Saturday, November 30, 2013

A Moral Bank Account

A Moral Bank Account

Some of us have memory issues because we’re old farts an’ can’t focus properly nomore. Others have memory issues ‘cause they’re too lazy to focus on what they’re doin’. An’ still others have memory issues cause they’re so full o’ themselves anythin’ that don’t relate to them ain’t important enough to remember. All o’ that spells moral bankruptcy don’t it? (Well, all but us old farts anyways).

That’s what was goin’ through my mind while I looked up memory an’ visualization on the Google for somebody. Of course, I’d forgot about that too until the subject came up. But once I focused on it, it led me in another direction. Well I know what got me started on morals, but I’d rather not discuss it. Suffice it to say that through visualization we can convert our morals into, say, an interest bearin’ savin’s bank account. We’re all born with a certain number of credits in the account, maybe because we’re cute, or sleep a lot, or whatever. Anyways, we collect interest on that capital, an’ as we add to it, the interest grows at an alarmin’ rate. All of a sudden we find ourselves loved an’ respected an’ embraced by all who know us. Our moral bank account is in good shape! We’re rich!

An what’s the capital we must invest in our moral bank account? Well, a little bit of love for others for one thing, an’ respect, some truth, a bit of courage an’ some honesty an maybe even a little common sense an’ lastly some wisdom. These are all things that everyone has already  got an’ if not, they are things that can easily be acquired. You just gotta put them in your moral bank account an’ watch the interest grow. It ain’t that hard.

But should you withdraw that capital from yer account an’ perhaps invest in other pursuits such as amassing things an’ comforts for your own personal gain an’ at somebody else’s expense, there won’t be nothin’ to gather interest on in the moral bank account, now will there? See, that’s pretty straight forward. If ya don’t bring any o’ that stuff into a relationship (whatever that relationship might happen to be) there ain’t goin’ to be any interest in you or anythin’ you got to offer cause you ain’t got nothin’ to offer. You’ll be sittin’ there all by yerself with yer possessions an’ nobody to share ‘em with. Simple as that.

I never seen a capital investment that costs so little to establish an’ that bears such high interest to the investor. In my book it ought to be the first priority to personal enrichment. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.  


Saturday, November 23, 2013

Breast fed is best fed

Breast fed is best fed

It looks like the condensed milk industry is goin’ to be takin’ another hit if the Brits have anythin’ to do with it. It originally came into bein’ as a means of non-spoilin’ storage of dairy milk an’ had it’s hay day durin’ wars an’ such when soldiers needed nourishment an’ had no proper means of storage for it. It was a pretty good deal at the time but it had it’s ups an’ downs with wars comin’ an’ goin’. With the money invested in condensing equipment, in land and cattle breeding for the finest milk an’ wars goin’ south, it was a risky business at best.

In between wars it wasn’t too long before the producers of this stuff figgered out that you could feed it to babies out of a bottle. Just think of the benefits of that! Now millions of infants whose mothers’ milk lacks the necessary nutrition can have a chance at survival. Hold on now. To a certain extent that’s true, especially in third world countries where the mothers’ nutrition is lacking. But mothers in the developed countries glommed onto this like a magnet. That meant they could send dad to feed the baby any time of day or night an’ they could go about their business, whatever that might be. All you needed to do was to prepare the formula ahead of time an’ Bob’s yer Uncle. Even the babysitter could do that! Suddenly there was a freedom never before even thought of. It was like Borden an’ Carnation had single handedly emancipated women from the drudgery of feedin’ their offspring. How ‘bout that!

Now, about fifty years later we find that the baby boomers and subsequent issues of children are all pretty much defective. Well, to the degree that they get all sorts of diseases, their bones crumple prematurely, an’ all sundry other maladies. They’re droppin’ like flies at early ages an’ they don’t have the strength an’ stamina of their ancestors. Now that seems remarkable since you’d figure all this scientific advancement would have the opposite effect.

