New Year/ Old Year Updates

Posted on January 5, 2011 by pegoleg

I’ve had numerous requests for status updates on previous blog posts. No, really. So here, as a public service, is the latest on subjects that have been near and dear to my (dare I say OUR?) heart.

Our Cat, Beeby

A couple of months ago, I told about our cat’s tendency to rain golden showers on new or unfamiliar items in our home, and my fears for the upcoming holiday season. I suggest you look through the archives for November 17 in the right-hand column —–> and read Wanted: Cat Whisperer, or this won’t make much sense. Go ahead. We’ll wait…

OK, fast-forward one month. We were well into the Christmas merrymaking. I did, indeed, leave the skirt off the Christmas tree and put no presents under the tree. Actually, there is much I neglected to do to the tree, as explained in the December 15th post, A Chicken’s Work Is Never Done (Little Red Hen’s Christmas Tale). But you can read that later, because we’re not waiting for you this time. With our strangely nude tree and my constant sniffing of the carpet, I was confident that this problem was all in the past.

Until one night I caught Beeby sidling along the wall BEHIND the Christmas tree and heard a familiar, unwelcome sound. She was peeing on the baseboards under the window. From the crunchy state of the bottom of the sheers, it was obviously not her first time at the rodeo.

Beeby was banished from the living room for the duration of the season. Since that is where her family is to be found most evenings, (and my lap, more importantly), that was a real loss for her. She was just let back in this weekend when the tree and all the attendant decorations magically whisked themselves back into their boxes and down to the basement.

HA!

OK, maybe you better read A Chicken’s Work Is Never Done right away.

We remain cautiously optimistic.

Treadmill Resource Allocation

Seems like only yesterday I was doing some preemptive whining about how packed the YMCA was going to be after the first of the year. But it was a whole week ago, on December 29th that I offered Treadmill For One, Garcon!

I’ve now had 3 opportunities to test my predictions and see how close to the mark I came. That was 3 times. Since Jan 1. That would be every day since the New Year started (not counting the 1st when the place was closed). Just making sure everyone understands the dynamic as a point of reference. I’m not bragging or anything. Did I mention EVERY DAY?

It has been bad, but not as bad as I feared. Not a towel to be had Monday or Tuesday, of course, although I did get one on Sunday. (This takes me way, way back to November 12th, practically to the dawn of my blog. Check out my blog post Towels for a gripping expose on the situation vis-à-vis towels at the Y.)

Today was the first day all the treadmills in the back 2 rows were taken. You know what that means. Communal TVs! Not to be tolerated.

I took a leaf from my hubby, Bill’s book. He is the champion at cruising around parking lots until he finds the closest parking spot. It’s a matter of pride with him, and he’s actually elevated the pursuit of close-in parking to something of an art form.

I could almost hear the theme song from Jaws as I slowly, patiently cruised the last 2 rows of treadmills; up and down, front and back, waiting for an open one. I saw it in the (coveted) last row, just as another worker-outer spotted it. Our eyes met. We both sprang into action. It became a game of musical chairs, with the Jaws theme song as the music. Like a live-action, shark-filled party game. If that isn’t too wrong.

You’ll be happy to know that I got the treadmill. Although it was a real shame about the elbow to the eye that other lady took. Her adult granddaughter said she had to go in for glaucoma surgery anyway, so I don’t feel too bad.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that on the way home tonight I stopped at the Dollar General. With the treadmill-sweat barely dried upon my brow, I bought an economy-sized bag of gumdrops and ate half of them. Feeling kind of sick. Why do I do these things? I think I need a Peg-Whisperer. Maybe Beeby and I can get a 2 for 1 rate on therapy.

Oprah

For those not related to me by blood or marriage, you may not be aware of my Campaign, Operation: Dear Oprah. A quick glance at that oh-so-helpful right hand column reveals that this series of posts actually merits its own category.

The upshot of the campaign is to get everyone I have ever met or has ever read my blog, or has ever passed me in the street, to write to Oprah. The goal? To convince her to sponsor my blog on her website, thereby giving me a great job and concomitant wealth and fame (Kudos to my cousin Steve for that last bit. He’s an attorney and, by contract, must be credited whenever I use the phrase “concomitant wealth and fame” under pain of legal prosecution.)

You may have noticed that I haven’t mentioned this in a while. I decided to give the campaign a short rest. Not because of any lack of commitment on my part- far from it. It’s just that Oprah has been all wrapped up in the start of her own network. I think she has been too distracted to give my blog the attention it so richly deserves. In fact, she is probably burdened by more stress than any one woman can be expected to bear. I suspect there’s some stress-related gumdrop-eating going on in her household, as well.

