say things like “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, hot, hot, hot” but that’s what I was a squawkin. No wonder are crazier than loons and a cryin all the time! It’s downright painful. I gathered Arlene must have snuck into the John and done a quick shave for me and she was over-come with pain. Poor woman, she just needs to go Frenchy and not subject herself to such abuse.

Well, it was a revelation and I now have a lot more empathy for the ladies than I ever did before. I also can’t raise my arms up for at least two weeks until we get everything grow’d back properly. I got my pride if nothing else. Being a studious guy can get ya in trouble I tell ya. I smeared some Rogaine on my pits to help speed the process back to normalcy and now I swear my nose hairs are getting all bushy. There must be a connection but I’ll be damned if I’m stickin my nose into that one. I’ve endured enough pain for one day. Beam me up Scotty!

Hearing Voices

2009-08-16T12:26:00.001-06:00

There’s a damn good reason why people go off their rockers and start hearing voices! Hell, it’s guaranteed if you ever have a problem with a bill and have to call a damn company to get something straightened out. It’s the damn voice on the other end of the phone that’ll send you over the dad-blamed edge.

Case in point. I went to the mail box yesterday today and low and behold there were three, count em, three letters from my phone/cable company/internet service. Well the only time they ever send me a letter is when they want money and that’s called a “BILL.” Well getting three letters from them caused me to blow a little cheese if you get my drift. I went back to the house and opened up the first one and sure enough, they wanted me to pay them some money. The problem was the amount was wrong. My hands shook as I opened the second letter. It said “my security was a priority with them and they were giving me a brand new “Randomly Selected” Pin Number.” OK, it was only four digits in length and wouldn’t cover too much space on the palm of my hand so no problemo. The third letter said that if I hadn’t requested a new pin number, I’d better give them a call or someone might assume my identity. Well, being famous and a well read blogger means I can’t be taking chances. I decided I’d better give them a "Howdy Doody" cause I hadn’t requested a change in my pin number and the damn bill was wrong to boot.

That’s when the voices started. The first voice you heard was mine going “Aw Shit!” cause the damn phone number was 1-800-friggin words instead of friggin numbers like it’s supposed to be. It took me fifteen minutes to decipher the damn thing. Then I hear a voice on the other end and I swear it was Chinese or Navajo or something. I didn’t have a clue what she said. I swear, It’s always a damn woman cause God put em on this here planet to torture us men plain and simple. Then, finally an American girl said, “In order to better serve you please enter your pin number.” So I entered the number they sent me that I hadn’t requested, so I could complain about the bill being wrong and such! That damn voice told me “Sorry, the number you entered is incorrect” and she hung up on me!

Well that was just dandy! I saw a second number, deciphered it and gave it a whirl. This time I got a Spanish voice, “Buenos Dias” so I waited and finally here came the American gal and she said, “If you’re calling about your phone service, hit one, your cable service, hit two, your phone service, hit three, your billing,” (Wee, you get the picture) so after she finally stopped at eight, I had to listen all over again cause I completely forgot the first four. Well, this went on for several minutes and I finally decided to hit seven on account it’s my lucky number. Lucky my butt! Now I had to listen to her go through seven more numbers and I swear number six was, “If you like wasting your time and scratching your ass hit six,” but I was a getting worked up at this point and maybe I did a Roger Clemens and "misremembered." I’ll be damned though, I did catch myself scratching my butt, so they must know what they’re talking about.

I finally got someone on the line, a guy believe it or not and I explained the problem to him. Well, after I spent two minutes telling him the problem he told me he was the wrong person and he’d have to transfer me to another person and he put me on hold again. DAMN! There she was again, that damn woman and her voice, “Your call is important to us. All our representatives are currently helping others. Your patience is appreciated. Your estimated time on hold is, “FIFTEEN MINUTES!” She said that every friggin ten seconds and I ain’t kiddin when I tell you I’m sure they were attempting to control my mind like in one of those old Twilight Zone movies. Well, the next thing I know I was startled awake by the phone beeping like a friggin bomb and it was apparent she’d put me to sleep instead of controlling my mind. I decided it wasn’t that big a deal. I also figured It was simpler to over pay the bill and quite frankly I don’t give a rat’s ass if someone assumes my identity. They could do worse. I AM callin my shrink in the morning though cause I AM hearing all kinds of voices. Chinese, Burmese, Congolese and music! MUSIC? Aw crap, the phone's screwed up! Here we go again! Now what was my pin number? Beam me up Scotty!

I'll Be A Blue Nosed Gopher

2009-08-15T10:00:00.001-06:00

That’s right; it popped right out of my mouth. Whenever I’m around my sister Clara and exposed to her nincompoop ideas I get so frustrated I’ll look her in the eye and out pops something like; ”I’ll be a Blue Nosed Gopher Clara, you gotta be dumber than a box of rocks.” That usually gets me my “Home Free Pass” and I can then Skeedaddle on down to “Ernie’s North Side Tap” and have me some refreshment and talk to folks that aren’t nincompoops like the aforementioned sister. Now, don’t get me wrong, I try to be a “good” big brother when it comes to my sister on account she ought to be classified as retarded in my book, but then she did graduate High School and for some reason her friends think she’s the Cat’s Meow. Of course her friends are a bunch of blue ribbon nincompoops too. Most of em don’t speak to me because I’m an intellectual and they’re not comfy talking to an intellectual. Of course the fact that most of em are uglier than sin don’t help foster any conversation with yours truly, the town Pied Piper if you get my drift.

Here’s what got me a goin the other day. Clara was talking up a storm about this and about that and I was a sittin there pretendin to listen while knockin down some of my brother-in law Byron’s tasty homemade potato wine. He makes some mighty fine stuff if you ask me. He’s sort of an idiot savant when it comes to makin wine, where as Clara’s just an idiot. That’s really the only reason I actually go up there and that’s to have a snoot. Even though I’m enduring Clara’s mindless ramblings, why about halfway through my second glass of hooch I get so numb she basically becomes quite tolerable up to a point.

Well on this day she was a goin on about the weather and how it had been so rainy and cold for this time of year. Her comment was, “Why we’ve barely had a summer this year, what with so much rain and chilly weather and such.” Well, up to that point I was on board, but then she said; “You know why that is don’t ya Merle?” and I said, “Because it’s been rainy and cold!” She gave me this look and said; “It’s on account of Global warming you idiot! Don’t you ever watch ABC news? We’re all gonna die if they don’t get them SUV’s and charcoal broilers off the market.”

Well, I sat there for a minute trying to understand what the hell I’d just heard. Calmly I said to her, “Now let’s get this straight, it’s cold this summer because it’s actually getting warmer. Odd, I calmly said to her, but that really don’t make a lick of sense.” That’s when I blew and declared myself a four legged blue nosed dirt digger and for good health gave Clara her current IQ ranking somewhere between a lumber pile and a box of rocks. Well the damn girl wouldn’t let up. She said she’d watched a special and that Al Gore, the former Vice President that shoulda been “THE” president, who was also a “Nobel Prize” winning scientist, and the author of the movie “Love Story,” was predicting Armageddon in five years on account of SUV’s, charcoal broilers and cow farts. Well that did it and I decided to hurl a little of my intellectual weight her way. Ole Merle did a Krakatau and I blew sky high.

“Al Gore!!!!! You gotta be kiddin me! He’s a bigger moron than you! Let me guess, he probably also said that New York would be under three feet of water on account of a bunch of pissed off Polar Bears. I’ll bet he said them bears were so pissed off at the human race they were all goin to dive off their icebergs at the same time doing a synchronized full gainer which would cause a massive tidal wave that would take out the Big Apple and all points south! Oh, and then I bet he said that Iowa would become a incinerated waste land cause the cow farts would be ignited when we collided with the Planet Niburu in 2012! It’s on the “Internet” he INVENTED for crying out loud! That Moron probably hasn’t been in a science class since he was in the third grade, if he made it that far, but then I guess if you graduated from high school, anything’s possible.”

Well as she was a showin me the door and incorrectly describing my relationship to my mother I got in one more blast. “Global Warming is about as real as your brain! They’re both total myths you nincompoop!” That’s when she popped me with the mop she had conveniently hidden behind the door. Well it’s been several days and we ain’t been speakin, but from every conflict come the seeds of new ideas and thoughts. I now know what I’m getting her for Christmas this year! Yup, a year’s supply of Sun Tan Lotion! Beam me up Scotty!

Merle On Illegal Immigration

2009-08-11T12:41:00.001-06:00

I’ve been on watch for illegal’s here in my neck of the woods for months. It can be a rigorous undertaking, except on those days when my neighbor Norma’s out sun bathing, then it’s actually quite pleasurable! Well it hit me right twixt the eyes the other day on how to keep them Mexican fellers from tunneling into the States. Right twixt the eyes I tell ya!

Now, don’t get me wrong, I actually like the people from Mexico. They’re hard working people with great senses of humor. They’re family folk and they’ll cuff their kid’s once in a while if the little brats get out of line. On top of that they can sing a tad too and that scores big with ole Merle on account I’m a lover of the arts. Especially the stuff in Playboy, but I digress. I just think that them folks ought to come here legally on a train or bus instead of swimming across a river and risk drownin and besides, after a while there ain't gonna be enough restaurants or lawns to keep em busy up here anyways.

That’s when it hit me! I was watching a couple of these fellers the other day in the neighborhood and you had the one guy just a mowin up a storm and his partner with one of those damn "leaf blowers" just a blowin up a storm. I have no idea where these guys blow the grass to, but they go up and down the street first blowin the grass that way and then here they come back a blowin the same grass, only now they’re a goin this a way. Seems pretty damn stupid to me cause we used to just burn it, but there we go again, a creatin them Carbon Signatures and such. They must have got that stupid name from pencils. One of them Yahoo’s probably signed something with a pencil one day and then blurted out, “Look, a Carbon Signature.“ I’ll guarantee ya the guy was a first rate Moron. Bingo! I’ll bet it was Al Gore! It’s a perfect fit and he probably claimed he invented "Yahoo.com." Although there might be some truth to that one, but then I digress.

Well with them fellers gleefully mowin the grass and then blowin it every which way day and night I’ve got the perfect solution. Some Roy Roger’s music please! They ain’t got grass in Mexico, right? Nothing but hard scrabble down there. I propose we donate a million mowers and a million leaf blowers to the government of Mexico, pipe some water down there and teach em how to grow their own grass! I told ya it was brilliant. If them fellers can grow Mariajoowanna, they can certainly grow green grass. Hell, they’d stay right there in their own country as happy as Pig’s in Shit just wanderin their own damn streets a blowin the grass whichever way pleased em. A sort of Bob Dylan a "Blowin in the Wind." Hmm, I wonder why they call them “Leaf Blowers” if all they ever do is blow grass around. Another mystery of the Universe I guess. Sorry, I know I get a little "Imperfective" sometimes.

Well. If you don’t mind I noticed Norma just got home from workin at the Dairy Queen and the sun IS a shinin! I need to go get my camo gear on and climb into my backyard deer stand. I’ll be on the lookout for some illegal booty if you get my drift. Beam me up Scotty!

