RRS: Time for Bucs to bury Vince Lascheid

Going to the Pirate home opener tomorrow? Not me. I hope to make it to The Pond where Dave still makes a big deal out of the day for those of us not attending. There will be premium Nathan’s foot-long hotdogs, nachos and beers that cost about 90 percent less than what they’re paying at PNC Park.

One thing Dave won’t have that PNC will, is the ghost of Vince Laschied, which makes The Pond more tasteful than the ballpark. Lascheid’s been dead since 2009, but they still use tapes of the legendary organist. In this 2012 post, I said they  should retire V.L. and hire a new guy.

Big home stand at PNC Park starts tonight. The Pirates are playing the world champion St. Louis Cardinals. Forecasts call for decent weather. Gangbuster crowds are expected.

That’s good. I love baseball and I want the Pirates to succeed.

So I hope to see everyone there at the ballpark.

All but one.

That would be Vince Lascheid.

Never heard of him?

A two-sport protege, it could be argued he’s the greatest -- and only -- player to earn cheers at PNC Park, The Civic Arena and Three Rivers Stadium.

In the last three years, he’s become one of the greatest comeback performers in city history. He died in March 2009 and he’s still coming back, a JumboTron Lazarus resurrected every seventh inning.

The Pirates play a film and audio clip of Lascheid, the beloved game organist for the Pirates and Penguins for more than 38 years, playing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” for the seventh inning stretch.

They do this, they say, in tribute.

As a long-time cynical observer of Pirate ownership, let me offer another motive.

These bastards are cheap.

Rather than hire a talented and creative organist to embroider the game with snippets of musical wit, they prefer to nightly conjure Lascheid’s ghost and try and fool people into thinking the gesture is noble.

In fact, the recording only diminishes a legacy that’s best measured in just four or five notes.

That’s all it took him to engage and delight discerning fans who were alert to Lascheid’s deft and devastating humor.

When a player’s name was announced, Lascheid would, sneak in an often subversive little ditty that added so much subtle sparkle to a day at the ballpark.

Benny Ayala would hear “Tie (Ayala) Ribbon 'round the Old Oak Tree.”

Future Hall of Famer Ozzie Smith got “We’re Off To See The Wizard.”

Padre catcher Chris Gomez heard the theme from “The Addam’s Family.”

After Met Bobby Bonilla split our Bucs for bigger bucks, he was greeted with a lickity-split version of Steve Miller’s “Take The Money and Run.”

The week pretty boy Dodger Steve Garvey was tabbed by a national magazine for being one of America’s most beautiful people, he’d sashay up to the batter’s box listening to the same iconic song they play for Miss America. Garvey complained. He said it was insulting and demanded Lascheid cease playing it.

Fair enough, Lascheid said, and next time Garvey came up to bat, Lascheid played “Isn’t She Lovely.”

He had free reign to musically editorialize on every on-field situation.

An opposing player striking out heard a jiffy little blast of Queen’s “Another One Bite’s the Dust.”

When a dangerous Astro hitter named Jesus Alou hit into a inning-killing double play, Lascheid played the musical hallelujah, “What a Friend We Have In Jesus.”

A huddle of umpires gathering to discuss a controversial call was sound-tracked with “Three Blind Mice.”

“Send in the Clowns” filled the ears of opposing managers who strolled to the mound to change pitchers. The same situation involving the Pirates inspired a more encouraging melody, the theme from the Alka Seltzer commercial: “Plop! Plop! Fizz! Fizz! Oh, what a relief it is!”

When brawls broke out, he’d appeal to gentler natures by serenading the bloodied combatants with “Let There Be Peace on Earth.”

His contributions to Penguin lore are no less indelible and earned him induction into the club hall of fame in 2003.

That such genius is irreplaceable doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.

Beloved Cubs icon Harry Caray was considered irreplaceable, too. He’s honored with a statue outside of Wrigley Field, but his signature moment, his drunken slurring of the “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” is vanquished, replaced by a great tradition of various celebrities taking the mic.

