Traffic Ninnies

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

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

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?

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

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!