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.

The Voices In Our Heads or Never Mind My Mind

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On Facebook and Twitter I follow a lot of writers hopefully to learn things and have companionship with people of like minds or lack of minds.  You see, when we write stories we place ourselves into someone else and our mind becomes their mind and our characters converse.  Our characters can give us fits and other times they can be shy and quiet, leading to delays in completing our project.  We curse our characters out loud, leaving our spouses to wonder if we are not, in fact, the mutated offspring of Gollum.  You see this is actually a psychological issue known as SGS, or Smeagol Gollum Syndrome.

Today, one of the authors I follow on Facebook commented on her characters and the male lead found his voice. The female character has not yet found her voice. Then another author chimed in started talking about her characters, saying the female might be shy.  I’m shaking my head wondering why the other writer is in inside her head too.  It’s starting to get crowded in this authors mind.  So I interjected some wisdom,

“Don’t trust her, she’s the twin of Sybil”.

Now all of a sudden country western romance novels could get interesting, if other authors get to contribute, and I’m envisioning a whole new genre with book titles like these eye catchers:

  1. “The Exorcism of The Marlboro Man”
  2. “Brokeback Payback Loan Shark Of the High Plains”
  3. “She Wore A True Grit”
  4. “The Lonesome and Not So Lonesome Psychopath”
  5. “Never Mind My Mind Pardner If You Don’t Mind”
  6. “It’s Merely a Flesh Wound Sheriff.  But she’s ripped out your heart!”
  7. “Zombie Rodeo Queen Sweetheart Rides a Tall Saddle”

As you can see we writers are weird. None of the above titles makes any sense, but neither does this crazy world we live in.   Learn to enjoy a moment of weirdness and set your minds free, so others can invade the free and safe space of your mind.

The characters in my mind state they are overworked.  They convince me regularly that writing must be supplemented with a daily wine break.  Ooh look it’s 3:1o to Yuma Cabernet.  Peace out Ya’ll.

Oh never mind my mind.

 

 

March Sing Along

AShower

You have two choices in life. To cry or laugh. I choose to laugh. We had a little drama during the remodeling of our home here on Kauai so we could sell it.  Let me set the scene.  We order a sink only later to find out it will not fit, leaving exposed edges.  This obviously would have made us look like amateur hillbilly’s, and that’s a hard thing to accomplish. But here on Kauai there’s not a lot of inventory to select from, and the plumber, who is also the owner of a dive company, was already scheduled for diving classes.  This meant we had to go a few days without a sink, which is also connected to the dishwasher.  So this left only one alternative, wash our dishes while we shower, nothing glamorous like singing in the rain. I kid you not.

So what can you do?  You can first curse – which I did, followed by drinking every Mai Tai, Blue Hawaiian, and assorted wines we had in the house – which I did.  You can then cry over your hangover or the woes of the world.  But, I choose to laugh and look at the funny and bright side of life.

With all this in mind, let’s us return to the world of my now famous sing along songs, to the tune of the Beverly Hillbillies for added effect.

Let me tell you about a story about a man named Ed,
Who moved to Hawaii so his dreams could be fed.
Then one day while remodeling the sink the contractor said, “this model ain’t going to fit.”
So poor ole Ed slumped and yelled out “I can’t believe this $#%&”.

Curse word that is, rather crude

The next thing you know Ed’s wife is washing from the shower
His wife said, “Ed get this fixed quick or I’m going to get sour.”
He made the mistake of saying, “Hey babe you’re still in paradise”
That’s when she clocked him upside the head with kitchen merchandise.

Lead skillet that is, hard and painful

Well now it’s time to say
Goodbye to Ed and all his remodeling fun,
He told his wife no more homes with potential,
or he’s going to get a gun.
You’re all invited here to share the insanity
As long as you can wash dishes from the bathroom vanity.

Now surely my fellow readers you have some humorous tales of life gone sour.  Shout out.

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.