The Pirates should consider a similar move. They should audition lively local organists to fill the Vince Lascheid bench.

It would add buoyant atmosphere to an event that, like so many others, is numbed by high-decibel pop hits played because teams mistakenly believe the familiarity will lure young fans whose access to that very music is now without limits.

No one needs more Selena Gomez. Everyone needs a little more novelty.

We can best honor Vince Lascheid by giving a talented organist a chance to be Vince Lascheid.

A return to re-runs! "Dickin' 'round with Moby and other whales"

A friend of mine said he was upset that it seemed like I’d gotten out of the habit of having regular re-runs on Sunday. He said not having re-runs meant it looked like I’d gotten blog lazy. It would be a fitting trajectory, in fact, because the blog is at its heart an exaltation of human laziness. But I’d hate to disappoint even one reader because on many days that seems like the sum total of readers in a Type-A world who enjoy reading about the duties of indolence.

I’ll submit my 1,500 post sometime this summer. Conceivably, I could now stop writing new posts and just recycle old posts from now through 2019.

But I’m not going to do that. I enjoy blogging too much. There’s something interesting enough to blog about every single day. If I could squeeze money out of it, I’d never cease.

I’m choosing to re-run this one because I just saw a trailer for the new Ron Howard movie, “In the Heart of the Sea,” to be released in March. It’s based on the outstanding Nathaniel Philbrick book that’s based on the real incident from which Melville based “Moby Dick.”

So, even if you think the following story is weak, none dare call it baseless.

Plus, this one starts out with what I think is one of the funniest lines I’ve ever written.

If people who revere the Grateful Dead are called Deadheads, what does that make those of us devoted to “Moby Dick”?

Hmmm . . .

There’s a bunch of us gathering today through Sunday for a 25-hour marathon “Moby Dick” reading at the New Bedford (Mass.) Whaling Museum. Hundreds of volunteers will take 10-minute turns reading aloud without interruption one of America’s great novels.

I wish I could be there.

I’ve been Dickin’ around for the better part of a month now. It all started when I saw Nathaniel Philbrick’s book, “Why Read Moby-Dick.” The slim volume obviously led to re-acquainting myself with Ishmael, Queequeg, Starbuck, mad Captain Ahab and that great white whale.

It’d been 10 years since I’d last read the book by Herman Melville, a man who overcame one of history’s nerdiest names to achieve literary immortality.

I, in fact, bought my “Moby Dick” at that very museum. It was June 2002. I was in New Bedford to write a feature story for People Magazine.

What the story was about is unimportant. What is important is that I had five days in New Bedford to immerse myself in whaling history, culture and to become acquainted with some of the sites and customs key to Melville’s 1851 story.

Did you know that Moby Dick was based on a true story?

In 1819, the 238-ton ship Essex set sail from Nantucket on a routine whaling mission. Fifteen months later in the farthest reaches of the South Pacific, she was attacked and sunk by an enraged 80-ton sperm whale. The aforementioned Philbrick details the story in his compelling 2000 book, “In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex.”

The sailors who survived the sinking were doomed to three months adrift in whale boats and desperation cannibalism to survive.

Melville took facts about the ill-fated Essex and extrapolated them into what can be called without exaggeration a true whale of a tale.

And did you know why men risked their lives to go the most remote reaches of the godforsaken globe to hunt the largest animals on earth?

These sailors craved whale sperm.

Now, it’s not what you think. And there was not even a bit of romance involved in getting the whales to part with their sperm or spermaceti, a substance that had nothing to do with whale reproduction. Not that it mattered.

No, these leviathans were slain and butchered aboard boats like the Essex to get at the vast oil-like spermaceti reservoirs that were used to light the world’s lamps and candles and provide unscented foundations for dozens of other of the day’s luxury goods.

