The Absurdities of Flying – Volume II

Airplane4

You thought I was done, didn’t you?  Well, I’ve only just begun.  But this time I wanted to add a few recommendations to make air travel more safe and enjoyable – based solely upon my astute observations of crazy people on planes.  First, bring back the hot pants of the 1970’s Southwest Airlines.  That would work well for me.  However, there has to be something in this for the ladies.  So I highly recommend that at each security frisking station they have a celebrity doppelganger of the lady’s choice.  This might be a George Clooney, Fabio, or some guy playing a well-endowed gorgeous billionaire sex freak  that can do all the 50 shades of frisking.  That would work, right ladies?

I also think a complete strip down to go through the detector would be fine too.  This way we’d all be intimate with each other as we fly and have plenty to discuss. “Why that tattoo on your bum is so unique, when and where did you get it”?  This way when the in-flight nude masseuse comes calling it wouldn’t be too shocking and my buttocks wouldn’t be so tense upon landing five weeks later.

People in first class get to lay down in their own little cubes.  But in this age of sharing, I say they should have to sit in some of our seats for at least one quarter of a flight duration over five weeks.  But if this isn’t possible, I suggest in the center ceiling a drop down bed should appear so people can stretch out, take a nap, tan, or get friendly with the neighbor you met at the security screening line – which you can call that the “The high five, five mile high club“.  Yes, I just made that up and I want a royalty on any use of it’s name.  This way toilet lines would be shortened.

Speaking of toilets, why do crazy people wait until they hear the Captain announce they will be landing?  A line builds up and the attendants have to announce the flight can’t land until everyone’s bladders are empty.  I say it is time to stop giving all the $150 cocktail choices 5 minutes before the landing call.  I know the CEO’s of the airlines need a $100 million Golden Parachute, but come on – Really?  I say if you are in the potty when that Captain’s announce is made, you are given a chance to learn to fly (Game of Thrones style) with a trap door, called the AirPorta Potty. Yes , I just made that one up too, because I want a Golden Parachute.  Any luggage not claimed can be rummaged through by those who have an empty bladder or are blue in the face holding their bladder. It’s only fair in this sharing economy that needs a little population control and thinning of the DNA mutations.  As a parting gift, the toilet can dispense a runner-up Darwin award trophy.

Having trouble sleeping on the plane?  Well, I suggest people be allowed to give business presentations.  One, so that they can stretch their buttocks and two, so you can learn about Dynasty Trusts and the  Net Investment Income Tax – sure fire ways to catch a  few Z’s without pills or massive quantities of $90 Mai Tais.  There should also be Mai Tai Karaoke renditions of “We are the world – you are the economy class“.

We should also DNA test everyone before they enter the plane with MyDNA. You can share your heritage percentage and see if you are somehow related to uncle / cousin / grandfather Billy Bob from Arkansas. This way we can tell if you are predisposed to being a drooler of biblical proportions like uncle / cousin / grandfather Billy Bob, a snorer, prone to mount Vesuvius flatulence, have weak bladder, and just a general (in Hawaiian terms) – Ahole.  Ahole’s should be made to sit in the back section of a plane in ejector seats, just in case they get Aholeish and out of control (no need for Air Marshals).  People with infants and toddlers should be given the front section in an enclosed, sound proof, and gas vapor leak proof cabin.

My last suggestion is just complete brilliance, if I don’t say so myself.  Instead of overhead storage bins and an isle that gets a little too cramp from people rushing like it was a rock concert, let’s make it a synchronized and motorized track, that when the exit door is opened you have to race to catch your luggage.  This would certainly get you off the plane faster, instead of curling your hair, taking selfies with your long lost uncle / cousin / grandfather Billy Bob, trying to pull out your oversized stuffed luggage and your head from your Ahole, and get out of my way.

Absurd?  Maybe just a little, but I’m not too far off.

Babble On

PuffyLips

 

Do you recall the story of Babylon?  You know the time God dispersed mankind into different parts of the world with different languages, so that we could not communicate.  Do you ever fear that has happened again?