 

 

Last Blog Entry of 2015

Aswell1

 

Well, 2015 wasn’t my greatest year for writing here on the most fabulous blog of the world (I had readers from 71 countries).  I blame it on living on the island of Kauai since May.  You see here we have gorgeous days and nights with endless flowing Mai Tai’s – ahhhh paradise!  The biggest problem living on Kauai is that you have to be innovative at generating revenue to STAY on Kauai.  This is where I decided to rent out my two spare bedrooms under the fine B&B trademark HippieHootNanny.com

HootNanny

 

You see, I spare no expense for anyone who wants to come enjoy Kauai.  All you have to do is want to live like a hippy and not give a hoot nanny.  Let your dreadlocks flow and have your hitchhiking thumb ready to take you places. We, the management, will give you plenty of amenities such as a floor and yoga mat to sleep on and a fully convertible ironing board/desk.  We care about you and your simple hippy needs.

Hootnanny2

We must warn you however that you might discover you are allergic to Mango and will swell up and itch like a hound dog from Arkansas. That goes for unprocessed Cashews and about 1,000 other varieties of tropical plants and fruits. Medical Marijuana has just been made legal, so you might just wish to swell up.

So if Kauai is on your mind for 2016 and you want to channel that inner hippy in you, call 1-800-HIP-HOOT.  That’s hippiehootnanny.com, yes, that’s hippiehootnanny.com (wink).

Now I must get busy on 2016 resolutions, my top ten are:

  1. Add toilet seat to guest bathroom.
  2. Tie dye the carpet.
  3. Finish bamboo Buddha sculpture.
  4. Complete the rum still.
  5. Scrub 2015’s red dirt off feet.
  6. Take a bath at Hanalei
  7. Erect peace symbol sign so people can easily locate us.
  8. Learn to pronounce Poipu
  9. Pay my lovely property manager a salary for 2015.
  10. Write more awesome posts.

hau’oli makakiki hou (Happy Hippy New Year!)

 

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.

Never Too Late to Learn Banjo

I haven’t written in a while, because I moved to Hawaii from Oklahoma because of its proximity to Arkansas.  No not really, I just wanted a change of scenery and to get closer to El Nino.  I haven’t been in good humor, because I thought El Nino was some fruity concoction similar to my beloved Mai Tai.  El Nino is merely a sultry hot day in paradise.  So I needed some inspiration for humor and writing.  Luckily there is always Farcebook.

One of my son’s friend posted a comment on Farcebook that deserved immediate feedback such as,

“I think I should have learned to play the banjo.”

That’s it, that’s all he wrote.  Now who in the world writes such a statement without further clarification?  So I inquired if he was planning retirement in the Ozarks. His reply was priceless and ripe for me and his other friends to pile on, my favorite thing in life.  His reply,

“No, it’s because chicks love banjo players.”

Oh really?  So I inquired further,

“Hairless or toothless?”

He did not reply immediately, so I guess this provided a moment for deep thought, also one of my favorite things in life.  His friends started to further pile on, providing pictures from the movie “Deliverance”.  One suggested he add the harmonica.  I suggested he add a washboard to complete his one man band sensation.

He came back later and added, “Spoons.” That’s it.

To which I replied, “Well that’s just plain sick.”

One of his friends then supplied a picture of an Ozark banjo groupie named “Slingblade Sally.” Get a load of this beauty.

No wonder he had a hard time responding to me, he likes both hairless and toothless.  But I was skeptical of the photo, thinking it might be a male impersonator or Caitlyn Jenner without makeup, but I was wrong, this is sweet Sally on a good day, with makeup.  Sally loves to sing and spit along, while hop skip dancing in an endless circle around the Banjo player of her affection.  Her favorite tune is Hillbilly Ham and Cheese Samwich, Mmm Hmm.  Here’s a taste of the lyrics:

I love me some Hillbilly Ham and Cheese Samwich, Mmm Hmm
I love me some Hillbilly Ham and Cheese Samwich, Mmm Hmm
I love me some Hillbilly Ham and Cheese Samwich, Mmm Hmm
I put a mater in da midder, Mmm Hmm
But I really like them french taters and catsuppy gators, Mmm Hmm.

I love me some Hillbilly Ham and Cheese Samwich, Mmm Hmm
I love me some Hillbilly Ham and Cheese Samwich, Mmm Hmm
I love me some Hillbilly Ham and Cheese Samwich, Mmm Hmm
I love me some banjo players in da midder of da murnin, Mmm Hmm
I squeal with them now and play with them later, Mmm Hmm

I love me some Hillbilly Ham and Cheese Samwich, Mmm Hmm

Never give a writer with a Monty Python warped sense of imagination with anything to play off of – EVER.  Welcome to immortality Daniel.

Absurd? You betcha, Mmm Hmm.