We're Back Online

2009-08-07T13:27:00.001-06:00

That's right, heeee's back! Good grief you'd a thunk I'd been gone for several weeks or something. Well wait, I guess I was gone for several weeks. I couldn't believe the number of complaints from people a clammerin for me to get back to work and do what I do best, inseminate wisdom! Why one person even took to calling me names and told me my butt crack was old. Now that was a tad mean considerin I'm pushin 60 and the butt crack is connected. Actually I ain't pushin it, I'm going to run right over it here in a few days. So stop with the complaints!

MY fans, (At last count there were three, two were my sisters Pauline and Clara) need to realize that bloggin takes a toll on ya, not to mention I was breakin up with Arlene and a movin to a new place all the while degenerating my brain! I was told by a EX-friend of mine that in order to be a successful blogger and make a zillion dollars B.S. ing people I needed to let the writin come to me. He said I was a pushin way too hard and he could see the strain in my articles, kinda like the strain you go through when you're sittin on the porcelain throne after eatin three chili dogs and a drinkin too much Jimmy Beam. So I relaxed, I cleared my mind and I began to breath in a controlled fashion and I kinda just sat there a ponderin what he said.

Well, nothin happened! Not a damn thing! I just sat there and then I started to realize my shorts were bunchin up in my behind area and then the end of my nose sarted to itch and this went on for days. How in the hell are you supposed to pondeficate words of wisdom when your nose is itchin and ya feel like someone's run a rope up your rump? It can't be done so I told the moron to mind his own damn business and to get his damn ridin mower off my property. That was that. I was worried because I thought maybe I had lost the gift of the "Lilting" word and what in tarnation would I do if I couldn't help educate people. Hell, I'd be a ripple without water, a puff without smoke a, aw hell you get the picture. I got so worried I went out last night and got a little skunked up. Beer and Beam will do that to ya and when I woke up this mornin I was hung over as hell but the gift had returned. I felt blessed, said a small prayer and knocked down some Bromoseltzer. See, right there's a lilting word!

So now I have some catchin up to do, but the stories are just rollin right out of this massive computer called my brain. Tomorrow I'm doin a story on contollin our borders and I'm also going to take dead aim at our first duly elected US Dictator, Barack Obama and it ain't gonna be pretty. I'll probably get snitched on and thrown in a Gulag or Guantanamo or something, but what the hell, I have to have my say. Till then it's, "Beam me up Scotty," oh and that gal that said my butt was a gettin old! I'll have ya know I got one of them there Jane Fonda "Buns of Steel" videos and I beg to differ!

Plumbers Butt

2009-06-19T15:21:00.002-06:00

Yessiree Bob, this here is the definitive article on the causes and the prevention of that dreaded condition known as, “Plumber’s Butt.” Now, I’ll be the first to admit, I wasn’t aware of this dreaded malady until I was over at one of my girlfriends Arlene’s house trying to unplug her damn sink the other day. You’d think she’d know better than to dump coleslaw and mash potatoes down the damn drain, but Arlene’s long on looks and short on shingles, if you get my drift.

Anyhow I was down underneath the sink a cussing the damn thing and she kept on giggling like a little girl. Finally I said, “Arlene, just what the hell’s so damn funny?” Her answer shook me to my very core cause she said, “Merle honey, you’re exhibiting a mighty fine case of “Plumber’s Butt. Why you dear man, the crack of your hiney’s there for God and the world to see.” DAMN! Why, I felt downright violated I did and to make matters worse I was a wearin my slightly pinkish shorts after I’d had the bleaching accident the week before. You see, you don’t wash white shorts with red shirts and add a little bleach for good measure because you’ll end up with more pink clothing than some “Gay Dude” from Hollywood. Well, I was rightly embarrassed and I determined I’d investigate the problem and report back so’s I can maybe save at least one other feller from this humiliating circumstance.

What I found out was “Plumber’s Butt” is a common malady amongst us white males on account we ain’t really got butts. There's laws that govern the entire universe like "Gravity," "E=MC2" and "White guys have Plumber's Butt." Can't be helped, it's LAW! Now them black fellers have butts, but that’s because they’re athletic and muscular and such. Hell, us white dudes never do much more than sprint like hell from the living room to the John when nature makes a call after drinkin a twelve pack. The height of exercise for most of us is thumbing the remote and pickin our noses on account we tend to consume way too much beer and Jimmy Beam. That little idiosyncrasy creates big guts, which creates a major gravitational pull, thus pulling our behinds around from the back where they're held firmly at our sides. That’s actually where them “Love Handles” come from. It’s was once the butts of our youth. To add to the problem, not having a butt and having a big gut means we’re constantly suffering from “Natural Snuggys.” That’s why ya see fellers a grabbin at their back sides all the time. There trying to dislodge their shorts from you know where!

After I’d looked into this problem I pondered a bit and as usual came up with a sure fire solution. (See pictures above) Now obviously the picture on the left reveals (Ha, ha, I’m “Crackin” myself up!) a serious outbreak of “P.B.” Well, there’s actually nothing known to mankind that’s going to actually cure it so I came up with the simplest of ideas. You merely need to change your wardrobe and the problem’s solved as in, “No If Ands or “Butts.” (Damn I’m funny) As the picture on the right shows, wearing a good pair of Lee overalls keeps my sensitive areas from the prying eyes of over sexed women or one of your damn buddies with a damn ice tray in his hands. I can work in peace now knowin I ain’t broadcasting my behind to everybody in the neighborhood. I hope that this little bit of research helps prevent another man from suffering the pain and humiliation of having his crack a showin to God knows who and then bein called those painful names like, “Crack Head,” or bangin your head on the sink after your dumb ass friend shoves an ice cube down your divider! Well, that’s it, time for a smidgen of Jimmy Beam. Remember what ole Merle says, “Keep your crack parked in the barn!”

Holy Shit

2009-06-04T14:26:00.001-06:00

That’s right! I had the BeJesus scared out of me yesterday down at Ernie’s Tap. I stopped by on my lunch break to have my usual pick me up, a beer and a bump of Jim Beam and I sat next to this feller from Cedar Rapids named Loyd. Well at first I thought Loyd was just another Big City nincompoop but he seemed to take an interest in me. It was probably due to my bearing which is obvious to the well informed. They know that anybody drinking a beer and a bump at 12:30 PM must be a tad deep.

Well I struck up a conversation with this Loyd feller and the next thing you know he launches into this tirade about the end of the world coming in 2012 because of some “Planet X named Nimiru.” To hear ole Loyd describe it, this rogue planet shows up on our door-step every 3600 years, give or take a month or two and it kicks our ass ends. Now think about the logic of that for a second! Why according to him the fellers that run that planet show up and start stealing all our good looking women including the Playboy Bunnies, all our gold, and for all he knew our prescription sun glasses. He says he’s a hidin in a shelter that year and it turns out this guy’s a banker for crying out loud!

Well he could see I was a tad skeptical so he told me to go home and “Google it.” Well now that puzzled the hell out of me. I mean I know how to ogle and I can skooch, but what the hell does “Google it” mean. I wondered if maybe that was like gargling and thinking combined into one word or some such thing. Well the guy scared the hell out of me. I mean according to him this ole Planet X was going to destroy the Earth and it was going to happen in three years. What a Moron!

Here’s what scares the BeJesus out of me. Anybody with a brain and the latest issue of the Globe knows that the aliens that left the crashed space ship behind there in Roswell, New Mexico are returning next year to retrieve the damn thing and they’re going to be real pissed when they get here. They’re not very happy about us jailin all their buddies up there in Nevada at Area 51. By the time they get done a kickin our ass ends and then enslaving us, they’ll be runnin the show around here and with the Gamma Ray guns they have on their space ships we sure as hell don’t have to fear no “Planet X!” They’ll blow that bugger out of the sky before it ever gets past Mars. I read all about it in this month’s Globe. Then these little green dudes will leave us with a list of to do’s and they’ll head off to retrieve a couple more of their space ships. Seems these aliens have great Gamma Ray Guns but they’re lousy pilots. They could probably learn a thing or two from Captain Kirk.

But I digress. I pounded down my Beam and then fixed my gaze on this feller Loyd and said; “Loyd my friend, who do you think we are around here, a bunch of hicks? I’m here to tell you that your “Planet X” has about as much a chance against the Aliens that’ll be ruling this world next year from the planet "Vokmar" as a snowball in hell. They’ll be no match for an XR3 Gamma Ray burst gun you nincompoop! Go “Gargle it” and see for yourself.” Well he didn’t appreciate hearing the truth and he got up in a huff and strolled out of Ernie’s all bent to hell. He even called me a dumb ass in the process, he did. It didn’t bother me. He don’t read the Globe, so I knew who the real dumb ass was? Well, I gotta go on account of me and Melvin are installing one of his Porta Potties in my underground shelter. “Beam me up Scotty!”

Merle's Photographic Tips

2009-05-22T09:50:00.002-06:00

That’s right! I got one of them point and shoot digital cameras the other day and boy have I fallen in love with photography! I mean, it’s a beautiful world out there and you can capture it now with ease usin one of these new fangled cameras.

Here’s a couple of tips I’ve already picked up and I’ve even included a photograph I recently took to illustrate my meanin. The first thing you want to do is compose the picture properly. Now I realize for you beginners you were thinkin I meant write some music or manure or some such thing. Nimrods! "COMPOSE" means makin sure the picture draws your attention to an interesting feature of the subject being photographed. For example in the featured picture everything draws you in towards my neighbor Norma’s butt. Pretty slick if you ask me!

Now another important point is to try and capture your pictures in a more natural surrounding. In this case I had to sneak up and climb a tree in my neighbor Riley’s yard and then make sure I blended in to my surroundings by wearing my camouflage gear. You’ll note in the picture that my subject ain’t got an inkling I’m about to make her famous on the internet.

Another thing you got to watch out for is camera shake. You don’t want to blur the fine features of the subject being photographed, so a snoot of Beam seems to help. Hell, between hanging from the tree and the excitement of capturing a fine image of exquisite beauty I was a shakin like a leaf! Damn near fell out of the tree, but I lashed myself to a large branch with my ever faithful duct tape and the day was saved.

Finally I would like to point out that you don’t want to go runnin around braggin about your photographic talent. Ya need to be a little humble and keep your pie hole shut. It’s simply not a proper thing to do and I learned this the hard way. Turns out Norma’s husband Eldon got wind of my artistic endeavors and he’s threatened to beat me within an inch of my life. Ole Merle’s havin to lay a little low for a while if you get my drift. Ain’t really a problem though cause I got an 18” by 12” image of Norma’s best features plastered on the wall of my family room keeping me company. It’s hell being an artist, but I’ll persevere.

Worried about the Hulkster

2009-05-07T12:48:00.001-06:00

Been reading again and my all time favorite athlete, Hulk Hogan, got his butt in a jam over some comments he made. You see his 49 year old wife up and sued his rear end for divorce and half of his fifty million bucks. Then she started runnin around with some idiot twenty year old and getting her jollys if you catch my drift. Well, he went and popped off and said he understood how OJ felt and that he’s a tad compelled to murder a few dozen folks including the Mrs. I mean when someone says they understand OJ, there’s a wire loose somewheres. OJ was a lunatic and now the Hulkster’s trying to channel the backseat of the white Bronco again.