For nearly 200 years whale spermaceit was considered among earth’s most precious resources. Fortunes rose and fell based on who was able to obtain it. 

Let’s for a moment, however, imagine without getting into whale porn how the story would be different if the sailors used, not deadly harpoons, but more traditional methods to extract true sperm. The sailors might ask the whale’s parents for an introduction, read it whale poems and earn its trust until intimacy ensued.

Or maybe they could find a really slutty whale and feed it a boatload of squid.

The former alternative scenario might make a dandy big-screen musical extravaganza with Nathan Lane playing Ahab.

It would be in keeping with the trajectory of the whale’s ever-softening reputation.

It’s like they’ve all lost their balls, although anatomically speaking I’ve never seen balls or a penis on any picture or drawing of a whale, even the one famously named Dick.

Moby Dick may be the last popular whale to enjoy a masculine-sounding handle (Melville never explained the name’s construction).

Check out these uni-sex names of current SeaWorld performers: Corky, Trua, Unna, Orkid and Tuar.

Huh?

Those aren’t killer whales. They’re Tele-Tubbies.

Of course, what the hell do I know?

I’m just another Dickhead, one who’ll remain forever fascinated about the story of whale named Dick who gave a one-legged captain an eternally hard time.

"Why I now accept donations" or "Well, duh!"

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I didn’t tell anyone I’d written a single blog until I’d already written and posted 50 of the suckers. That was way back in ’08.

I wanted to have something browse-worthy so if someone liked one, they could go back and read a bunch. I wasn’t interested in readers.

I wanted addicts.

Blogging’s taught me I’m a real writer.

This is more surprising than it seems.

See, I’d always written, but that’s not the same as being a writer.

Because prior to blogging, writing had always involved financial incentive. Blogging, especially at the crest of the Great Recession, was something completely different.

It’s like standing on a busy sidewalk and talking to yourself and hoping someone will stop by to at least listen a little.

That’s what happened. Right off the bat, my blog earned a really devoted and diverse readership. There were housewives, teachers, attorneys, mill workers, entrepreneurs, farmers, waitresses, and one retired captain of a U.S. Navy missile destroyer.

And they came from around the world. I stopped keeping track a few years ago after four people from Trinidad and Tobago stopped by for a long loaf. In my geographic ignorance, I assumed they visiting readers from countries number 200 and 201.

That’s the day I learned that Trinidad and Tobago aren’t two countries, but one. The insight provided me not just with a boost of blog self-esteem, but a handy topic for the next day.

I remember thinking, man, if I could get 50,000 people to read this thing, that’d really be something.

It’s likely by St. Patrick’s Day I’ll have 250,000 in just about the last two years.

And during all this blogging, the one question that keeps coming up is this: “How do you make any money blogging?”

Well, I don’t.

It’d be different if my blog were called “Eight Days To A Really Great Bike Vacation!” I could advertise and offer paid endorsements.

But my blog’s not about selling products. It’s about making people feel better.

Everyone knows there’s no money in that. 

Heck, it’s what Mother Teresa was all about and, geez, did you ever see the way she dressed?

But what’s become increasingly apparent over the last year is that people are frustrated my blog does not make me money. 

This became too momentous to ignore the week before Christmas when two avid readers — one of whom I’d never even met — called with the purpose of staging an intervention.

Regular readers might conclude they were going to lecture me on drinking too much. In fact, they weren’t at all concerned I drink too much.

What worries them is I earn too little.

“You need to understand how much your blog means to people,” said one. “People love your blog and many will gladly pay to support you. You need to right away begin including something that will allow people to donate.”

It went on like that.

And, you know what, it’s nothing I hadn’t heard before.

It’s very gratifying.

So now, yes, I’m accepting donations. I solicit them. If you enjoy the blog and can afford to, I welcome your support.

The blog will always be free.

But if you’ve been a regular reader for these past six years and can afford to express some gratitude, just click the “Donate” button and it’ll link to my PayPal account.