First let me say I am an old fart.  Almost 57, purely anthropology material.  I find myself struggling to keep up with the world of communication.  Case in point, some one stated the other day in a post on Facebook,

“How cray cray is that?”

In my world of experience, a Cray is a supercomputer, so when referenced twice this is  a very powerful supercomputer – to the second power, as Cray2.  Now that is cool.

I was wrong, it means “Crazy”, they just drop off the “z” to create a whole new word.  That’s just plain “nut”, I purposely left off the “s” so I could fit into the cool crowd.  It didn’t work, someone posted back, “You cray cray old fart.” Sigh…

You see what I mean?  It was bad enough to try to survive the valley girl days of the 80’s and Disco lingo of the 70’s.  Now I have three decades of hip hop billy bob country western pop to catch up on. How Cray is that?

We have country people turning pop, pop turning country, hip hop remaining hip hop, bop doing hip bop, and old farts doing the hip socket replacement bop.  STOP – STOP – STOP!!!

Every day I read of an actor or singer of my generation who has passed and it makes me melancholy to some extent, that’s because I understood them.When Marvin Gaye sang, “Let’s get it on”, there was no deciphering of the language.  It meant what everyone thought what it meant.  Nowadays you get lyrics like this,

“Let’s get cray cray with your bedazzled vjayjay.”

I had to ask my wife what in the creation of the universe was a a vjayjay.  She explained it to me.  I was dumbfounded, babble on is back in black.  I suppose this is code so that parents can’t filter teens music.  Luckily I am an anthropology specimen who no longer has to worry about teen code.  My son and daughter thought they were masters with “Myspace” to keep me in the dark. It didn’t work however, how cray cray is that?  Hey, I’m getting the hang of this.  Now they are adults with children, and they have to figure out what the next babble on code will be.

I miss the simple days, with only a few television stations of wholesome programming that didn’t require a Phd in HipHopstery to understand or taking sides over which was the dominant movie of the week like Stars Wars vs Avatar.  Talk about cray cray.

So, to leave you with something of importance I have decided to provide one of my trademarked sing alongs to brighten your day, sung to the tune of Beverly Hillbillies:

Well let me tell you about a story of man named Ed,
A poor old fart who couldn’t keep trends in his head,
but then one day when blogging with some fools,
He went cray cray trying to understand this drool.

Babble on, culture shock, sheeple rule

Well the first thing you know, people told him to get out of there
The babble on crowd are probably blogging in their underwear.
Said, Kauai is the place you need to be,
So he loaded up his family and moved to Lihue.

Beaches, forests, all Kardashian free.

Well now it’s time to say adios to Ed and all his kind,
I’d like to remind you, you all have lost your mind,
You’re not invited to  this locality,
Cuz I don’t need your cray cray mentality.
Yo post a comment now, yo yo hear!

Be sure to give our sponsor – hippiehootnanny.com a call when visiting Kauai.  When you are a Hippie and don’t give a hoot nanny about your lodging accommodations, hippiehootnanny.com fits perfectly those lack of needs.  Remember, hippiehootnanny.com, that’s hippiehootnanny.com.

 

 

How to Milk a Laden Coconut – The Holy Quest

chimp

Coconuts do not migrate

Since my post on Monty Python yesterday received at least one comment, I think I’m on to something and I want to keep that trend going.  I think coconuts was the key meta tag that lead my reader to me, your humble master of absurdity. For ages I’ve seen pictures of men pretending to be women wearing coconut bras.  I never a knew that there were trans coconuts, but I am tolerant and accepting for those that choose such a path.  I also had no idea on how to milk a coconut so I set out on a quest of discovery.

First, I tried the DIY way – the hands on approach.  I held a laden coconut firmly in my hand and suckled at the pointed end.  Much to my surprise it yielded no milk and I truly do suck… hard.  I thought for certain this was the origin of the term – Blue Hawaiian.  I tried suckling on various sizes of the nuts and still no milk.