Here’s what concerns me. If you ever got punched in the mouth by Andre the Giant on a weekly basis you’d have a screw loose too. I mean getting popped over the head with a aluminum chair every night on TV leaves a few dents, not to mention them there psychological indentations. It don’t matter that for twenty years after getting beat up every night during a wrestlin match, ole Hulk would hear the crowd shout for him, he'd pump his fist and then win the match providing the dumb ass crooked referee wasn’t on the take. Eventually, the manly art of kickin villain’s asses on a nightly basis is going to take its personal toll. So, I’ve "Twittered" him and offered to sit down and talk some sense to him on account I happen to be sensible. I’d be a lot cheaper than them other folks too. Buy me a couple of Jimmy Beams, throw in an autographed photo with him and that half naked Lila the Lil Tigress wrestlin gal and scratch me a check for twenty grand and he’d be on his way to good mental health!

Now here’s what I’d tell this living legend. I’d say, “Hulk, for God sakes have you looked at your Ex-wife lately? You ain’t missin nothing on account she looks like “Dog the Bounty Hunter’s” twin sister. Christ she’d crack a mirror if she looked it straight on. Let the twenty year old knucklehead have her and you get yerself a good crooked lawyer and he’ll make sure she gets only ten percent of the fifty million or something like that. That way she gets five million, six max and you’re still loaded.” That’s just for starters. I’d then get him on a computer and we'd pull up the Hooters Girls calendar and I'd let him get a gander at that. I mean if you got forty plus million in the bank, you can have your very own Hooter’s Girl and that’s light years ahead of what he’s got right now. I’m tellin ya, it’s them chairs across the noggin that’s causin him to think this way.

Then there’s the revenge factor. Why kill that twenty year old yahoo when he could end up married to your ugly Ex-wife, thus clearing the decks for you and he’d be condemned to a life of holy hell havin to face that mug every morning. Hell, he might even just shoot hisself rather than continue the daily torture. And let me point out one more darn thing here as I think this important matter over. She also claims that he, “The Hulkster” flies into "Fits of Fury" on account he takes over $20,000 in steroids, human growth hormone and Viagra a month and they make him “Horny and just plain Crazed!” Well, that’s an obvious lie for crap sakes. I know at least five guys down at the Blue Chip Tap that are “Horny and Crazed” every damn night and that’s before they even drink their second beer. Me? You get four Jimmy Beams in me and its launch time for my very own personal “Horny and Crazed” trip down mammary lane and lets not even talk about that Viagra crap! Ole Merle's naturally "Horny and Crazed!" I guess you could say I'm environmentally friendly! Hulk, I feel your pain baby, “Tweet” me and I’ll save yer ass! Beam me up Scotty!

I Forgot I Might Have Alzheimer's

2009-04-28T20:46:00.001-06:00

Merle here, at least that’s who I think I am. It probably comes as a bit of a shock to you that a guy with my intellect and high IQ has reached a state where he spends most of his time wandering around his damn house looking for things. I’m beginning to worry. I mean I’m fifty nine years old and my dear Grandma Smith was daffier than a bird by the time she kicked the bucket. Why I remember the damn woman asking my Dad one day if he’d bought a brand new refrigerator seven straight times and we’d had the damn thing for eighteen years. He’d say, “No Grandma, that’s the old refrigerator,” and the answer would just bounce right off her noggin and she’d ask the same damn question over again. Something definitely wasn’t clickin if you get my drift.

Well here’s what’s got my britches in a bunch. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately and I guess that hasn’t been a good thing, cause the things that should have on my mind keep on disappearing. Hell, I lost my damn car keys the other day and for the life of me couldn’t find them. I looked all over hell, because the damn car was a sittin in the garage so I knew the damn keys had to be somewhere in the vicinity. I looked in my pants while they were a sittin in the washer and I was up to my elbows in water and Tide detergent. No luck, but at least my arms were nice and clean! I looked in my dresser drawers, I looked in the car, logic of course being they were “CAR” keys and that was my car but they weren’t there neither. Hell, I even looked in the refrigerator and under the couch and still no keys. I musta checked every damn pocket in every damn shirt, pair of pants, and jacket I owned and there still were no keys to be found.

Now here’s what’s giving me the creeps. The car was there in the garage and it was definitely my car, I checked the registration and it had my name on it and the car did look familiar. I knew I hadn’t hotwired it on account I’d a noticed some damage on the wheel and such. SO WHERE IN THE HELL WERE MY DAMN CAR KEYS? Well, they were in the garbage can, that’s where they were. So I get to thinking, “WHAT THE HELL WERE THEY DOING IN THE GARBAGE CAN? WERE THEY SPOILED?” So I fished them out of the garbage can, washed the coffee grounds and scrambled eggs off and then re-cleaned my damn arms. Finally I just sat down with a snoot of Jim Beam nestled in my hand and pondered what the hell was going on. Well the pondering got me nowhere because the very next day my “HOUSE” keys came up missing. I looked all over hell for the damn things and finally, two hours later, found the HOUSE keys under the CAR seat where the CAR keys shoulda been the day before. WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON HERE? Then a thought struck me and I was kinda glad it was a thought cause that meant I might be thinking. “I think I’m starting to forget I might have Alzheimer’s.”

Now I’ve always been sharp as a tack but lately my mental incapacities seemed to be going to hell in a hand basket. Hell, just last week I went blasting out the back door after that damn infernal squirrel that keeps on messing with my bird feeder and forgot I had moved my potting table to the right side of the patio door from the left side and thus I planted myself right on top of it. Felt like a damn fool I did and I caught my overalls in one of the tool hooks and flapped around for a few minutes like a trout. At least it gave me time to think until I worked myself free. Christ, I’m almost afraid to step outside the house for fear I’ll forget where I live and end up wandering off to Illinois or worse yet Wisconsin.

I’d order one of them alarm gadgets you see on TV, you know the one’s where you say the secret code, “I’ve fallen down and I can’t get up,” but I lost the damn TV remote and I can’t turn the damn thing on to get the phone number. Maybe I need to have my neighbor Calvin look for that commercial on his TV and then he can call them and say, ”Help, my neighbor Merle’s lost his remote and he can’t call up.” This is damn disconverting if you ask me. I mean if you’re losing everything then at some point you must eventually be losing your mind too, right? Well now wait a minute that actually sounded logical. If I’m still logical then it stands to reason I can’t be forgetting that I have Alzheimer’s or can I? Hmm, this calls for a snoot of my Jimmy Beam and some intellectual commencement. Damn! Now where the hell’d I put the damn Jim Beam? Beam me up Scotty!

Making Cents

2009-03-26T10:45:00.002-06:00

Because of my advanced education and penchant for reading anything I can get my hands, yup, even an article or two in Playboy, although you know what I’d like to really get my hands on there, I’ve pretty much deciphered this constant argument going on between Socialists and Capitalists. Damn that was a long sentence! Anyhow, after exhaustive study and not a few too many “Jim Beams” it all became perfectly clear to me one evening. It absolutely started “making cents” to me.

I had fallen asleep on the couch again with the “Boob Tube” on and suddenly something startled me. I opened my eyes and there on my TV at 11:30 PM was this guy named Vince. He had this God awful haircut, talked like an ignoramus and was selling something called “Sham Wow!” This twit would pour water on a piece of carpet and then put his “Sham Wow” on it and “presto-chango” the rug would be dry as a bone and the water’d be in the “Sham Wow!” Then the dumb bugger said that if you’d hurry up and order right now he’d throw in one for free, just because he could! Now that’d be two of them there “Sham Wows” for only $19.99. Then to make his point they featured three of the stupidest lookin people in the world and they were a readin some teleprompter like that nitwit Obama and saying things like, “I just couldn’t live without my “Sham Wow.” Then the next goofy lookin woman would say, “Sham Wow,” WOW, has it changed my life!” Christ! I’d be puttin the house up for sale the next day if I dressed up like Minnie Pearl and said something that stupid on TV! I can just hear my neighbor Myron saying:”Hey Merle, I saw you on TV last night and you just might be the dumbest lookin moron I ever saw! How the hell do ya feed yerself?” That Myron’s a smartass and I’d have to move for sure.

Well, that’s what I’m getting at here with this dissertation on economics and such. The Socialists can’t stand the idea that a nincompoop like that Vince feller can get filthy rich selling a stupid towel that soaks up water called “Sham Wow.” Hell, them Socialists would consider shootin somebody that stupid in front of a firing squad to insure his genes didn’t get passed on, let alone see the dolt driving around in an H2 Hummer. That drives em even crazier! A "Rich Dolt” driving around in a "Hummer" polluting everything in the Universe and meltin Polar Caps from here to Mars.

Now, your standard, run of the mill Capitalist looks at this situation entirely differently. You see your Capitalist says: “If someone’s stupid enough to buy a rubber towel from some moron on TV then get your ass to the bank and cash the check!” A Capitalist figures, “Hey if there’s a market full of morons, go for it.” Now obviously, if TV shows like “Dance with the stars,” “American Idol,” and “Dog, Bounty Hunter” are doing well, not to mention “WWF Wrestling,” then there’s obviously a market for “Sham Wow” and the market must be served. Their attitude is simply, “We’re supplying a service to the Nitwits that obviously need a rubber towel.” Hell, who can blame them. You gotta admit there’s more Nitwits than people with brains out there and the Capitalists are just providing a service in their minds.

Well, the Socialists can’t stand that philosophy. They’re the type of folks that like to take care of people and basically put them on farms, fence them in and make sure they listen to subliminal messages that are“Politically Correct,” like, “It’s wrong to kill Polar Bears” and “Give your money to me.” They enjoy protecting us from ourselves and keeping us away from people like Vince and his “Sham Wow.”Now I don’t disagree that drownin a cute little baby Polar Bear on account of drivin around in a H2 Hummer which melts glaciers, which makes big puddles into bigger oceans isn’t a very nice thing to do. However you do gotta wonder about a bear that won’t just get out of the water, stand on dry land, and just keep moving up hill but I digress. That’s why I drive my Ford Tractor around town. It probably pollutes the same but it’s got a big scoop on the front of it and I can pick up the dog poop and the cow poop I see around town and then I dump it in my neighbor Myron’s back yard so’s he can use it for fertilizer to grow his tomatos. I’ve always been pretty much a “Green Person” myself, especially after eating Mexican Food with Guacamole and drinking too much.

Now with the Capitalists pissing off the Socialists everybody gets just a tad silly. I read the other day they’re going to start taxing farmers from around these parts a Flajulance tax, er flachulunce tax, aw hell a “Fart Tax.” Well, if they go and do that there’ll be more than the cows farting around here if you get my drift. Can you imagine that? Taxing a farmer for a cow fart? I mean how the hell do they know which cow farted and exactly when. Why, would one of them "Washington Bureaucrats" stand right in the middle of the herd with his clip board, and just walk around sniffing? If he smelled something God awful, how would he know which cow was to blame? Hell maybe he did the deed himself and he’s just covering up his own environmental crimes and blamin some poor dumb cow. I see major problems in a “Fart Tax.” It gets me to thinkin, what the hell they going to do with the stink that’s comin out of Washington DC? Ya suppose they’d maybe tax themselves? Think of it, the budget would be balanced in six weeks if they had their own little "Fart Tax," what with all the farts that come out of DC, cause they are all a bunch of elected “Bullshitters,” if you ask me. When you get right down to it I guess there ain’t really that much difference between the Socialists and the Capitalists. They’re all full of it! Damn, I just talked myself out of my own implausible theory!