How much? That’s where it gets tricky.

Here’s a handy guide: a $60 donation would be $5 a month or about 25-cents per post.

I’m weighing an incentive where for every $500 donation I’ll come by your house to either read the blog aloud to you and your friends or clean your gutters, whichever seems more appealing.

Either way, the blog’s not going to change. I enjoy writing it too much to make any drastic changes based on income.

All donations, I promise, will be anonymous.

All but this one.

I want to publicly thank my very first donor, a Mrs. Valerie R., from Latrobe, Pennsylvania. She donated $2 first thing this morning.

You, Valerie R., are the best!

In the interest of maintaining blog integrity, I guess I’d better come clean.

Valerie R. is my wife. I snuck onto her computer while she was getting the kids ready for school. I wanted to see if the procedure was glitch-free.

It is and, yes, I put $2 on her computer to compensate for my sneak.

I thought about having her donate $60, but that would have been risky.

She’d have viewed it as a case of robbing Peter to PayPal.

Related . . .

Hello Trinidad & Tobago! 200 nations have read this blog

Shiny new homepage for “Eight Days To Amish!”

The 12th post: A blog on bloggin’

Happy Birthday to Bob Dylan & my blog

How I became a PROSEtitute

On the 7th day he blogged . . .

Happy Birthday to my darling wife! Buy her something nice ... (because I still can't)

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Today’s my wife’s birthday! It promises to be a great day in the Rodell house. 

She’s not 37.

She’s not 42.

She’s not 44.

What is she?

She’s even more beautiful than she was the day we met. I mean that. Marrying her was the best decision of my life. She’s wonderful.

I don’t write about her much because, well, she reads, and that could be problematic for anyone who attempts to write humor. Just imagine the trouble I’d get in if I wrote something she took the wrong way in this no-account blog, which is a four- or five-times-a-week reminder that I’ve failed as a conventional writer.

We’ve gone long stretches of our marriage without benefits or the means for a splurge. The lone compensation to being married to me is, I guess, I can often be relied upon for lavish free travel and I’m usually a lot of exciting fun.

That would be two things if I were married to a guy, but I suspect many females would prefer stability to the dubious “excitement” of being married to me.

Birthdays and holidays are when I feel my professional failings most acutely. It pains me I can’t buy the ones I love the things they’d like.

I think many people regard my I’m-a-poor-writer/Eight Days to Amish thing as some kind of schtick, a conceit I employ to gain the sympathy of readers who root for the underdog.

It is not.

Just ask Val. We’ve been either shacked up or married since 1992. I look back on many, many of those years and have no idea how we did it, how we stitched a joyful life together without either of us having full-time work or benefits.

What’s odd is how optimistic I remain that my writing — the book or the blog — will one day lead to something marvelous. I really believe that. I am just constantly buoyed by the reaction to both. Thank you, my friends.

If it happens, we ought to know in 2015.

Heck, we might know by Thursday evening.

I’ve been invited to attend a professional mingle among central Pennsylvania meeting planners who look to book entertaining speakers. I only need to get two or three in my corner and things could really take off. That’s all it would take to lead to a lucrative burst of bookings and sales.

According to the roster, there will be about 100 professional meeting planners there and, as far as I can see, just me.

I like my odds.

I’m hopeful that means on my wife’s next birthday I’ll be able to lavish her with the things she deserves.

She means so much to me and our kids and on her birthday she has a right to expect jewelry, new clothes, shiny gizmos or at the very least the humble knowledge that for at least one month prompt payment of the Comcast bill is assured.

Because if it doesn’t work out in 2015, there’s only one thing left for me to do.

It’d be time for me to learn the guitar.

I wish I could write her a love song for her birthday, something tuneful to convey just how much she means to me.

One of my favorites is the great Jim Croce song, “Had to Say I Love You In a Song.”