We’ll get right back into the fight soon – I promise!

Required Christmas-time Eating

Let’s revisit December 10th and the day’s blog post, My Sister-In-Law Is Ruining The U.S. Economy. Mainly because it was good for grins, and it got me Freshly Pressed!

You’ll be happy to learn that the economic trend was up, if ever so slightly, for December. Thanks to all loyal Americans who did their part to support our egg nog farmers, as well as all the other, vital Christmas junk food industries.

As for my sister-in-law Lisa, the one who started all the panic? She didn’t get down to a size 2 in time for New Years. But she did what was right for our economy, and she’s still hot! Now and forever!

Thanks for reading my baby-blog. Hope you’ll hang around to listen in 2011, because I still have a lot to say! Like, no end in sight. As in, won’t the woman shut up already???

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Move Over Comcast And AT&T: Drucker-Net Is Here

Posted on January 3, 2011 by pegoleg
State-of-the-art technology for rural America

You people in the big cities have no idea – NO IDEA – what those in the sticks have to go through to stay connected and keep up some semblance of sophistication.

I was talking to my sister Terry the other day.  She said she hadn’t checked my blog because her internet connection was down again.  

That COULD be true.  I know she has had lots of trouble with her service in the past.  She lives way out in the country.  But I knew they changed providers just a few months ago.  I suspected this was a flimsy excuse to avoid being grilled about my latest post.  

“Don’t you have DSL now?” I asked.

“No, we’ve got Wi-fi.” Terry replied.   

I am not making up this next part – it’s practically a direct quote. 

“They put a satellite dish up on  – you know our friend Henry Gilman? – the dish is up on top of his uncle’s corn silo.”  Terry said.

Yup.  They got that new-fangled internet down at Sam Drucker’s General Store.   Once you upgrade to Drucker-Net, your worries are over.

The Drucker-Net sales manager, Mr. Haney, gave them a really good plan.   They offer the Dee-Luxe Package for $29.99, but Terry thought that was a bit high, even with the Grabwell wringer-washer included.  She chose the Party-line Plan for only $14.99.  She just has to ring up Clara at the switchboard and she gets patched in to whatever site she wants.  That is, if nobody else in the RFD is using the internet.  Otherwise she has to check out whatever sites they check out.  It’s called tandem surfing – sounds exotic!

According to Terry, the only problem has been getting online late at night.  Mr. Ziffel ties up the line for hours.  He says he’s doing research on pork-belly futures.  It’s some site called “Porking Porkers”.

Outages are bound to happen, what with snow, wind or stray chickens.   If things get cattywampus, Terry just calls the Drucker-Net service department.   They are top-notch.   Eb will be over in a jiff to shimmy up the silo and knock the dish back into place.

With Drucker-Net, even the country mice will be as up-to-date on the latest technology as their city cousins.  Just because you’re not urban, doesn’t mean you can’t be urbane.

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Treadmill For One, Garcon!

Posted on December 29, 2010 by pegoleg

Be sure to tip your maitre d' sweat.

The world is facing a cataclysmic problem that is bearing down on us at the speed of George Jetson walking Astro on that space treadmill, yet I’ve not seen one answer to this burning question: when the supply of essential resources is not enough to meet the demand, how should we allocate those resources? 

As you may have guessed from my (dare I say) clever intro, I’m talking about our soon-to-be-scarce treadmill resources.

When I head to the YMCA tonight, I’ll have my pick of treadmills.   High supply, low demand.  Come Monday that will no longer be true.  That’s when everyone’s New Year’s resolutions kick in.  Same supply, high demand.

Next week there won’t be a parking spot anywhere near the Y. You’ll have to slog a mile through the snow to get to the door. 

When you finally get in, you won’t be able to move because of the 8,000 kids running around, hopped-up on soda pop and too much Christmas vacation.  While I suspect that their mothers are using the Y as free daycare, I recognize that most also have a noble motive.  To prevent murder.  Which said mothers are sure to commit if they are stuck in the house, just one more day, with their little darlings. 

Worst of all, there won’t be an empty treadmill to be found.

I know that everyone who pays their dues at the gym is entitled to use the facilities.  But what about those who paid their dues twice – once in dollars, and once in sweat? 

I’m not claiming to be Jacqueline LaLanne – far from it.   I’m the “before” picture.  But I, and others like me, have been loyal.  And I say to you, is it fair that faithful customers will be stuck on the sidelines while Flabbies-Come-Lately get all the treadmills?

What is the best way to allocate our precious treadmill resources?