Well anyway, I personally think it’s OK for morons to make money sellin stuff on the boob tube. I got this blanket called a “Snuggy” the other day and I ain’t talkin about havin my shorts pulled up the crack of my ass neither. No this here “Snuggy” is a blanket with sleeves in it and cause I ordered it right then I not only got two Snuggies, one deep purple and the other vomit green for only $19.99, I also got the “But Wait! If you order right now, we’ll include two book lights absolutely freakin free!” The book lights come in handy cause when I wake up in a stupor on the couch I’m damned if I can find my bedroom some nights and I’ve wound up more than once sleepin on the dining room floor. So ya see Capitalism really does provide genuine services. I have something comfy to wear as I fall asleep on the couch and I have these little teensy weensy book lights to help me navigate the ins and outs of my mansion and they were freakin free. I know what you’re thinkin and all I got to say to that is “Morons run this country so I’m in good company!” Now if I could figure out how to get my damn “Snuggy” off in the morning we’d be light years along in my personal evolution. “Beam me up Scotty!”

Ode to Johnny

2009-03-07T12:22:00.001-07:00

Merle here, your master of well thought out opinion. By now folks probably understand that I’m a pretty thoughtful guy and well read to boot. I come by the reading instinct naturally as my Mom always had her nose in a Readers Digest or a Betty Crocker’s cook book in the sixties. Myself, I can’t ever get out of the check-out line down at Pat’s Jack and Jill grocery store until I’ve had my fill of the Star, The National Enquirer and People magazine. By the way that Patrick Swayze guy has just about bought the farm and Opra’s getting a fat hiney again. Oh, and that Octo Mom gal is a planning on sellin those kids of hers for a hundred grand a piece! Who in their right mind would even pay twenty bucks for a diaper poopin squallin brat and then have to feed their butts for the next twenty years? Well, sorry, I got side tracked there for a minute. Anyways, I like to run in intellectual circles and that leads me to my friend Johnny.

He’s a Canadian feller I met last year and he’s supposed to be pretty damn smart. That leads me to today’s intellectual discourse in this here column. Johnny’s a feller from Nipowin, Saskatchewan. Christ, I hurt my jaw just trying to pronounce that. I’m figuring those folks came up with these goofy names cause they were damn cold up there and they stuttered or something, but he insisted he was from Nipowin. Ok, whatever suits ya, I guess you’re from Nipowin. Well Johnny was one of them really bright fellers and he was an Engineer and we’re not talking about one of them guys sitting on their ass ends, tooting a whistle and scaring the hell outa folks. No he was supposedly an electrical engineer and a physicist and he worked with radio telescopes which don’t make a lick of sense to me. I mean why the hell wouldn’t you just listen to a regular radio with good Country and Western music and dispense with the telescope stuff completely? Well, because he was a physicist and because he looked at stars with that telescope that was a radio or something he tried to pretend he was a lot smarter than the rest of us folks down here in the States. Hell he certainly wasn’t pullin the wool over my eyes, I mean for Christ sakes he was a Canuck. All they do up there is play hockey and fight and such. I saw that movie Slap Shot several times and there certainly weren’t any thespians in that bunch. Why, those Hanson brothers in particular were a bunch of droolin fools if you ask me.

So Mr. Smart britches comes into Ernie’s Tap one day and tells us he’s been selected to work for one of them multinational companies down at the South Pole. Well he’s a sittin there lookin all important and everything and I’d had enough, so I decided to put him in his place. Now don’t get me wrong, I like Johnny but I’m not about to tolerate somebody actin like he’s smarter than me, not when I read the things that I do. Why hell, he didn’t even know that four Arkansas duck hunters had captured Hitler and that he was hiding out right there under everybody’s noses working as one of them Senior Greeters at Walmart right outside of Little Rock. So I asked him, “Let me get this straight, you’re going to go spend thirteen months working right on the South Pole?” He smiled this big Canadian grin and said, “You betcha der eh.” Well, I looks him in the eye and says, “So tell me a bit about your assignment.” He kept on a grinning and said he and forty seven other people were going down there to do all this science stuff, like look at radio waves through telescopes and that the South Pole was the coldest, driest, windiest place on earth. I looked at him and kind of shook my head. Why anybody in their right mind would leave the Hawkeye State to go live there was beyond me. Then he said the following and I quote: “There’ll only be seven women and forty one men.” I looked at him straight away and said, “You’re a dumb ass, a bonafide, blue chip dumb ass. You’re tellin me you’re goin to a place that’s sixty below with eighty mile an hour winds and you’re takin only seven women?” He looked at me like a guy with his fly down. Just like that ole Merle had him disarmed and shown him for what he was, a “Nincompoop Canadian.” If it was ole Merle going down there I’d be takin forty seven women and eight cases of Jim Beam and the hell with those other fellers. Then once we all figured out that it was boring as hell to look at radio signals with a telescope me and one of the ladies would snuggle each evening if you get my meaning.

That’s what’s wrong with this country! We call people smart that would go freeze their ass ends off just to look at radio waves rather than a nice pair of earth bound celestial orbs. I gotta wonder if the guy can even feed himself for crying out loud. What other crazy thing is he hiding, maybe a skunk for a pet or something? No wait, that’s right, he did have a skunk as a kid and he named it Stinky. Oh well, I know the name of that multinational company he’s a workin for and that’s some stock I ain’t touchin with a ten foot pole. Don’t ever try and match brain waves with ole Merle cause I’ll hand you your intellectual ass each and every time. Well, I gotta go it’s time for some WWE wrestling on the ole boob tube. Hah! Boob tube! Beam me up Scotty! Oh and Johnny, I hope you’re freezing your ass off!

Roid Rage

2009-02-16T20:33:00.001-07:00

You better believe I got roid rage and we ain’t talking about huntin down the Preparation H and going where no man's gone before! I’ve had it with these chemically enhanced, half baseball player, half Godzilla’s sauntering up to home plate and hitting the God Damn ball 500 feet or more into outer space and then tippy toeing around the bases like their shit don’t stink. They’re "cheatin" plain and simple and their butts ought to be tossed out of my beloved game for good. Of course you got one small problem there. You got that goofy lookin dork Bud Selig callin the shots and he scares the bajeebers out of me. Have you ever really looked at him up close? Hell he must put a bowl on his head just prior to gettin a haircut and I swear he’s got “stupid is” stamped all over his face. Why, he probably needs help just locatin the john if you get my drift. “Why hello Bud! You got to go potty? Right this way “Mr. Commissioner” the bathroom’s right over here and I’ll even get the door for ya. No! No, ya dumb nincompoop you don’t pee on the floor, over here! You need to pee over here in the urinal for God’s sake!” Nah, he don’t strike me as someone that’s going to restore the integrity of the game, especially if you can’t pee with integrity or get a decent haircut. Hell he don’t even know when to stand up so’s I imagine the sittin part confuses him too.

Now what frosts my hind end is these guys think that cause they take all them drugs and hit all them homers they’re somehow better than guys like Mickey Mantle or Hammerin Hank Aaron. Bull Puckey! Hell my boyhood hero Harmon Kilebrew would have probably hit 700 homers or more if he’d been all roided up like these present day knuckleheads. And you just think about this. Mickey Mantle is still credited with a couple of home runs that traveled well over 600 feet from home plate and knowin him, he probably hit them while suffering from a severe hang-over and about two hours sleep. Ole Mick wasn’t exactly the picture of a highly conditioned athlete; unless you consider hanging out into the wee hours with Whitey and Billy and chasin skirts all night your idea of good training and conditioning. Nope, it just frosts me these needle nuts are movin ahead of my favorite baseball players in the record books.

Here’s something else that pisses me off. Those roids not only give them an unfair advantage because their packin those chemically enhanced biceps but it also turns them into really God awful liars. I mean you got that dumb ass Clemens saying he “misremembered” things and such. Now that’s just plain ignorant! Hell, even I know that’s not a word. I guess he just "misthunk." When a guy like Roger Clemens starts parsing words around a studied thespian such as yours truly, he’s in deep intellectual doo doo. That’s cow shit for you the unincarcerated! Then you got that Alex Rodriguiz feller saying he took roids but he didn’t know what they were. What? You’re kiddin me right? You got some candy ass trainer gettin ready to shove a needle in your ass and you don’t know what’s in it? Are you an escaped lobotomy patient or what? Hell that yellow stuff might be kerosene for all you know. I’d sure as hell want to know, at least up until I fainted. Needles give me the friggin willies. Too bad it wasn’t truth serum. Of course ole Alex is runnin around with a fifty year old chick, so maybe he ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer after all. Ole Merle’s in his fifties, but the only fifty year old females I’d be runnin around with would be the one’s I’d be runnin "away" from. Nothing good would come from being in a relationship with a fifty year old gal, absolutely nothing unless you consider slavery and getting the hell scared out of ya every morning when you woke up fun! Nosiree Bob, when it comes to the romantic art of runnin around with a woman, make mine in her late twenties, with a little jiggle in her forward motion and one of them butterfly tatoo’s right there a couple inches North of the Promised Land if you understand my meaning. And what a Moron’s moron that Rafael Palmeiro guy is. I mean, hello, earth to nincompoop, you’re testifying in front of Congress or did you not read the program! It doesn’t matter if the whole damn bunch of them are as dumb as a box of rocks, they’re still the Congress you genius! I mean, he had to be on some serious crack to wag that finger at them morons and then go pee a positive sample in a jar. Hell, retards don’t even do stuff that stupid and I’m even includin them idiot politicians in the equation just to make my point even stronger! I mean if you can’t fool a bunch of self absorbed nitwits that ask questions about the “Chicago Blackhawks Scandal” you’re a droolin idiot! Serves his ass right he got nailed. And don’t even get me started about that puffed up Paul Bunyan Mark Magwire. Mr. “I’m not here to talk about the past.” Well excuse us for raining on your parade twinkle toes! So just what was it you stopped by to tell us? We’re you going to read us your Horoscope and talk about the cattle futures? Obviously the crap he was taking didn’t give him much backbone and it severely subtracted the ole IQ!

Jesus HGH I feel wronged by these steroid sucking cheaters. A lot of my favorite baseball players back in the sixties and seventies, guys that played in those big ball parks and hit against the likes of a Sandy Koufax, Bob Gibson or Tom Seaver will be way down the list now because of these over inflated, over paid cartoon characters. I hope their damn Johnson’s fall off! God knows the whole damn bunch can’t lie for shit so they sure as hell wouldn’t have any success with a woman knowhow! Why, they’d be caught dead to rights lying in about ten seconds or as quick as they could say, “Madonna? Why does she work for the Catholic Church?” You just wait, these guys’ll start droppin like flies in another ten years and it’ll be the Good Lord’s doin. I’m privy to some confidential information that the Lord was a Cubby’s fan and Ernie Banks was his favorite player. Seems the Lord pitched a tad in Purgatory before becoming “THEE Lord” and they say he could really throw some "wicked heat." He ain’t takin kindly to this nonsense at all and I just thought you should know that. He’ll be retiring some numbers if you catch the direction of my thought processes. OK, you can Beam me up Scotty!