Every time I tried to tell you the words just came out wrong

So I had to say I love you . . . in a song

Steve Earle wrote the achingly beautiful “Valentine’s Day,” for one of his seven — seven! — wives. It’s about his backsliding ways and his chronic feelings of unworthiness. Boy, can I relate.

Billy Joel wrote “Always a Woman” and “Just The Way You Are” for his first ex-wife, and “Temptation” and “Uptown Girl” for Christy Brinkley before they split.

I think to his third ex-wife he just writes alimony checks.

Hmmm . . . Maybe committing my love to music isn’t such a good idea after all.

And my options narrow.

Happy Birthday, darling. Sorry for the embarrassment.

I just had to say I love you in a blog.

Related . . .

Happy 25th birthday to our 12-year-old daughter!

I turned 50 and no one noticed . . . including me!

Happy birthday to my blog . . . and Bob Dylan!

Dipsh!t (and me) turn 50 this year

Happy 138th Birthday to the telephone!

Sunday encore: On chicken fingers, breasts & nipples

I don’t put a lot of thought into these Sunday re-runs. Heck, I don’t put a whole lot of thought into the weekday originals. I usually just look and see if one is bubbling up in the readership in a plea for attention. And I try and keep Sundays silly.

So this one is perfect. It’s from July, a bunch of people from France found it this week, and it’s about chicken parts.

Have a great day!

I always make a point anytime we’re out at some family restaurant to ask the waitress if she has chicken fingers. The answer is always yes.

“Oh, you’re being too hard on yourself,” I say. “Your fingers are ugly, but they still appear human!”

I do this knowing it embarrasses my family and ups the odds my order will now be seasoned with waitress spit.

Chicken fingers are one of the world’s most popular menu items, yet I’ve never seen a single fingered chicken. Chicken don’t even have arms or hands.

How can they possibly have fingers?

If chickens had fingers you can imagine they’d be giving us the middle one for eating so many of them.

Chicken anatomy has always confused me.

One of the most desirable parts of a chicken is the breast.

It’s the same with women. Many shallow men revere breasts, more even than the women to whom they’re attached. And how come you never hear chicken breasts referred to as chicken boobs? Is it out of respect for the chicken?

Breasts of women are referred to with many colorful nicknames. They’re hooters. Jugs. Frost detectors. Jell-o molds. Dingle bobbers. Dairy pillows. Gerber servers. Bazoombas.”

But with chickens it’s always the same delicate wordage the romance novelists use. It is the chicken breast.

Well, la de dah.

It’s a lot of deferential dignity for a part of a yard bird that’s destined to be deep fried and dipped in honey mustard.

I’ll wager no one in history has ever approached a butcher counter and said, “I’m looking for a nice juicy set of chicken tits.”

And breasted women all have nipples. Us dudes, too. And for every human breast there’s at least a little nipple.

So chicken have breasts. Women have breasts. Women have nipples. How come we’ve never heard of a nippled chicken? Is it a delicacy? I’d imagine chicken nipples would make a tasty snack.

The Nippled Chickens would be a great band name, too, I think.

Given gourmet eating trends, you might soon see chicken feet at a food truck near you. Chicken feet are very popular in China, Korea, Vietnam, Mexico and parts of the Caribbean.

Me, I don’t care how exquisitely you prepare the dish, I’m nervous about eating the feet of any animal that walks barefoot through where it poops.

So I’m fine with chicken wings and fingers. In fact, the so-called chicken “finger” is actually the tender white meat under both sides of the breast bone, the pectoralis major.

I’m going to order a set of breaded pecs at the KFC drive-thru next time I’m there just to enjoy the confusion it causes.

My mother’s absolutely nuts about chicken fingers. She’s 81, has dementia, and recently called me at 11 p.m. to say she had an emergency: She was out of wine and toilet paper.

I asked if she had enough of the one would she not need the other.

But for the last two years or so she just craves chicken fingers. It’s all she’ll eat. She without fail orders them out in restaurants and insists I bring her a big bag or two from the frozen food coolers during my weekly grocery visits.