Let’s look at techniques used by other industries.

Airlines need to allocate their service time.  Frequent flyers get rewards, including special lines at the ticket counter.  This gets the preferred customer through the check-in process quickly.  The YMCA could set up something like that.  You scan your ID card when getting on the treadmill and earn frequent walker miles.  Once you hit a certain number of miles, you get rewards.  Like being able to kick January Jills (or Johns) off the treadmill of your choice.

Fine restaurants have to allocate a limited number of tables.  They use a free-market approach to determine who gets in and where they sit.  Their control is the maitre d’.   His criteria?  How much you tip.

This could work in the gym.  Treadmills would be controlled by the maitre d’sweat.  What you get is determined by what you pay.

If your gym is laid out like mine, the following might be a good guide for tipping the maitre d’ sweat.

  • $0 – No tip = no treadmill.  Remember the 8,000 screaming, running kids?   The “I paid my dues” mentality gets you an exciting, roller-derby experience with them on the indoor track.
  • $3 – gets a treadmill in the first 2 rows.  You’ve got the workout necessities, but none of the luxuries.  TVs are mounted from the ceiling and only show reruns of “Two And A Half Men”.  The sound never matches, and is usually tuned to ESPN bowling highlights.
  • $5 – gets a treadmill in the 3rd row.  Now you’ve got your own little TV mounted on the treadmill.  The drawback is everyone in the 4th row is watching your butt jiggle through the workout.
  •  $10 – gets a spot in the coveted 4th row.  This has all the benefits of the 3rd row, but with no treadmills behind you to observe your butt jiggle.  Only the free-weights room is back there, and that doesn’t matter.  The guys in there are too hardcore to be interested in any butts except their own.

 While we can and should use such rational planning to allocate our resources, it isn’t always about supply and demand, dollars and cents.  There is a human element to the equation.  Even in the cold, hard business world.

Think about the Italian restaurant in New York that always had a table ready for Frank Sinatra.  The oyster house in Boston that kept JFK’s table empty.   These weren’t moneymaking schemes.  It was about respect. 

At the Y, the last treadmill on the right in the last row will be reserved for such a special patron.  It will have a brass plaque and a velvet rope around it. 

For whom will the maitre d’ sweat hold back that velvet rope?

The plaque will read “Reserved for those who worked out the week BEFORE Christmas”.

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Barkeep, Another Round of Fermented Yak Snot for My Buddies!

Posted on December 22, 2010 by pegoleg

Stone age poker night

Everything is ALWAYS simpler for guys. 

My last blog post was about how shopping for clothes strains the mother/daughter bond.  My brother-in-law, John, said he was glad he was a guy.  Relations with his Dad are simple – pizza, beer and poker on Friday night and nobody cares what they are wearing. 

John is right that guys’ lives are simpler.  But that’s only possible because their comfort has always been enhanced by the more complicated needs and wants of Woman. 

Come with me now…. back, back, back….. to the dawn of mankind.  

In prehistoric times, Friday night would find Man sitting around the cave in his woolly mammoth pelts, playing poker with Oog, Glog, Mastoog and Barry.

Back then, the game was played with a club called a poker.  This was thinner than the everyday, utility club used for hunting and mate-gathering.  The guys would take turns hitting one another over the head with the poker and the first one to pass out was the loser.  When he came to, he had to buy a round of fermented mastodon pee for everyone else.

They ate pizza, which was a hunk of saber-toothed tiger meat served on a slab of rock.  Some guys preferred thick stone, and some insisted on a thin slab. 

As the fermented sloth spit flowed ever more freely, tempers would flare.  Man and his buddies would get into fights over the relative merits of eating the saber-toothed tiger meat raw – “if it was good enough for my Dad, Bobo the Chimp, it’s good enough for me!” – vs. the new-fangled way of using fire to cook food.  Man would taunt Oog and Barry  -“only a sissy-boy wants his saber-toothed tiger cooked!” and the pokers would fly.

And that’s where Man would be to this very day if not for Woman.  It took Woman to force Man to put on clean underwear, and go out and hunt and gather some curtains, maybe a few throw pillows, to cozy up the cave.  From there, it was just a short hop, skip and a jump to the invention of the wheel, then the upholstered chair, then the 52” screen high-definition TV (with surround sound). 

Woman’s civilizing influence greatly improved the quality of life for Man.

Friday night poker looks a LOT different today.  Man now has underwear to protect his sensitive bits from woolly mammoth pelt chafing.  Thanks to Woman.

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I Shop, Therefore I Am Enlightened

Posted on December 20, 2010 by pegoleg

Betty Grable tries on a new look.