To Hell with Sex!

2009-01-31T10:01:00.001-07:00

That’s right, you heard me correctly. Ole Merle is swearing off sex! Arlene and Doris are going to have to fend for themselves from now on cause I’ve had it! It’s just not worth it anymore, what with all the pre-game preparation, medication and such! The game’s rigged and designed to wipe us fellers right off the face of the earth or worse!

It all started yesterday at Walmart. I was at the Walmart in Dyersville to “Bulk up” as I call it. You know, buy my 25 lb multi-pack, four ply, extra strength TP, my gallon size of Mr. Bubble and a quart or two of Ole Spice when the day started to go south. I was leaving the premises and some old fart up by the door was a wishin me a “Good Day” and I’m a thinking “I got a multi pack of four ply extra strength TP here in my arms, you’re damn tootin I’m gonna have a good day,” when here she comes. This gal’s got long black hair and she's drop dead gorgeous and wearing one of them shirts that don’t quite make it to where it supposed to. Now I don’t know whether them shirts is designed that way or whether there’s so much of her there’s simply not enough shirt if you get my drift. Well that little design flaw means her tummy’s a showin and it’s a tummy right out of one of them sit up commercials. To top it off she’s got some dad blame earring or some such thing nailed into her rather nice looking belly button. Well hells bells, her hips are going this way and that way and that little piece of jewelry is doing the same thing and I’m rather locked in if you know what I mean. Shit! I swear I was mezmertized! That little piece of jewelry was a dancing in my brain, back and forth, back and forth and then Kaboom!

When I regained consciousness there was this ole coot standing over me and his mouth was a moving, but I couldn’t hear anything at first. Christ, for a second I thought it was St. Peter but then, as if someone hit the switch, I hear St. Peter say, “Son, you just walked into the window there. What on earth were you thinkin?” Well I felt like a pigeon that just got peeled off the grill of a Freightliner and I realized that St. Peter was actually wearing a Walmart name tag and his name was Alfred. Well, on account of that damn woman my nose was bloodied a bit but the multi-pack, four ply extra strength TP had absorbed a lot of the primary impact and I was alive to shop another day.

Well that evening with a little Stones playing in the background I started to ponder the day’s events while icing down my nose and knockin down a couple of Jimmy Beams. I was watching the Biography Channel on my boob tube and it was about my favorite actor Vin Diesel and all them great movies he’s starred in. Well I’m already pondering things and then presto chango there’s a commercial for one of them erectile malfunction pills. It shows this nice lookin feller that’s about my age and he’s with some sexy lookin older woman and they’re in a hot tub. Hell, first of all I didn’t know there was such a thing as a nice lookin older woman, but that’s pondering material for another day. Well hells bells everybody and their uncle knew these two were gonna go have some whoopee and he was gonna howl at the moon a bit. But here’s what hit me. In order for him to have his minute and thirty seconds of fun and games he’s got to take this pill and here’s what the Mr. “Fancy Pants” announcer says. For your minute and thirty seconds of glory you’ll probably go blind, lose your hearing, have dizziness and a back ache, joint aches, bleed out your ear and then he says this and I ain’t kiddin, "If you have an erection lasting for more than four hours you need to call your doctor." Well, I spilled my beam all over my shirt and thought to myself, “Four hours! Hell, I’m calling every woman I know!” But then I set to pondering and realized that the side effects woulda killed my ass off long before the eighth woman had whispered “Thank you Merle” in my ear!

That’s what I’m getting at! It ain’t worth it anymore! If they ain’t maiming your ass in a Walmart you’re gobbling poison for a few minutes of Minny haha! Hell you’d be better off taking cyanide. It kills you straight out! Your legs wiggle a bit, you spit up on yourself and then you’re certifiably DOA. This Cialis crap kills you slowly over time and eventually your John Henry’ll fall off! It ain’t worth it! What are they leavin out? A little hallucinogenic voice that says “Put her bra back on you pervert!” I’d rather play a little poker or just ponder under a full moon with my Jimmy Beam than put myself through all that! No wonder women run things on this here planet. Us dumb ass men are willing to kill ourselves for a little nooky or throw ourselves against some invisible object for the privilege of visualizing nirvana or some such thing. It ain’t fair. I'm hearing voices again and it's ole Mick Jagger and he's singing "Put me out, put me out, put me out of misery." You're damn right! Beam me up Scotty!

Merle's Kitchen Safety Tip

2009-01-20T12:07:00.002-07:00

In the interest of keeping folks safe and sound I thought I’d pass along this little safety tip. Don’t ever, I repeat EVER mix in a little whiskey sipping prior to operating a butcher knife in the preparation of one’s dinner. I tried that little experiment last night and as I was slicing away on some tomatoes I suddenly realized that I was bleeding to death. Yessiree Bob, I cut a nice chunk out of my finger on account of my highly trained abilities with a very sharp kitchen utensil had been seriously compromised by another highly trained skill, that being some serious whiskey sipping prior to the aforementioned undertaking.

Needless to say it scared the bejeebers out of me and I immediately commenced to counting my digits. When I got to nine and a half I breathed a big sigh of relief because I knew I was getting pretty close to the magic number of ten. Well needless to say it interfered with my dining experience. Blood always messes with the evening's ambiance not to mention it was all over my tomatoes, marinated pig’s feet and the kitchen counter. At the time I wasn't exactly thinking I'd like a glass of red wine, if you get my drift. So you might want to write this little ditty down on a napkin or your arm or something and remember that you should never, ever “Sip and Slice.” If you do decide to sip then for goodness sakes make sure there’s a “Designated Slicer” available. Also make sure they’re not pissed off at you cause they’re the one's holding the knife. That’s all for now. Beam me up Scotty!

The Hunter

2009-01-18T12:23:00.002-07:00

Clifford was the real deal. He was a hardy, robust Iowa Man and he absolutely loved to hunt. It was his goal to someday be featured on one of those ESPN2 Hunting shows where you get to wear a hunting hat endorsing Cabela’s Outdoor stores. Clifford would stand in front of the mirror and look at himself with his face painted in those neat camouflage colors. Why, he looked down right damn fierce, like a plains warrior with a penchant for green or a member of the 101st Airborne. Throw on the Camouflage suit and he could damn near disappear right before your eyes, except in the bathroom of course where he stuck out like a sore thumb and where he struggled to get the fly on the suit open so he could take a pee after drinking his three cups of coffee.

Saturday morning dawned bright and early and Clifford slipped out of the bed where his wife Sonia quietly slept and he headed out to bag his first Deer of the season. A good hunter, Clifford was out of the driveway by 5:00 AM and headed for his Deer stand where, disguised as a tree he would slay a Deer just as the early settlers had done. Of course they didn’t have access to a Deer stand, camouflage paint and suit, high powered 7mm 08 Remington rifle with scope or Essence of Deer Urine. Clifford walked the mile and half to where the Deer stand was set up in a tree approximately twelve feet off the ground. The tree, a stately cotton wood gave him a good view of the meadow just west of his location. After liberally spreading the Deer Urine around, he shinnied up the tree and prepared himself.

Because Clifford was an Iowa Man and experienced in the hunting game he went through his checklist like a professional airline pilot. Everything was snug with the blind. He checked the Remington to make sure he’d chambered a shell and that the gun was loaded. He dialed in and tested his scope. The field of vision was clear and he even checked to make sure the cell phone in his pocket was turned off. It had been a tad embarrassing last year when he had zeroed in on a six point buck about 100 yards away and Sonia had called him to remind him to stop at the grocery store and pick up a frozen pizza. When the damn thing rang it startled him and as he jumped, the gun had gone off and the deer had trotted right past the stand looking over its shoulder as if to say, gee what a dumb ass. He had looked around and fortunately there wasn’t anybody that could claim to be a witness and that was probably good because he might have accidentally shot them when the gun went off. That would have really required a lot of explaining and would have been time consuming. Well, this time that wasn’t going to happen. The phone was off and she could pick up her own damn frozen pizza!

Clifford felt like a deadly predator and for a moment pitied the poor dumb buck he was about to bag. As he got set up, he all of sudden noticed the rope that helped secure the stand had come loose and he reached down to secure it. At that very moment as he was reaching he also noticed something move off to the west and then saw the biggest damn buck he’d ever seen. So there he was reaching for the rifle at the same time he was reaching for the rope and it suddenly occurred to him that you really didn’t have a whole hell of a lot of flexibility in a camouflage suit. Well, what happened next was not the way they drew it up on ESPN2. The rifle slipped as he was reaching for it and dropped on the deck and went off with a crack which drove Clifford backwards over the edge of the Deer Blind. Fortunately his foot got hung up in the rope and it caught him as he tumbled over backwards out of the blind. Unfortunately, though saved by the rope, he was hanging upside down by the leg seven feet off the ground and his blood circulation was being cut off around his foot.

He didn’t dare struggle or he’d fall the remaining seven feet and land on his head and break his neck. What to do? Ah, the cell phone. THE CELL PHONE! Fortunately his hands were free and he could reach his pants pocket. He turned the phone on and quickly speed dialed his brother Gilbert. There he was, hanging upside down listening to Gilbert’s customized ring playing George Thorogood’s song, “Bad to the Bone.” Finally Gilbert answered:

Gilbert: “Cliffy, what do you want brother?”

Clifford: “Gilbert, I need help! I’m hanging upside down from my tree stand out here in Byers Woods seven miles west of town. I’m starting to get light headed and I have to pee like a race horse.”

Gilbert: “You’re what? You can’t be serious.”

Clifford: “I am serious and I need help! Christ if a bear comes along I’ll be like one of those takeout micro-wave meals!”

Gilbert: “Hey brother, I’m clear the hell down here in Cedar Rapids buying some plumbing supplies. There’s no way I can get to you in time. You better call your wife and have her get someone out there.”

Clifford: “Gilbert, I need help! I’m in desperate straits here. My leg is going numb.”

Gilbert: “Sorry brother, but call the wife that’s your best bet.” Click!

Clifford: “Gilbert? Gilbert? Shit he hung up on me! Damn it you dumb ass!”

Clifford quickly got busy dialing his wife Sonia. He was having trouble seeing the screen, but managed to hit the speed dial and heard the phone ring. This time the music was Santana’s “I ain’t got nobody.” No shit he thought! Finally Sonia picked up the phone.

Sonia: “Clifford, I’m so glad you called, we need some milk from the store when you head back into town. “

Clifford: “Sonia, for Christ’s sake I’m your husband, not "Cliff’s Delivery Service." I’m in trouble out here in Byer’s woods and I need you to get help before I pass out.”

Sonia: “I’m only asking you to stop and pick up a gallon of milk, not negotiate a peace treaty with the Chinese for goodness sakes.”