That’s how I became acquainted with the newest trend in chicken part consumption. There’s now a chicken nugget that comes in what is described as “fun dinosaur shapes.” Mom says they’re great.

It’s almost enough for my sanity’s sake to consider becoming a vegetarian and I would, but I know I’d miss steak-shaped beef too much.

I can only guess fun-shaped food is for kids so refined that deep-fried microwaved nutritionally desolate crap must have an aesthetic appeal before he or she shoves it a down their throat.

I don’t know what’s so fun about dinosaur-shaped food. Haven’t these kids seen “Jurassic Park?”

If dinosaurs ever come back — and, you watch, that’ll be yet another result of catastrophic climate change — whole generations of chubby children will march right into their rapacious maws tragically thinking anything that fun shaped is sure to be friendly.

So I’m hoping introducing novelty items to Mom’s diet doesn’t backfire next time we dine at some family restaurant.

I wouldn’t want her stealing my thunder when I ask the waitress if she has fun-shaped chicken breasts.

Related . . .

Wingin’ it at The Pond

Breast facts, by the book

Mom’s hip nipples & Breast Cancer Awareness Month

Mom’s making crazy contagious by a nose

Hillary Swank & all my neighborhood nipples

Random thots on election, snow days & favorite trial movies

So many topical issues, I thought I’d run ‘em down in a jiffy little burst: 

• A conservative buddy of mine posted on Facebook how glorious it is for him to right now be watching what he disparagingly calls “PMSNBC.” I told him I’m enjoying it vicariously through him. Being a partisan on the winning side of any election is as euphoric as having your team win the Super Bowl. My take: Winning the midterms so resolutely will, again, embolden the GOP into mistakenly believing America craves more conservatism, thus guaranteeing they’ll lose the elections that really hurt. And on November, 9, 2016, I’ll sit down and spend the whole day reveling in FOX News.

• The blog had its biggest week ever: 7,500 readers — all of it on one story that was widely ignored when I posted it in February. The story? “Everyone hates Patrice King Brown.” It’s about a formerly beloved KDKA-TV news anchor who ruined her reputation by becoming the paid shill for health care conglomerate UPMC. Why did the story go off? KDKA began promoing poignant spots saying, “The secret reason Patrice King Brown left KDKA … tune in Monday at 5 p.m.” I could tell each and every time one of those promos ran because another 500 or so readers would Google “Patrice King Brown,” see my story was the top offering and click right to it. It made me feel momentarily relevant.  What was her secret? Her husband had cancer and he’s now kicking its butt. It was an odd piece and seemed like a an attempt to rehabilitate her after she’d lost so much public favor. I’m glad I didn’t say anything mean about her in a story that was read by a lot of people. She seems like a nice lady who found a money grab irresistible. As for me, four days later and I’m back to getting about 300 readers a day — and that’s fine with me. I get paid the same thing if I get 3,000 readers a day or 300. Yes, I remain Eight Days To Amish.

• Prevailing Steeler fan mindset: We blowout the Jets, sweep the season with increasingly bigger blowout victories until we win the the final game by the biggest blowout in Super Bowl history. Anything less will result in fans demanding Coach Tomlin be fired and replaced by someone pale.

• All of Pittsburgh is paying rapt attention to the murder trial of Dr. Robert Ferrante, who is accused of using cyanide poison to murder his wife, Autumn Klein. The prosecution presented what seemed like overwhelming evidence that included damning computer searches on “Pennsylvania divorce,” “malice aforethought,” and the suspect’s refusal to have his late wife’s body subjected to autopsy. Yesterday, the doctor took the stand in his own defense. Newspaper accounts indicate he put forth many reasonable explanations for the prosecutor’s points. It’s one of those cases that makes me wish I was in the courtroom, but not on the jury. From what I’ve read, I don’t know how they’re going to vote.