Scientists in the U.K. have suddenly figured out that it’s all because of the lack of breast-feeding. Well, I’ll be! So that’s what them lumps that girls tend to get at about the age of puberty are for. Who knew? It flies in the face of everything we have come to believe in: i.e. that they’re some sort of handles for men to grope or some kind of magnet to attract members of the opposite sex. But breast-feeding? BREAST FEEDING?  You know what that means don’t you? That means that the mothers of these infants will have to personally provide breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks to these little critters. They might even have to do it in public from time to time, God forbid. As they would say in India, BLOODY HELL! Do you mean to tell me that we are reverting to archaic means of feeding our young in ways to give them both nourishment and immunities to last them a lifetime? This hasn’t been done since WWII for heaven’s sakes!

Many will say that the Brits have stepped over the line this time, abandoning a long established set of civilities in favor of archaic methods of human survival. Good Lord, what’s next, healthy living? Breast-fed is best fed, they say. They’re even willin’ to pay the mothers for it, that’s how sure they are. I’d put my money on the Brits idea any day and the civilities and other clap-trap can go south an’ pick chips. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Prophets of Doom

Prophets of Doom

That’s what journalists have become – prophets of doom. An’ their publishers would then be the beneficiaries of profits of doom – same thing, I suppose. Everywhere you look there’s bad news. That’s what makes good news so strikin’ when you see it. It’s so rare that you do a double take upon comin’ acrosst it. Makes me wonder what the news would be like if the protocol was reversed. It might just re-introduce the true shock value of hearin’ about the bad things in the news. We might not be just so nonchalant about the bad things that happen on a daily basis.

Me an’ the missus was just talkin’ about that this mornin’ an’ that’s the conclusion we come to anyways. Well just think about it. We’d get so used to hearing about good an’ happy things we might just start to think that’s the norm. An’ don’t think we’d get bored with it neither! By the time you got finished readin’ the news each mornin’ or evenin’ you’d have such a smile on yer kisser it’d be hard to wipe it off.

An’ I ain’t the only one sayin’ it neither! Back in 1983 Anne Murray sang a song about it. I remember it well. It was called ‘A Little Good News’. We all said a collective ‘Yeah’, and then just as collectively forgot about it as it faded into the dingy world of bad news. So much for that!

Are we really so tuned in to other people’s misery that we can’t resist it or is our obsession the product of the journalists and’ their journals? Well, the likes of Rupert Murdock would have us believe so. Otherwise he wouldn’t go to the lengths he does to produce this garbage. He has people fallin’ under the bus left, right an’ center in pursuin’ this tack, an’ still continues. Of course this ain’t new at all. It’s all been goin’ on for the longest time. Maybe that’s it. Bad an’ news are somehow linked together. We’re so used to it that we’ve come to expect it. An’ if we don’t get our daily fix o’ misery we think somethin’ is missin’.

It’s not that there ain’t enough good news to go around. When you start rootin’ it out, there’s lots of it – everywhere you look. What you can’t find is the journalist who will write about it or the news media that will publish it. It’s really too bad because the benefits of publishing good news would be like givin’ folks a happy pill as a daily diet. You’d have people smilin’ an’ laughin’ all day long. There’d be a story to capture somebody’s fancy an’ put them in a good frame o’ mind. An’ when a bad news story is told, the shock value would smack us right in the face, restorin’ it in our minds in its proper perspective. Now that in itself is a good news story. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.



Saturday, November 9, 2013

Who Wears the Pants

Who Wears the Pants

There’s certain traditions attached to each way of life according to the culture in which it’s set. I’m talkin’ about the matriarchal system vs. patriarchal models. Well there used to be certain traditions attached to them. These days though, the lines are becoming somewhat blurred. It’s a matter of who makes the decisions about the important things.

Of course, each gender has its own ideas of who the decision makers ought to be. Well that’s only natural. It’s probably at the root of most family arguments. Of course when you’re retired, the dynamic changes somewhat. All the years I was workin’ I never came out of the bathroom to be confronted by the vacuum cleaner standin’ right on the other side o’ the door, for example, waitin’ for me to do the cleanin’. Well it’s little things like that you notice.