French philosopher Rene Descartes said “I think, therefore I am. ”  I’ve heard women say, “I shop, therefore I am.”  Philosophical shopping maven that I am, I say, “I shop, therefore I am enlightened.”

The other day I noticed two women at a clothing store, just a few aisles over from me.  The younger was about 25, dark-haired and attractive in jeans and a shirt.   It was obvious from the strong family resemblance that the older woman was her mother. 

The daughter would hold an item of clothing up in front of her, and then turn to her mother.  They weren’t speaking English, but I could tell she was asking Mom’s opinion.

The thing is, the mother was veiled.   She was covered, head to toe, with just her face and hands showing. 

Even without a working knowledge of Farsi, the body language and tone of voice made their conversation crystal clear.

My interpretation of actual conversation:

Daughter: “What do you think of this blouse?”

Mother:  “Shows too much skin.  Where is the burka section of this store?”

Daughter: “What about this one?”

Mother: “Slut!  Whore!  I spit on you!”

How could the daughter not know how Mom would react to her clothing choices?  I had never seen either woman before.  Yet I could have predicted Mom’s reaction.  

What kind of response did the daughter think she was going to get?

Fantasy version of conversation:

Daughter: “Do you like this bustier?”

Mother: “Won’t your breasts look perky in that!  Do they have it in my size?”

This exchange illustrates a universal truth.  We daughters try our mightiest to distance ourselves from our mothers. But we still want their approval.

Different language, different culture, same dynamic.

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Life Saving Holiday Hints for The Very, Very Wealthy

Posted on December 17, 2010 by pegoleg

Making sure the holiday season isn't open season on rich, old guys.

The joyful Christmas season is, unfortunately, also a time of increased accidents.  This year the super-wealthy are at even greater risk.  Why?  Because the death tax rate in the U.S. is going up on 1/1/11. 

This tax, also known as the inheritance or estate tax, is currently at a historic low – zero (0).  It is going up to 35%, or perhaps as high as 55%, at the first of the year. 

The pending tax change might encourage some gold-digger wives to make sure they get what they REALLY want for Christmas.

As a public service to the very, very wealthy, here are some valuable tips. 

Safety first:

Be extra vigilant if involved with:

1)      Christmas tree lights: Wife’s insistence on putting a large lighted wreath above the bathtub should raise red flag.

2)      Funny tasting eggnog:  Better have wife’s obnoxious, yappy Pomeranian test it first.  Or, better yet, the cabana boy.

3)      Playing dirty Santa and the naughty elf:  All the warnings enumerated in those distasteful Viagra ads apply here.

4)      Shoveling snow: Never mind – billionaires have this done for them.

How vigilant do I need to be?

That depends on a number of factors.

Since most of the filthy rich got that way by being hard-number guys, I have developed a mathematical model to quantify the risk.  The result is the Holiday Danger Factor (hdf).

The equation:        a (log)  x   w   +  p  = hdf 
                               a (hyw)      e

where:  a (log) = age of loaded old geezer
            a (hyw) = age of hot young wife
                    w  = wealth of geezer (expressed in millions)
                     e  = education level of wife (years after grade school)
                      p = # of Speedos owned by young, studly pool boy
                   hdf = holiday danger factor

The hdf is then checked against the following table.  Each level has been given a name for ease of remembrance:

hdf        Level                                        Risk        
❤         Gates                                      very low                                  
4-8      Seinfeld                                    low to moderate                       
9-13    Grammar                                 Have attorney on speed dial  
14-19    King                                          Keep safe-house stocked      
<20       That guy who was married     Have food taster on staff        
 to  Anna Nicole Smith (may she rest
in peace)  
                                                         
Let’s run through a few examples to illustrate how the model works.

Example 1: 55-year-old man with $3,000,000 in the bank, married to 51-year-old schoolteacher (advanced degree assumed).  No pool, or maintenance handled by HOA fees.

55      x  3  + 0 =  .09
51           9

Conclusion: Go ahead and install Santa & sleigh on rooftop. Use ordinary caution.

Example 2: 90 year old billionaire married to 23 year old who dropped out of school at age 16 to pursue Miss Ta-tas of Abilene title.  20-year-old pool boy hired by wife last year moonlights as underwear model.

90      x  20  + 15 = 26.29
23           3

Conclusion: May want to let wife spend the holidays at the mansion with the pool boy, while you hide out for a month in an undisclosed location.  Heavily guarded.

Helpful alternative:

You can avoid all this worry by cutting the gold-digging, nubile young wife out of the equation.  Get rid of her! 