• My favorite trial movies are (not in any order) are: “The Verdict,” starring Paul Newman; “Inherit the Wind,” starring Gene Kelly and Spencer Tracy; “To Kill a Mockingbird,” starring Gregory Peck; “A Few Good Men,” starring Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson; “12 Angry Men,” starring Henry Fonda; and “Muppets Most Wanted,” starring Kermit the Frog.

• About two weeks ago, I conceived what is looking like a game-changer cold pitch to professional meeting planners I need to book big speaking engagements. I slug it “You need a good laugh … I need a good meeting planner.” The e-mail includes jokes from the book, links to my YouTube clips, and why every demographic will enjoy having me as a speaker. I sent it one of Pennsylvania’s top meeting planners. Here’s her response: “I never, and I mean NEVER read email solicitations.  However, I was having a rough afternoon and your email arrived at just the right moment.  I needed a laugh, and you delivered. Thanks for brightening a dark afternoon.  And, kudos for reeling me in.” She then told me about all the big organizations that rely on her to book speakers. Two others have responded in a similar vein. It’s very encouraging.

• Pennsylania bucked the GOP tide and elected Democrat Tom Wolf. He’ll become the first bearded governor Pennsylvania’s had since, gee, Civil War days? It’s a very professorial beard. I hope now that he’s won, he just lets the thing grow so he looks like a maniac. I think a maniacal-looking governor could get a lot done with those clean-faced pansies in the state legislature.

• Me, I’m watching the forecast to again determine my facial hair. As I’ve done the past five years, I’ll begin growing a beard when I see three consecutive days in the five-day forecast where the temperature is 30-degrees or below. Last year that was Nov. 12; the year before, Dec. 18. I’m hoping this year it doesn’t happen until January 6.

• Speaking of miserable weather, we’ve begun our first “Predict the 1st School Snow Day” contest with everyone in the family guessing making their picks. Picks range from December 8 through January 21. Prizes are yet to be determined, but it’ll likely be something crappy. Who cares? On snow days, everyone wins.

• Early contender for Tweet of the Month: My problem is all the people who remember me from when I was great are all losing their memories and my episodes of greatness are steadily waning.

• I hope you’ll stop by tomorrow when I reveal the results of the first physical I’ve had in 18 years. 

UN-related (random sampling of what people are reading now) . . .

Thoughts of circular pizzas and horny Hut waitresses

Bacon, our sinful staple

Small town funeral etiquette

The reason men dislike excessive gal tattoos

Osama bin Bedbug

Of mallbergs, fenderdung and made-up winter words

September tweet feast

Sorry I didn’t have time to write about the Pittsburgh Pirates and their one-game play-in contest versus the S.F. Giants today, but I figured today’d be a good day to catch up on some stuff and that means lazy tweet round-up. I don’t know why I always feel compelled to sort of grade my monthly efforts. August, I thought, was great; September not so much.

Oh, well, it’s not like Twitter’s going to expel me for not keeping up to their standards. Follow me if you like at 8days2amish.

My prediction for the Pirates v. Giants? I think the Bucs are gonna sweep ‘em!

• All you need to know about the appeal of broccoli is no one's ever tried to make booze out of it.

• Wonder how much money I could make if I told people I could sell 'em skinny pills & sold 'em bottles full of pills with really slim waists.

• I sometimes wonder what God says when Jesus sneezes.

• Maybe people would read and observe the Bible more if it had more exclamation points. Agree? Yes!!!!!!!! 

• Asking an 8 yr old to convey with brutal honesty the flaws in her father's appearance is a mistake a grown man makes just once.

• August "tweets of the month" lead me to believe I'll one day catch Kutcher: just 16,438,314 followers to go!

• RIP Joan Rivers. It never would have suited you to be in "serious" condition for long.

• Daughters mocked when I said I used to have #McCutchen hair. Told them skepticism healthy. Grounded each 6 weeks. 

• A dentist should be the name of a person who fixes dented autos. What we call a dentist should be called a mouthist.