Then of course there’s the laundry business. There ain’t a time goes by the missus don’t come back with a story about an elderly couple doing their laundry together. It’s so sweet, she says. They’re laughin’ an’ talkin’ an’ havin’ fun doin’ it. Of course I know what’s on the wife’s mind. We’ll be doin’ laundry together an’ first thing you know, I’ll be doin’ it by myself. It’s a constant battle of wits to stay ahead o’ the game.

An’ speakin’ of laundry, the other day I go into my closet to fetch a pair of my comfortable pants to get dressed for the day. Guess what? No pants! NO PANTS! Well, that ain’t really true neither. I got my suit pants an’ my dress pants, but who wants to wear them around the house? An’ then there’s a couple o’ pairs o’ heavy winter cords that used to fit last year. Gravity has fixed that so now they got to go to the tailor’s.

“Where’s my pants?” I ask the missus none too politely.

“Put away!” she shoots back in similar style.

“Since when do you get to hide my pants on me?” I want to know.

“Since it’s not summer anymore! You’ll look like an idiot wearin’ them pants at this time o’ year an’ you’re not going out with ME lookin’ like THAT!”

“Oh.” It took me a minute to catch my breath.

I regain my composure an’ come back kinda cocky-like: “Listen lady, far as I know I still wear the pants in the family so keep your hands off them.”

She smiles at me sweetly an’ I know I’m sunk even before she opens her mouth an’ demurely says; “Of course you wear the pants in the family dear, but you’ll wear the pants I put out for you.”

Well that’s it then. I’ve finally learned the lesson of how it is that men wear the pants in the family, Or at least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’,


Saturday, November 2, 2013

One Stop Shop

One Stop Shop 

Well how do you like them apples! I got the flu shot this mornin’ – in church! Now there’s a switch! What I usually get there is hellfire an’ brimstone an’ the collection plate passed. Oh I do get a couple’a hymns to clear my throat with the package, but since my voice has about bit the dust, that don’t help much.

But this now is somethin’ brand new. I guess rentin’ out the church for this kind of activity is a good alternative to bingo night. Not only that, but it brings a whole raft o’ new people to the church. Who knows what they’ll think when they get there? Could be a bunch o’ new members.

So anyways I get there an’ the parkin’ lot is near to full, but I manage. At the door there’s signs directin’ you to the big hall where it’s all at an’ there’s a bunch o’ women dressed in them lime green vests with a big “X” acrosst the back like the road construction traffic controllers. They’re right friendly too an’ invite me in to a table where I get to complete some forms an’ wait fer my number to be called. No sooner I get done an’ my number comes up. Holy Toledo, that’s some service.

Of course, I’m waitin’ for some grizzly old matron with wrestlers arms an’ a giant spike needle to spear me, but no, I get “Cheryl”, my own personal nurse who smiles an’ asks after my health before she tells she’ll give me a little poke. Pffffft! She’ so pretty an’ friendly she could give me any size poke she wants! I wouldn’t a minded even if she’s hit me over the head with a sledgehammer. I’m still processin’ her big blue eyes an’ she’s already puttin’ a band aid on my arm, tellin me to go sit down for ten minutes before I leave, just to make sure I don’t keel over.

Well, I never! I didn’t see that comin’! Floatin’ back out to the parkin’ lot, I’m feelin’ nothin’ but happy at havin’ been to church, an’ havin’ my heavenly flu shot at the same time. I tell ya, I got to hand it to them Mennonites. They sure put one over on the Lutherans an’ the Catholics with their Thursday night bingo. They rent out the hall an’ furniture to the health authority, provide a few volunteers an’ Bob’s yer uncle! An’ they got a preacher there in his office to administer last rites in case somebody croaks, or to welcome new members if they don’t. A guaranteed income an’ they don’t even have to lead their adherents into gambling with their bingo stuff an’ questionable food. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.