Second, I have very dry skin and eczema so I have to use lotion to sooth said skin, including my scalp.  My lovely wife buys two new products, both clearly labeled as having coconut milk, one a shampoo and the other a conditioner. They are also packaged in nice little bottles easy for nursing and milk consumption. Let me say that the shampoo smelled lovely!  At first you don’t notice the burning lice killing chemicals, but then you start frothing at the mouth and your cursing loses all its impact.  After ten minutes of running cool cleansing water through my mouth, I decide the conditioner must be smoother and enjoyable, like one of my wife’s smoothies.  All I can say is that the hairs on my tongue are now under control.  My bowels however… well, let’s not go there, yet.

Finally, I decided to ask a few true native Hawaiians and they seemed so cooperative that they began to smile and even laugh.  Now that’s what I call collaboration!  They hand me two medium sized nuts and told me that the milk won’t be ready until you place them under your shirt and stand on the roadside for 30 minutes in the Hawaiian heat and humidity. Look up into the sky, sway your hips, and sing to the Gods over and over, “Haole, Haole, Hulu, please bring me some coconut mulu.” Well, I was mistaken, from a long distance, of being a rather well endowed member of Castle Anthrax, and was cat-called, whistled and harassed by tourist and visiting sailors.  Still, no milk, but a lot of propositions.  If you visit Hawaii, be wary of eager Hawaiian’s advice, they are pranksters.

Now my loving wife takes me to a juice bar, where a coconut barista whacks off the pointed end, inserts a straw and voila!  Coconut milk.  I then realize – I hate coconut milk!  It’s vile.  Please someone pass me the pineapple shampoo.  Who in their right mind would eat or drink a coconut?  You have to drown it out with heavy doses of Rum and stick a little umbrella in it. They call this a Pina Colada, a French word that loosely translates to “fart in a glass.”  According to the Internet, which never lies, coconut milk has the following medicinal values:

  • Aids in digestion.  Well yeah!  If you can’t swallow it or keep it down, it never digests.
  • Reduces Sweet Craving.  True!  Just makes you down 151 Rum or Kerosene.
  • Improves Heart Health. Well that’s true too.  The heaving and hurling does raise the heart rate.
  • Gluten Free.  Wait, what?  Gluten is from wheat, barley and rye.  Are you suggesting that these crops migrated to Hawaii to a have a fling with a unladen coconut but the coconut rejected the seeding of their gluten?  I’m starting not to believe the Internet and all the Gluten Gurus.

Well, that ends another episode into the sex lives of migratory coconuts and this writers’ quest to understand the mammary glands of tropical fruit.  I am told they are rebuilding the famous Coco Palms resort.  Huh!  I thought coconuts vacationed in Colorado. We have been invited over to many pupu parties and the thought of that prank alone clears my bowels.

Stay tuned, for my next quest is to learn how to milk a Lychee.  Absurd?  You betcha.

Get OFF the Bridge!

Late April 2014 my wife and I went to Kauai for a two-week visit to determine if we truly wanted to live there full time.  We drove almost every road there was to be driven on.  Kuhio highway will take you to the farthest end of the North Shore.  That is if you can cross the Hanalei bridge.  It so happens one day we noticed a bikini model on the narrow one lane bridge.  A sign says that the local custom is to allow 5-7 cars to cross and then return the favor.  Except on this fateful day it had a model on it slowing everything down.  Now, my first thought was, “Well, it is Hawaii, bound to be plenty of bikini models running around slowing down traffic.”  My next thought was, “Get OFF the bridge! We want to get to the beach!”  I thought nothing of this until earlier this month on the Travel Channel we were watching a special about a Sports Illustrated shoot of the swimsuit edition models on Kauai.  Now, I was interested.

Well it turns out that the traffic stopping model was Hailey Clauson and here she is on said bridge.

http://www.si.com/swimsuit/2015/models/hailey-clauson/photos/11

Watching the show, you would think that every person who crossed that bridge was thinking,

“Sweet mother of all pancakes!”

In fact, I was worried about hitting her and being sued beyond belief.  Now that I know she is a world famous Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, I was worried about hitting her, being sued beyond belief and being severely mauled by hormone ridden young guys and turned into shark bait.