Clifford: “SONIA! What part of you’re about to become a widow don’t you understand? I’m upside down, hanging seven feet off the ground and my camouflage suit is starting to give me a snuggy. Please call 911 and then get a hold of my brother Merle and get him out here.”

Sonia: “Oh Cliffy, don’t die my sweet! I’ll call 911 and then call you right back.” (Slight Pause) “Cliffy?”

Clifford: “What dear?”

Sonia: “What’s the number for 911?”

Clifford: “9-1-1 for Christ sakes! Hurry!”

Clifford hung upside down and noticed he was swaying a bit in the breeze. Great, he thought, a green camouflaged pendulum on a Cotton Wood clock. Just then the phone rang. He made a quick mental note to change his customized ring. John Mayer’s song “Gravity” no longer sounded cool to him.

Clifford weakly: “Cliff here. Sonia?”

Sonia: “Cliffy hang in there. I called 911 and they told me to have you call them so they can get an exact fix on your location. Can you do that sweety?”

Clifford: “For Christ’s sake I’m hanging here like a rack of lamb down at Pete’s butcher shop and they want me to call them? Fine, fine, get a hold of Merle and get him on the way. He’s probably over at Hootie’s Lounge getting all pissed up again.”

Clifford dialed 911 and then waited. He waited and he waited and he waited. He waited so long his sinuses started to back up and he could swear he could no longer feel Mr. Winky. My God he thought, I might be paralyzed from the waist down. I might be confined to a wheel chair for the rest my life with the only hunting being for my Colonoscopy bag. All of sudden he thought he heard something. “Click” What was that sound? All of a sudden he heard it again. “Click” Fear raced through Clifford as he envisioned a Bear or worse yet a Mountain Lion stealthily approaching all the while hungrily eyeing the camouflaged morsel hanging from the tree. “Click.” Suddenly out of the corner of his eye he spied the source of the noise. It was Merle taking pictures with his cell phone. He had a big shit eating grin on his face.

Clifford: “God Damn you Merle! Get me down, get me down right now you ass hole!”

Merle: “No problem little brother, help’s on the way and we’ll get you out of there. How come you didn’t call 911 like you were supposed to and help the process along?”

Well they got Clifford out of the tree and back safely on earth. Clifford was the sort of guy that tried to learn from adversity. The first thing he learned was that he didn’t really like hunting that much anymore so he gave the rifle, camouflage suit and paint to Merle for saving him. Then just as quickly he took them right back when the pictures of him hanging upside down from the tree ended up on the Internet titled, “Go Ahead, Make My Day!” He went out and purchased a 220 gallon fish tank and adopted a new hobby of collecting exotic fish. It was safer and much more relaxing than hanging around loo0king for just the right buck anyway. He also reread his cell phone manual, especially the part that instructed you that after you punch in your desired phone number you then hit the button that says SEND!

Bag'n A Terrorist

2009-01-15T16:47:00.001-07:00

That’s right, ole Merle’s a terrorist or at least that’s what them fellers in the white shirts with the Wheaties badges at the airport tell me. Time for a little explaining. Now I don’t like to fly. There’s something about having my tootsies 25,000 feet above mother earth that makes me a tad queezie. Every damn time we take off I'm inclined to holler “Lord take me,” which makes folks around me a bit nervous but eventually they get over it. Occasionally my company wants to send me some place to help some fellers repair their Caterpillar equipment, which wouldn’t need to be repaired if they'd just take care of it in the first place, but that’s another story! So now twice this past year I've had to get my butt on a plane and fly somewhere.

Now I do have a routine that helps my flying fear a little and that's to stop in to the bar there at the airport and knock down a couple of Jim Beam’s to numb my senses. It serves the same purpose as a tranquilizer, just tastes better. Anyhow, last Spring I had to fly to Wyoming to help some fellers do some repair work and I’ll be damned if I didn’t get into trouble going through security on account of my travel kit. I ain’t lying to ya. I get in the security line and take my boots off and right away folks start staring at me. Now, forgetting to wear your socks can happen to anybody, but at least on the bright side it did clear a path for me. So just like you’re supposed to I put my boots in a bin and set my travel bag on the conveyor belt. After a couple of tries getting through that metal detector thing, you know, belt buckle, change and bottle opener, I was standing there awaiting my bag.

Well the first thing I noticed was the feller looking at that little TV screen that shows you X-Ray shots of people’s underwear and such. He was in an ill humor and he shouts to one of his buddies, “Hey, damn it, we need to check this bag.” I pondered that and thought, “What the hell for?” So this young buck with a Wheaties badge strolls up like Marshal Dillon and says, “I need your permission to go through your bag.” So I said, “Hey, knock yourself out, “and he gave me one of them dirty looks. He opens my bag and pulls out my travel kit and says “You can’t use this anymore; I need to look through it.” Now imagine that. We’re talking about a travel kit for your tooth paste, razor, shaving cream and Old Spice cologne and he’s saying that’s not what it’s for. Anyhow I said “Sure, just don’t palm the tooth brush too much.” Next thing I know he pulls my tube of Colgate “Max Fresh with mini breath strips” toothpaste from the bag holds it up and glares at me. “What’s this?” he says. “Toothpaste," I says thinking he’s an ignoramus cause it says toothpaste right on the tube. “Well this is banned; it’s six ounces and you’re only allowed four ounces or less.” I pondered that for a second and then said the first thing that came to my mind, “You’re shittin me right?” Well I guess that was the wrong thing to say, because I got a two minute lecture on banned items, clear plastic bags, and he didn’t care to tolerate any smart asses. He was looking at me when he said that. Well, long story short he confiscated my toothpaste and I was allowed to go on my way. In the future if I ever see that commercial about “Fly the friendly skies” and I’m apt to throw my beer at the TV.

Well now I pondered that right after hollerin “Lord take me” when we took off and tried to imagine hijacking a plane with a six ounce tube of toothpaste and I was damned if I could figure it out. I mean what the hell would a feller do, stand up and scream, “Hey, I’m taking over this plane and we’re going to Havana! Try and stop me and I’m gonna squeeze my tube of tooth paste from the center and freshen everybody’s breath!!!!” Damn perplexing if you ask me.

But I’m not finished. It’s even more complicated than that this airport security stuff. I had to fly again last week on account some morons messed their perfectly good Caterpillar up by being ignoramuses so I made sure to comply with the rules this time. I bought them little tiny products at the Supermarket including that problem product toothpaste. I couldn’t find any of the Max Fresh so I settled on one of them baby tubes with “Extra Whitener.” Then I put all them little tad poles in a clear plastic bag and packed her away in my travel bag. Hell, I even remembered to put some socks on this time! I get to security and I proudly put my boots in the bin and set my travel bag on the conveyor. I even got through the metal detector first time through on account I packed my belt and beer opener in the travel bag. I figured it was clear sailing from there.

Then I noticed the guy watching TV was really in an agitated state of mind and I figured he’d probably been looking at X-Ray’s of people’s underwear all day and was getting tired of it. Sure enough he yells out, “I need somebody to inspect this guy’s bag!” What? So here comes some gal with the white shirt and the Wheaties badge on and she says the same damn thing, “I need your permission to look into your bag.” Well I wasn’t gonna say “Knock yourself out,” so I simply said “Yes Mam.” I’ll be damned if she didn’t pull my clear plastic bag with the chunk sized toiletries out of my travel bag and hold it up in front of me. She said the following and I’m not making this up. “This bag is too large, you’re only allowed 7” by 7 3/4” bags. They’re known as Texas Quarts. And you need to place them in the bin with your shoes.” Now what in hell are you going to say to that? That’s right, I looked at her and I said, “You’re shittin me right.” But no, she was as serious as a Priest. Well I begged her pardon and told her I’d submit to a toiletries rehabilitation program when I returned from my trip and she told me I had better shut my pie hole and I’d better make damn sure I followed the rules or I’d be doing some hard time next time through. Damn, there's them "Friendly Skies" again!

I’ve really been pondering this problem I have with airports and my subsequent choice of toothpaste. I even put this issue to the test the other night. I went into Hootie’s Bar and walked right up to Dave the bartender and I pulled out my 44 caliber tube of Colgate and pointed it at him and demanded all his money. He looked at my brother Byron who was sitting there hanging on to his bar stool for dear life and said, “Your brother’s acting like a dumb ass again,” and then he poured me my Beam and a Beer. I asked him if the toothpaste hadn’t at least made him the least bit worried to which he replied, “Well ya, I ain’t been to a dentist in twenty one years and one of my molars is bothering me. Seeing that tube of toothpaste reminded me I’ll probably have to go and get her yanked.” Well, that wasn’t quite what I had in mind. All I know is if I’m one of them there terrorists, I’d damn well better only bring the bomb and make damn sure and leave the travel bag and toothpaste at home. Now ponder that one!

Merle's Beauty Tips For Men

2008-12-28T12:33:00.000-07:00

Now I didn’t become one of the most sought after men in these here parts by accident. No sir, I have carefully crafted my image as a dashing, sophisticated bachelor. One of the key ingredients to my success is my attention to cleanliness and good “Hygiene.” I know there are fellers out there wondering how is it ole Merle always seems to be seen in the company of one good looking woman after another, Dorothy Bockensted being the most recent example. I took her to see that Vin Diesel movie and she didn't cared for it much. She said it was too bloody which baffles me cause them's the best movies in my humble opinion. Despite the bad movie review it didn’t prevent her from a little snuggling with ole Merle if you know what I mean. So here are some things to think about if you want to have the love life of a stallion.

First and most important you need to take a bath every couple of weeks or so. I'm not kidding! Now I admit to being a bit of a clean freak, so I take a bath every Friday whether I need it or not. Sure, I get a lot of grief at the Friday night poker game from the boys, you know, they say things like “Merle you smell like a Posy and such stuff.” My attitude is, “to hell with them!” Let them make their smart aleck cracks because they’re just jealous because I’m the one that’s out there with all the high class ladies and that's because I don’t smell like hog shit and cow manure. So, despite the ignorance and trite comments of a few lesser souls, I bath at least once a week. Now I have done a lot of soap testing and after exhaustive study, not to mention wrinkled skin, I’ve finally settled on Mr. Bubble as my official bath soap. I’m so convinced that Mr. Bubble is the way to go in the personal hygiene field that I’ve written the Mr. Bubble people and told them I’d be glad to be their spokes person and more than willing to do their commercials and things. I haven’t heard back yet, but let’s just say it’s in the works. I mean let’s face it, lots a bubbles means lots of cleaning power and that’s what I’m looking for. Why, when I emerge after I submerge I down right sparkle!!!! Hey! There’s a slogan right there!

The next thing I’d highly recommend is my “Merle’s Customized Back Brush.” Now what I did was I took my spare toilet bowl brush, hosed her off a bit and then added an extension so that I could really give my back a good scrubbin. This highly technological bath tool with its firm bristles guarantees you'll get all that scaly stuff off your back and with its improved length, allows you to get all those hard to get places real good. If you’d like to test one for yourself send me a note and I’ll rig one up for you, I got two or three in the garage. It’s pretty easy providing you have Duct Tape. I’m even thinking of customizing one of my straight razors so’s I can shave the hair on my back. When you spend as much time as I do with your shirt off, it pays to be well groomed.

