Can’t Find My Ass With Both Hands

By WR Jones

I have always been prone to getting lost.   If I had been one of the early explorers leaving Virgina to probe the west, I would have found Virginia Beach.   “Well boys, there it is, the mighty Pacific ocean.  Sure is a mighty thin country.   I don’t think we can support a population big enough to warrant the supper lotto.”

This week I reached a new personal low in navigational incompetence.   I was in Dallas, Texas.   I always drive with a GPS.  Even when going from my house to the grocery store 2 blocks away. I have gotten into the habit of listing to the female voice tell me where to turn and paying little heed to what is going on in the real world.

So, I’m going from the hotel in Dallas to a company for a meeting.  I punch in the address and off we go.  The female navigator is telling me to turn right in 0.5 miles onto such and such road.   Got it, thanks honey.   I had the GPS setting loose in the center console and unbeknown to me the touch screen was touching and touching and touching and reprogramming my destination.   Turn here, turn there.  Finally she says arriving at destination.   Huh?   This doesn’t look right.  What the hell.  I was just at the meeting site yesterday.  How could it change this much overnight?   I picked up the GPS and saw it had programmed me to a new location.  Ok, so I missed the meeting by an hour or two.

That afternoon I was going to the DFW airport to return home.   I programmed the GPS for the airport and off we; me and Stella, my GPS voice, went.   This time, smart as a whip and always learning, I made sure the GPS was not touching anything.   “In 0.3 miles turn left onto Storey Road.  Turn left on to Storey Road.”   There is no turn onto Storey Road, I’m on it already.    ”Recalculating,  drive 1.2 miles and turn left on ….; then turn right, then turn right, then turn right again.”   Now I’m going back the direction I came in.   Ok.   Drive  0.8 miles and keep to the left to such and such road.   I do that and as I keep to the left I see the fork in the road.   Then as I pass the fork, the bitch tells me to keep to the right onto road A which I’m now watching disappear out of reach on my right.    I’m screaming at her, “YOU STUPID COW, tell me BEFORE I get to the fork.”   She stays calm.  ”Recalculating.   Drive 18 miles straight ahead you complete idiot.   I now know you can’t handle turns.”     Really, it is like driving with a woman you are about to divorce and she will get everything.

If you see me driving around and around in your neighborhood perhaps you could call my wife to come get me.

Cowboy Boots n Clouds

By WR Jones

Real cowboys sleep on the open range under the stars.   If they had a little too much cactus juice the night before, they may sleep through the morning under these clouds.

When I was a young boy, cowboys were the heros.   One Christmas I received a very handsome white faux leather rhinestone studded holster with 6 shooter cap pistol.  Included in the set were some awesome rhinestone studded spurs that jingled.  You know, real cowboy gear.

My father was dead set against children wearing cowboy boots thinking they were bad for young growing feet.   This was Iowa in the 50’s.   My mother had a pair of fur topped black rubber boots to go over high heels.  This pair of rubber boots was for walking in the rain/snow.

They looked semi-cowboyish to me.   So I put on a pair of my mother’s high heels and the rubber boots over them.   Strapped on the six shooter and attached the spurs to the boots.   Looked pretty good I think.   At least it looked more authentic than wearing a pair of spurs on some lace up brown oxfords worn only on Sunday.

I started through the house looking  for bad and/or evil cowboys to slay.  As I recall they didn’t ever kill people in  those days; they shot the gun  out of the bad person’s hand.   And the bad person held his hand like it hurt.

Unaccustomed to high heels as I was (at the time), my ankles wobbled like the front wheels of that soap box derby car I made just before they came off entirely and rolled independantly down the road.  That project made me realize I liked reading about making things a whole lot better than actually making them.

So anyhoo, I wobbled through the house firing my cap pistol at everything until those spurs latched  together and I went down like the proverbial rock causing me to bite my lip and start crying, you know, like a real cowboy

This was an epiphany – I decided against being a cowboy.   I would be a librarian; in high heels.

Hand Cancer?

By W R Jones

Damn that Erin; trying to drown me is not enough.  Now she is messing with my mind.   She told me Farrah Fawcett died of rectal cancer.  So?  Well it short of hints of anal sex.  Why?  Because rectal cancer rates are much higher for those engaging in anal sex.     Oh, my lord!!!!  Now I’ve got to worry about cancer of the palm?  How am I going to go to my palm reader?   It is sooo embarrassing.  I can just hear her, “Oh oh, didn’t your mama tell you not to do that?   Now your life line leads directly to the chemo room.”  And if I don’t go to my palm reader out of embarrassment, how am I to know about my future and to look out for the truck at the school crossing?   How the HELL am I supposed to pick the winning lotto number?

On another note for those of you house hunters out there.   I stumbled upon what must be the deal of the decade.   I read an ad in an art magazine about a fabulous opportunity in Santa Fe.   Right down near the art center of old Santa Fe there is a new development.   EVERYTHING is taken care of for you.   The price is outstandingly affordable at only $130K per unit.

Now get out that magnifying glass for the fine print.   For the $130,000 you get a full UNDIVIDED 1/8 owership of a condo.   What the hell does that mean?   Do you have to go for 1/8 of the year all at once?   I think you have to be dumber than 40 water buffalo to buy a timeshare.   Get a hotel for Christ’s sake.   The following year you can go back if you like or choose a new spot.   Oh ya, that’s right you can swap if they happen to have other big dummy timeshare owners somewhere else you want to go.   Still, for a monthly sum someone will take care of it for you even on the 7/8s of the year you can’t use it.

Say, can you call it plein air if you took the picture you painted from while you were outside in the raw elements?  OK, not fully outside but leaning out the window of that car.   It wasn’t a new car.