If Ms. Clauson is reading my world famous blog, I just want to know one thing.  Why did you have a picture taken with a surf board on a bridge?  Is this the popular place for string bikini surfer babes to hang out? Were you hitch-hiking?  Do you even know how to surf and keep that skimpy thread of fabric on?  Those were the thoughts on my mind.  Now, I said none of this out loud due to my respect of Mrs. Greenlee, who also has a mean right hook.

So in all respect to Ms. Clauson, I wish you a long and successful career and that Sports Illustrated continue to supply us sports coverage, no matter how loosely you define sports or swimsuits. Knowing that there might be future shoots on Kauai, I am glad we move into our home on May 5th. We made the perfect decision.  But please,

Get OFF that bridge!

Lovingly yours,

E.W. Greenlee

(Oh crap!  Here’s comes Mrs. Greenlee)

 

 

Female Code – March 2015 (Maleopause)

Football Season - Again???

Sexopause – really?!  Milleniumopause – you get my drift now buddy?

 

To give equal time to the opposite sex, I’ve placed my mind into the role of a menopausal woman (God help me!) to counter debate my Man Club post titled “Naggopause.”  So without further interruption, the following 10 words have now been genetically engineered into the mutant genes of women everywhere, through menopause supplements such as chocolate and wussy flavored coffees, as a way to communicate with their husbands.

  1. Gameopause – that period of time where you are standing in a baby doll and you throw the Xbox out the window.  Here you scream at the top of your lungs –“You want an end to the sexopause or not?!”
  2. Maleopause – that period you don’t want him anywhere near you.  Just hold up a hand to his face and gently whisper “Maleopause.”  He will get this as a sign that if he does not run, serious bodily damage is about to take place.
  3. Milleniumopause – the word used to tell him to stop nagging about the lack of sex, or he won’t get any for 12 centuries. Touche!
  4. Shadeopause – That period when a woman hits the age of age 80 and is ready for sex and all that 50 Shades has to offer.  This is also the period of time she feeds you well, exercises with you, and then ties you up to kill you, using your vast wealth from saveopause to hire Fernando DeGuicheeCoochee, her 40 year old slave and gardener.  (again, I’m just thinking like an menopausal woman).
  5. Brazierreopause – that period where she flings her bra at you.  Do not be deceived, she is not telling you she wants sex, she’s hinting that your man-breasts are sagging and your identity as a man is in serious jeopardy.  She may pull out a whip from her spendopause period and enter shadeopause at the same time, demanding you firm your bad boy twins up. Egads!
  6. NASCARopause – for the love of god man!  You’ll spend all day watching a car go around in circles, but can’t wash your own?  You want the naggopause to start?  Then shape up.
  7. Duckopause – no you can’t just change channels to avoid the naggopause.  Get off your arse!  If he hears this she might go all 50 Shades with your duck caller and permanently affix to your anatomy, which leads to the next male period of life .
  8. Fartopause – when the dynasty ducko call sounds, it’s her signal that you are entering your gassy period and for her to enter spendopause.
  9. Meatloafopause – if you’re nagging about sexopause continues, this is the period of time where meatloaf becomes a daily staple – increasing fartopause, spendopause, and maleopause.
  10. Divorceopause – that period of time when a woman can bring a man to his knees, without whips.

And there you have it, ten new words that women everywhere will be talking about tomorrow.  They will comment here about how uncanny I am in reading their menopausal minds.

Now I’ll just take a pause from all this writing genius.  You are welcome.

Man Club – March 2015 (Naggopause)

 

Wedding Leap of Death

Yes, its menopause!

Sometimes I lie awake in the early morning hours and just think.  Sometimes the thoughts are deep and many times, well, like this one, not so profound.  Why do they call it “Menopause?”  Do men get a pause from women or women get a pause from men? As I said, this is not one of my more profound thoughts, but stick with me on this, because I’m about to set a new trend in the use of words or the homicide rate in married households, it depends on your perspective and hormone levels.