• Many dads criticized for being helicopter parents, always hovering. Not me. I'm more of a sidecar parent, just along for the ride.

• If people who revere the Grateful Dead are called “Deadheads,” what does that make those of us who revere “Moby Dick?”

• I wish Apple would cease making new iPhones and instead develop an engine that runs on all the iPhones they’ve snookered us into discarding

• The world would be much more serene if no one bothered to look in mirror until we’ve all had at least three good blasts of booze.

• A good mime can be safe, but never sound.

• Folding female underwear always reminds of incomprehensible game of 3D chess Spock played on Enterprise rec deck. 

• Some might consider putting fancy prosthetics on injured animals faux paw.

• How can a man be as secure in his masculinity as I am in mine and still feel sheepish about eating a banana in public?

• If I were a heroic crime fighter, I'd love to have Super Vision. But as a regular guy, I hate any supervision. Can't stand it.

• ”Spare the rod, spoil the child" responsible for more Biblically-justified wanton violence against innocents than any 6 words in history

• Ravens suspend Ray Rice. Know what that means? His agent arranging a seance with late owner Al Davis about getting client an Oakland tryout

• Join me in crafting more sensible spellings: let's all spell hyphen ... hy-phen!

• NFL thinks it can teach America about domestic violence? NFL attitudes CAUSE domestic violence.

• I’d like to know what goes on in the mind of a rabbit when it’s running along and suddenly comes smack into a really long cyclone fence.

• Every operational decision every gastroenterologist makes is in some way gut-wrenching.

• I couldn't believe NFL commish was fallible. Then I realized I'd been misspelling his name. I always thought he was GODell.

• We love “Seinfeld!” We love “Curb Your Enthusiasm!” Would Seinfeld have been funnier if Larry David had starred as himself/George?

• Anytime you hear of anyone dying suddenly, it should reinforce the need to ensure you're always living suddenly. #NeverForgetSeptember11

• The name causes some confusion among those casual about Egyptian folklore, but most Mummies were Daddies.

• Hash #tag you're it!

• That which does not kill me usually leaves me with a pounding hangover.

• All-you-can-eat restaurants are places where the crowd never thins.

• Good news: NFL commish Goodell no longer media whipping boy. Bad news NFL star in news for whipping boy.

• Many people pray to God to change the world and ignore the God-given powers we all have to change the world.

• Cynics who do nothing but predict gloom and doom are misfortune tellers.

• FYI: The band Quiet Riot was neither.

• Too many people bury the hatchet and immediately begin looking around to see where they left the shovel. 

• Join me in my quest to make the phrase “and so on and so forth” even more moronically redundant! How about: “And so on and so forth and some such…”

• Most big box stores don't bother to sell big boxes and it's impossible to order chains at a chain restaurant.

• You’d think they'd know better, but people in the publishing industry are most apt to judge books by their covers.

• I doubt PETA would approve by I enjoy confusing the dog by barking out a loud fart when he's trying to poop.

• Celebrated 18 years of being married to a perfectionist. Know what that makes me? Too perfect to brag.

• Sing it with me! "Where have you gone, Derek Jeter? Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you! Woo! Woo! Woo!”

• What I tell my daughters ev'y night: "May tonight you have the world's greatest dreams and may tomorrow all those dreams begin coming true!”

• I’m so Old School I remember when bar codes were unwritten rules about how men and women behaved in places that served alcohol.

• How much more advanced will humanity be when we select mates based on intelligence instead of how nice one’s ass looks in tight jeans?

• Yes, it's a long way to Tipperary, but if you're in Kilfeacle you can make it on foot in about an hour.

• Join me in crafting more sensible spellings: let's all spell hyphen ... hy-phen!

• I wish ill on no one, but for the sake of our collective cool I hope Ringo doesn’t become our longest living Beatle.

Related . . .

October ’14 tweets

I am now The Pond’s official twitterist

75 best tweets of ’12!