Another important beauty secret of mine is the liberal use of Head and Shoulders shampoo. The last thing in the world I want is dandruff and it becomes real obvious if you wear dark clothing like my Harley Davidson sweat shirt. Yup, if you got dandruff, it’ll look like someone gave you a little extra parmesan cheese right there on your Harley shirt. That’s where the “Shoulders” part of “Head and Shoulders” comes from. You ain’t sneakin that past ole Merle. I figured it out last year cause I was pondering why and the hell would they call a Shampoo Head and “SHOULDERS.” It just didn’t figure you’d be a shampooing your shoulders unless of course you were especially hairy or something. Then it dawned on me plain as day and I had a good chuckle outa that. So make sure you use Head and Shoulders so your scalp is squeaky clean, especially the bald spot!

The next thing on my list of beauty secrets is Tanactin foot powder. Now if that John Madden feller recommends it, it must be good. There ain’t nothing worse, except maybe pocket lint, than having smelly feet in the presence of a high class woman. Your standard low class women could give a flyin flip, but your high class one’s are highly sensitive to the smell of rotting feet. I mean there’s nothing worse than getting your gal a tad tipsy, putting some Tom T Hall on the stereo and you go and take your boots off and she turns white as a ghost and passes out from the fumes. That ain’t exactly traveling the romantic route if you get my drift. So I make sure and spray my feet liberally and hell, it smells so damn good I even put a smidgen in my pockets for good measure. Notice how smell seems to be a theme here?

Finally, the last thing I do is put on some strong deodorant and my personal choice is “High Endurance Old Spice.” Nothing smells better than your pits after you put on Old Spice. Why, I even catch myself smelling my own pits after I cake on my deodorant, so I can just imagine how it must affect the feminine side. I mean how can they resist? There they are with a real hunk of a man and his arm pits smell downright pretty. It must just drive em crazy! I even recall Jolene Fitzpatrick saying, “Merle you ole devil, what the hell you got on you that makes your pits smell so damn good?” Yup, she said that all right, so after you de-tub, that’s the last thing you need to do. Oh, and make sure you hold your arms out for a while so’s they dry properly. Another no, no is having white arm pits. It makes you look like a dumb ass and you don’t want that now do ya?

Now I flat guarantee you that woman, real nice one’s at that, will be trying to tear your clothes off if you follow my simple secrets to good personal hygiene and smellin just right. That’s it for today; I gotta go and take Charlene Bowers to the Home Depot in Cedar Rapids and then were going to Shakey's Pizza. Poor gal ain't got a chance! There’s no rest for the wicked if you know what I mean. Beam me up Scotty.

Merle on Global Warming

2008-12-24T09:57:00.000-07:00

Now as everybody knows by now I’m pretty well read and I ponder on things a lot. There’s been a lot written lately about Global Warming in the National Enquirer and The Star down at Fred’s Grocery Delight. According to them it’s pretty much a factoid that old Merle’s place here in Iowa will someday soon become beach front property. Now I don’t know why in the hell people got their shorts all up in a bunch over this because if you live here in Iowa the prospect of listening to the waves lapping at your doorway sure beats the hell out of mosquito’s buzzing in your ear and Tornadoes thundering down on you. Now I suppose if you live in New Jersey, this might come as a bit of bad news, but you folks just need to relax because there’s plenty of room out here in the Hawkeye State and we’re pretty darn friendly as long as you don’t talk funny and do stupid things and such.

Now I’ll say it right up front, I think that Al Gore feller should have been the President of the US of A and it’s a shame that stupid, smirking SOB from Texas stole the election from him. For the world however it was probably a blessing in disguise. I mean stop and think for a second will ya. While ole Al was a Senator and doing all that Senator’s work for them whiskey sippers down there in Tennessee, he was inventing the Internet for Christ sakes! Now I don’t know about you, but the Internet has made my life immeasurably easier and I’m grateful to him for getting that accomplished, what with the schedule he keeps and everything. Why it used to be I’d have to drive twenty miles to Big John’s Tobacco and Adult Haven near Cedar Rapids to get my monthly girlie magazine. Not anymore!!!! All a feller has to do now is Google BOOBS and presto, chango there you are, nature’s finest! Saves on all that gas so’s I can download some great movies while I stay at home and reduce my carbonation signature. Now just imagine me sitting here watching some great movie action and there’s some surf a crashing right next to the house and barn? It’ll be Merle’s little piece of Paradise if you know what I mean.

But I’m not finished. That Al Gore is so brilliant he decided, even while he was running against that crook Bush, that he’d take one of them mail order correspondence courses and become a Nobel Prize winning Climatologist! Now, face it, we’re obviously talking about one of America’s most brilliant men! He’s right up there with ole T. Edison, B. Franklin, G Roddenberry and H. Hefner. I mean it ain’t easy deciphering them weather maps and being able to look at the TV camera at the same time and yet ole Al did just that! Why, I even heard he adopted a couple of Polar Bear cubs to save them from drowning. Rumor has it he’s currently working on a full size Starship Enterprise and has enlisted that Captain Piccard fella to help him so’s they can evacuate all them Hollywood Starlets from the planet if it gets too hot or a meteor heads this way. Wow, can you imagine being on a another planet with Halle Berry? Now that’s what I call putting it out there for your country. But hell, I’m just getting warmed up, ha, ha, ha! Getting warmed up, get it?

Ole Al’s was on to something else that was causing us Iowan’s all kinds of misery. Why just the other day I was talking to Melvin Kleitch down at the Midwest Feed Center here in town about how stinkin muggy it had been the last few summers. Why you couldn’t even step outside without pittin out your clean white undershirt and wrinklin your overalls. NOW WE KNOW WHY! It’s them damn cows and all their fartin that’s just about killed us Iowan’s off. No wonder everybody moves to Colorado and Phoenix. I mean let’s get rid of them methane butt blowers, chop em up into Rib Eye’s and T-Bones and cool this damn place off a tad and we can eat well in the process! I don’t milk cows for a living anyhow and if you own fifty or sixty head of cows, why getting rid of them will probably save your damn life! Christ, I can’t imagine what the hell it must be like over there in Wisconsin. No wonder them people drink so much beer and Brandy. “COW FARTS,” that’s why! Heck, cow farts have even created a new industry here in the Hawkeye State and that’s all them wind mills they’re putting up out there in Western Iowa. Hundreds of them! They’re actually another idea Al Gore had while he was looking into the cow fart problem out here in Iowa. The reason Al likes them wind mills is because they use the wind to generate your electricity and if the wind blows hard enough the damn things actually spin so fast they blow the cow farts into Illinois and Ohio, states that Al thought coulda done better supporting him during the presidential election he lost. Out here we call the wind mills “Al’s Revenge.”

Well, I need to get going here. I’m heading to a sporting goods store in Cedar Rapids to take a good look at some nice used bass fishing boats. The way I figure it ole Al ain’t been wrong yet and the more water and the less farts we have here in Iowa means some great bass fishing and hell, maybe even Marlin come to think of it. According to Al I’ll probably be sitting out back by the barn in my Bermuda shorts listening to the soothing sounds of the ocean while breathing clean air and eating a nice big burger. Well, first things first though. I need to go get my acetylene torch and thaw them damn pipes out under the sink and then Cecil’s coming over to jump the truck so we can get the chains on her. Roads are a bitch today and it's 17 below. See ya!

Merle on Hollerin

2008-12-20T11:25:00.001-07:00

I’m here to tell each and every one of ya there ain’t nothing wrong with hollerin at folks once in a while. Hollerin’s downright healthy and good for what ails ya. All those politically correct folks that say polite, warm and fuzzy shit all the time end up constipated and prone to major gas problems I’m here to tell ya. I read about it the other day in the Star. You’ve heard them shrinks and new age folks and the baloney they spew. “We need to settle down, visualize a garden full of flowers and manage our feelings to see if we can’t maturely reach a resolution to our conflict.” Well I’d flip them shrinks the bird and tell them to “visualize this!” A person that hollers at folks gets all that pent up frustration out and besides, if they do have gas, nobody’ll know the difference on account they’ll be a hollerin so loud that’s all the people that are getting hollered at will hear. Of course there’ll be the vapor, but that can always be explained away on the farm, you know, the cows, the hogs, the chickens etc. etc..

Here’s an example where a little hollerin is the proper thing to do and by George I did it. My second cousin Gerald borrowed my dozer cause he said he had a pile of manure that was five feet deep out back of his barn that needed relocatin. Well, when he returned my prized 1967 Cat two days later there was cow shit all over it not to mention potato chips, catsup and mustard and I could swear by the smell on the seat Gerald had taken a whiz while continually operating the controls of my prized heavy piece of machinery. You just don’t do things like that! It’s like taking a swig from a guy’s whiskey bottle and not being polite enough to wipe your slobber off. Damn disgusting is what it is! So I hollered at Gerald!

“Gerald,” I said, “You’re an ignoramus for returning my prized dozer in the condition it’s in! What’s the matter with you? You got shit for brains or what? It’ll be a cold day in hell before I loan you a piece of my heavy equipment again. Now get your dumb ass a movin and I don’t give a flying flip what you think. I refuse to tolerate ignoramus relatives!” That’s what I said to him and I meant every damn word of it. And here’s my point. After I unloaded on him I felt downright relieved and relaxed as if I’d taken a laxative or some such thing. Them women’s libber’s got nothing on me because ole Merle felt Liberated.” And that’s what I’m getting at. There’s a reason I’m healthy and maladjusted. I never drink hard liquor on Sunday’s and I holler a lot at the ignoramuses that need to be hollered at. You’re performing a community service if you ask me. So who ya gonna believe? Ole maladjusted Merle or some Socialist, panty waist shrink? I thought so. Well, gotta go now and holler at my brother Clifford on account he’s a standard issue dumb ass plain and simple. See ya.

Merle on Pocket Lint

2008-12-20T10:47:00.001-07:00

As a well read man about town I obviously have a reputation to uphold and I’m not bragging when I tell you that I’m considered a pretty good catch as far as the available women around here are concerned. That’s why what happened to me the other day is the subject of this here discourse. I’ve never been so mortified in my life!

Every Friday afternoon I go down to the bank and buy a roll of quarters for the evening’s poker game over at Donny Wilson’s place. It’s become a bit of a routine that I look forward to and I always try and have my favorite teller Arlene Simpson do my banking stuff on account that she’s been blessed by the good Lord with a set of boobs that just about make your eyes water. Now Arlene knows this and doesn’t mind a little polite observation provided you keep your mouth shut and you don’t say anything ignorant like “Double my pleasure, double my fun,” or some such thing as that. No, Arlene appreciates a little admiration and I swear she’s never, ever once buttoned the top button on her blouse.

So just like clockwork there I was last Friday afternoon politely staring and reaching for my ten dollar bill. Well you ain’t going to believe what happened next! As I slapped the ten dollar bill on the counter it was accompanied by a great big wad of “Pocket Lint!” I was frozen in place and Arlene gave me a look as if the ten dollar bill had boogers on it or something. She reached with her fingers and took the very corner of the ten and slowly held it up. I guess she did that to make sure there wasn’t anything else attached to it and then she kind of just flicked it into her cash drawer. Well ole Merle was trying to figure out what to do so I just reached over and picked the damn pocket lint up. NOW WHAT DO I DO?