The following ten words have been added to the Man Club 2015 edition of manly, man rules:

  1. Naggopause – that very brief period of time when a wife actually allows you some peace.  It is also synonymous with the next word.
  2. Nanopause – the length of time  lapsed in an naggopause, indiscernible to anyone even armed with a nanosecond stop watch.
  3. Choreopause – that period where your honey-dos are given a rest, usually comprising of two nanopauses.
  4. Sexopause – for men married more than seven years, this is the length of seven years to the third power, times 2  (for those not good with math, that’s 12 centuries).
  5. Viagraopause – That period after sexopause ends and jumper cables no longer work to revive certain physiological functions.
  6. Greyopause – hopefully that period when you never hear anyone talk about the story, ever again, unless it ends the sexopause, only backed by a contract signed, witnessed and fully enforceable in a court of law.
  7. Spendopause – a word, even though completely contrived from thin air resonates with the opposite sex, like “fetch” does for a black lab.
  8. Saveopause – a word, even though completely contrived from thin air will not register with the opposite sex.
  9. Coldfeetopause – that period where your wife is in menopause that you get relief from cold winter feet placed near a certain obvious heat retaining male organ.
  10. Beardopause – that moment when the love of your life has a better beard than you and wants to borrow your grooming gear. Egads!

And there have it, ten words you can now add to your daily conversations with your wife, such as:

“Honey would you empty the trash?” says the lovely lady.

“Geez babe, can I have a few nanaopauses here? Your naggopauses and my choreopauses are getting shorter and shorter!”

Later that evening as you cuddle (their word, not ours) up to that same lovely woman…

“Hey babe, is the sexopause over?”

As she turns to you with the look of murder in her eyes, she so lovingly replies,

“I’ve decided to extend the sexopause for a milleniumopause.”

Oh crap!!! Appears the female code was also updated.  Now you are ready for menopause. That period you wish you weren’t a man, just a mere boy with his bucket of plastic army men playing in your parents backyard and girls were something to throw dirt clods at.  Sigh…

My Obituary

ReallyDeepThoughts

I’ve never had really deep thoughts about an obituary until today.  A 29 year-old lady at my office told me I was sweet for opening the door and answering her QuickBooks questions. My reply was that I was sweet because I didn’t want my obituary to read:

“Mauled by female workers for not being sweet.”

I am outnumbered 14-1 in this accounting practice.  I need not say anything further on the subject matter. This prompted me to have really deep thoughts on other potential obits such as,

“Mauled by 50 Shaders who hated his blog posts.”

“Mauled by Female Coders.”

“Overexposed to love by 20 grandchildren.”

“Drowned in the slobbery of his Golden Retriever.”

“Massive brain trauma trying to figure out how quickly clients foul up a set of QuickBooks.”

“Died on an Oklahoma freeway going 25 MPH, on a clear sunny day.”

“Died on an Oklahoma freeway, by a drunk, texting Okie, driving a flaming 1976 Ford Pinto, during a polar vortex 12″ ice layer, driving 85 MPH.”

“Died on an Oklahoma freeway accidentally running into a Lazy Boy recliner, Mathis Brothers Sofa, or a Sleep number mattress.”

“Caught pneumonia running into front yard when polar vortex suddenly appeared overnight.”

“Suffocated under his wife’s quilts.”

“Murdered when wife reads above obit.”

“Murdered by wife when she reads 29 year-old says he’s sweet.”

“Murdered by wife when she learned he was sweet.”

“Died at desk preparing his 60,000,000 Form 1040.”

“Died in his sleep, wife suspected in murder when recording reveals he uttered his first fiancées name.”

“Found blown to bits after toilet seat left lifted.”

These are quite gruesome to say the least.  But there is a recurring theme here, that I want investigated should I actually die.

“Man killed  from blog posts.  Female assailants too many to narrow down.  Authorities press charges against wife.”

I suppose I should clean up my act and get away from Oklahoma as fast as I can.

Naaaaawwww….. that wouldn’t be any fun.