It was a case of Catch 22 if I ever there was one. If I dropped it on the floor I doubled my crime and if I put it back in pocket I looked like a total ignoramus. I thought as quickly as I could and then stopped thinking, stuffed it in my mouth and swallowed it. I looked at Arlene. Arlene looked at me. Then she blinked her eyes, reached up slowly and buttoned the top button of her blouse. She shook her head and said, “Merle, who in hell does your laundry?” I told her I did and she looked at me and said, “Women notice the little things about men and pocket lint is a serious warning signal.” Well I apologized profusely and told Arlene it would never happen again to which she said, “Merle I hope not. I’ve always thought that you were above having pocket lint. It's something us tellers take quite seriously considering our chosen vocation.” Well it was a good two weeks and two crisp clean ten dollar bills before the top button problem was corrected and I figured from that point on I was probably on probation as far as Arlene was concerned. Crap I even lost that dirty ten dollars over at Donny’s that evening in less than hour. That ten was cursed and the lesson was learned!

Well from that fateful Friday forward I always had the vacuum sweeper ready after washing my clothes and I thoroughly vacuumed the pockets out. I then stationed the vacuum right next to the back door so’s when I went out on the town in the evenings I could always crank her up and make sure my pockets were clean. I had to work the kinks out of that precautionary measure though because I kept forgetting about my change and truck keys and had to dig them out of the vacuum sweeper tank a couple of times. I ended up putting a sign right next to the sweeper that said “Take your damn keys and coins out of your pockets before delinting you fool!” I’ve not had a recurrence and now Arlene’s as friendly as ever so I guess I dodged the proverbial "Lint" bullet there. Now I highly recommend you go out and get yourself a good vacuum sweeper and go through every pocket in every pair of pants so you don’t suffer the pain of “Pocket Lint” like I did. You never know what them women are thinking or conjuring up in their minds so you sure as hell don’t want pocket lint weighing on their feminine thought processes. It could cost you a button or two if you know what I mean.

Merle's all around Tool Kit

2008-12-14T17:59:00.002-07:00

I just got back from fixing Maggie Swanson’s back door screen and it suddenly occurred to me that there are a lot of folks out there that just don’t have the necessary items needed to fix things around the house. I pondered that for a few minutes and decided I’d share some of my expertise and knowledge. There’s really only a few items that are a must for your tool box and here they are.

The first thing you need is a hammer and nails. The hammer can be used in all sorts of ways. You know if I got something that’s stuck you just give it a few whacks with the hammer and presto, chango, it’s fixed. If you got a pet that keeps on a getting out of the garage at night for example you take the hammer and a couple of nails and you nail the damn garage door shut. Let’s say there’s a window in the house and the damn kids keep opening it up and shinnying down the side of the house. Now if you don’t want that just nail er shut, plain and simple. Got a cupboard where you keep important papers and such? Nail her shut! Who needs a safe when you can do that?

The next critical item you need is plenty of duct tape. For example if you have a drafty window you simply slap duct tape over the drafty area and the problem's solved. Need a coat hanger by the back door? Just duct tape the hook to the wall and you’re in business. Broken handle on the shovel? Not a problem! You got your duct tape. Now I want to share a little something with you that you probably never knew about. I happen to be a man that not only ponders things, but I'm well read. There's all kinds of reading material available right there at the grocery store check-out counter that a lot of ignorant folks don't give a second thought to. Well I just read today in the National Enquirer that the ole US of A Air Force actually used duct tape on them Stealth Planes. That’s right, you heard it here first. When they talk about a “Highly classified coating of material, the radar evading skin as they call it,” they’re actually talking about duct tape. The plane is basically covered in black duct tape and they don’t want the Chi-Coms to know about it. Them fellers is brilliant, that’s what they are. Of course ole Merle’s been using duct tape for nearly forty years and for a small price I’d have told them fellows all about it years ago, but things have a way of working themselves out. Oh! And here's one more bit of good information. According to the Enquirer four Arkansas duck hunters captured Hitler last week. I always figured that rascal got away!

Another critical item is WD-40. I don’t care what kind of a friction problem you got, ole WD-40 will fix it. Let’s say you got a squeaky door on your 91 Ford pick-up. Half a can of WD-40 later and that same door’ll be working perfectly. It’ll be as if you’d just bought that F-150 last week. Got a touchy toilet handle? Give her a good spray of WD-40 and watch a small miracle happen. Just make sure you wipe up the floor afterwards so you don’t skid up against the wall and end up under the sink when nature frantically gives you a call. "Been there done that," as they say. It’s even useful if you’re the “Practical Jokester” feller in your community. Spray a little WD on a public toilet seat and sit back and watch the fun. Just make sure you have one of them video cameras with ya. Hell I even coated the soles of my cousin Lonnie's work boots last week and almost pee’d my pants watching him slide down his driveway and into the side of his Dodge Ram pick-up. Damn that was funny and I got a couple of good pictures too! His wife Kate says he’ll be just fine once the stitches come out next week.

Another critical item is work gloves. I always wear my work gloves and they’re absolutely necessary when you smack your thumb with the hammer or cut off a small piece of your pinky finger. You see the gloves absorb all the blood and there’s no clean up necessary after a work related accident. I learned this the hard way a few years back when I bled all over my brother’s white shag carpet. I mean he’s a dumb ass for having a white shag carpet when green would have been a better match for the blue furniture, but you can’t teach good taste. I’d had a couple of snoots and was probably a tad over relaxed when I tried fixing that balky electric can opener of his. The spotted carpet will teach him not to buy crap like that in the first place! Anyway, I highly recommend work gloves as a first line of defense when you lob a chunk of finger off.

Here’s another critical thing for sure and that’s a flashlight. I can’t count the number of times I was doing electrical work and all of a sudden the lights went out. If you’re in the basement it can get damn dark, damn fast when the fuse blows or you cross a wire. Hell, a couple of years ago that happened and I just about decapitated myself. I was fixing a balky plug over at Fletcher Hanson’s place. Ole Fletch had a bad habit of hanging his rip saw from the rafter in the basement. So there I was in the damn dark staggering around until I got hung up on the damn rip saw. You ever been face to face with a damn rip saw in the dark? Felt like a damn trout on a fish hook I did. Luckily I had my gloves on and I simply wrapped my hands around my neck to stem the bleeding. The only problem with that was I almost passed out from a lack of oxygen, but we wouldn’t even be discussing this now would we if I’d had my flashlight there with me. So don’t go anywhere without it, especially if you’re doing electrical work. It’s also handy when you drop the one damn screw you actually need and it falls, bounces in slow motion three times and then plops right down a four inch drain sixteen feet away from where you’re a standing. I always call that “Plumbers Luck.” Thank God for the flashlight.

Finally make sure your tool box has Lava soap and band aids available. After finishing a tough repair job and finally getting your work gloves peeled off, you can wash off the blood , slap a couple of band aids on the gash and you’re just like new. Lava is great because all that gritty stuff really scrapes them little germs and bacteria things off your wound so’s she’ll heal up just like new, except of course for the big scar. And there’s nothing wrong with a good scar because you can tell the story of what a dumb ass you were over a good game of poker and you got the scar right there to prove it to everybody.

Oh damn! I almost forgot the most important thing. I always carry a bottle of Jim Beam with me on repair projects. Sometimes on a job when you’re a trying to figure out what the issue is the brain can get a bit cluttered up with too much information. Jim Beam works just like Drano and it mentally unplugs you. The other thing I like about it is this. It helps me put things in perspective after fixing something. I’ve seen fellers get all gummed up with, “Well maybe I shoulda done it this way or maybe I shoulda done it that way" or some such thing. Not me! After a couple snoots of Beam I’m pretty much satisfied with the results no matter what happened. By then I know that whatever happened, happened because it was the way of the Lord and if the Lord wanted it that way, then who the hell am I to complain. If the Lord's happy, then I’m happy. I usually conclude my work with a smile and my little Jim Beam gratitude prayer. It goes like this: “Beam me up Scotty.” Ha, gotcha!

If you thought this was helpful wait until you read my next two articles on Good Grooming and the scourge of "Pocket Lint!"

Byron

2008-12-07T13:06:00.001-07:00

It’s tough living in a family of geniuses. Take my brother-in law Byron for example. Byron is one of them there expansive types and chooses to always go his own way. Take the art of wine making for which Byron is unsurpassed. Byron studied the art of wine making for several months and then one day declared after a few snoots of Jim Beam, “Shit, anybody can make wine from grapes. Hell them French fellers and even them candy assed Californians can make wine from grapes. To hell with Ernst and Julio! I’m going to expand the wine industry by making wine from different and assorted products!” Why, this very proclamation was written down on #2 typing paper and stapled over the door to Byron’s basement.

Byron took to his new calling like a Duck to water. First there was the Rhubarb wine, vintage summer of 84. Byron named it “Pucker Port.” Then came the potato wine, vintage summer of 85 that he named “Down and Dirty Port.” That very next summer Byron created a summer double and we had a hearty supply of “Black Cap” and “Beet” wine. Byron liked to brag that the alcohol content of his vintage products was pert near double anything that Gallo fella ever did. After the beet and blackcap wine came the Dandelion, Strawberry and Turnip wines, along with a batch of stronger Rhubarb and Blackcap wines. Byron even started scribbling some notes related to the watermelon he was growing.

Byron became so passionate about his wine making and the necessary product sampling that it became necessary for him to have a cot placed in the corner of the basement so’s he could rest after hours of intense taste testing. It became common place amongst the family members to always look in the basement first if Byron came up missing. I remember one day I went down to fetch him and as I helped him up the stairs he confided in me that wine making was a great weight upon his shoulders being the only man in the industry that could not only make wine from everything in the garden, but the weeds to. We sure didn’t mind that Byron was sort of a “wine savant” cause it meant lot’s of free booze, but quite frankly I sure as hell couldn’t tell the year or the vegetable I was drinking, but it sure did knock you on your ass and that’s what counted.

Of course along with fame sometimes you’re saddled with an ego that’s a tad bigger than it should be. We really did get sick and tired of his damn out bursts like, “Boones Farm’s got nothing on me! That’s just amateur wine!” or “That Earnest and Joolio guy can kiss my ass. Why you might as well be a drinkin water than to drink their piss!” It all came to a head one day when Byron decided he wanted to sex up his wine inventory a bit and he started pasting pictures of naked girls on the bottles that he'd printed up off one of them there titty sites on the Internet. His wife Fran got more than a little pissed off and declared the winery closed until further notice. This didn’t go over too well with Byron and he complained that no one, not even his truly betrothed should interfere with his artistic genius. Of course Fran’s position was one of, “I see one more naked picture on a wine bottle or “naked babes of Baltimore” on my Google pop down and I’m taking a knife to your “your pop up," if you know what mean.” Well with that Fran had the final word and Byron had to channel his creative energies in a new direction so’s he took up making homemade beer. It just goes to show, you can’t keep a good man down.