What you need is an attractive, caring, more mature woman.  Perhaps a blogger with a good sense of humor.  I know someone who could be available quickly, possibly as soon as this weekend (if her husband makes good on his promise to put up the rooftop Santa sleigh).

If I am able to ensure even one billionaire makes it to 2011, my work here has been worthwhile.

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A Chicken’s Work Is Never Done (Little Red Hen’s Christmas Tale)

Posted on December 15, 2010 by pegoleg

Little Red Hen taking care of Christmas business.

Once upon a time,  Little Red Hen lived in a cozy little coop with her happy little family.  It was Christmas time and Little Red Hen thought some decorations would add to their holiday joy.

“Who will help me set up the tree?” she asked.

“Not I”, said the rooster. 

“Not I”, said the first chickee.

“Not I”, said the second chickee.

“Then I will do it myself,” said Little Red Hen.  And so she did. 

Amidst a considerable amount of swearing.  Little Red Hen developed “tree burns” on her wings from fluffing the scratchy branches and wrestling with the 9-foot tall, artificial tree.

“Who will help me put all the lights on the tree?” she asked.

“Not I”, said the rooster.

“Not I”, said the first chickee.

“Not I”, said the second chickee.

“Then I will do it myself”, said Little Red Hen.  And so she did. 

With nobody to hand the strings of lights to, she was up and down the ladder at least 26 times.  Half of 2 of the strands on the bottom went out as soon as they were all plugged together.

“Who will help me put all the ornaments on the tree?” she asked.

“Not I” said the rooster.

“Not I”, said the first chickee.

“Not I”, said the second chickee.

“If you think I’m doing any more decorating without any help from you selfish, lazy slobs” said Little Red Hen, “you’re crazy!”  She burst into tears and took off for the mall with a squeal of tires.

And the half finished tree, and 3 big boxes full of ornaments, still sit in the middle of the living room floor to this very day.

The End.

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Oprah’s 2020 Anniversary Special Features Freshly Pressed Author

Posted on December 13, 2010 by pegoleg

Oprah looks great for 70!

Transcript of 12/10/20 Oprah TV Special.

(Camera closes in on Oprah and guest seated before live audience)

Oprah: “Today we’re talking to women who are living their dreams. Peg, you and I go way back.  You’re a world-famous author, blogger and playwright.  But that wasn’t always the case, was it?”

(Peg laughs ruefully)

Peg: “No indeed.  I was headed into middle-aged oblivion when I chanced upon an article on your website, Oprah.  Your story,  “Do What You Love”, spoke to me.   I wanted to be a writer.  So I started a blog, and lobbied to get you to sponsor me.”

Oprah: “You’re saying that my show, my theme, changed your life!”

Peg:  “Ha ha.  No. You blew me off.  Totally ignored me.  Then I was Freshly Pressed.”

Oprah: “Huh?”

Peg:  “Today, when people think of WordPress, they think Pulitzer Prize.  But long before they took over the Pulitzer Prize board, WordPress provided websites and blogs.  Their blog-of-the-day contest, Freshly Pressed, was like the Pulitzer semi-finals.  It was ten years ago today that my blog post was chosen to be Freshly Pressed.  And that, as they say, has made all the difference.”

Oprah: “Has success changed you?”

Peg: “Oh no.  I still put my diamond-encrusted pants on one leg at a time, like everyone else.” (Peg laughs in self-deprecating manner; audience titters)

Peg:  “Seriously, Oprah, I’m still the same, simple me.  My people know I am ALWAYS available for family.   Unless “The Muse” is upon me, or I’m involved in a deal or resting or whatnot.”

Oprah: “And what about Lisa, the sister-in-law who was the subject of that Freshly Pressed post?”

Peg: “My staff still sends her a quart of eggnog every Christmas.  Although the poor dear is now terribly lactose-intolerant.“

Oprah: “What are you working on now?”

Peg:   “Viewers can find “Nutmeg, the Talking Eggnog Cow” and “Peg, the Fly” merchandise for sale on the Peg-O-Leg Industries QVC channel, formerly NBC.  As you know, our game “Peg, You So Fly!” for XXX-Box is the must-have gift this Christmas. The kids love it – we can’t keep it in stock!”

Oprah: “All of our audience members will receive a copy of “Peg, You So Fly!”

(Audience erupts into wild cheers as Oprah minions walk out carrying trays of game boxes.  Network censors black out most of the covers.  Clapping almost drowns out Peg’s comment  “I still vigorously protest that M for Mature rating, by the way!”)

Oprah: “What’s next for you?”

Peg:  “I’m working closely with Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber to fulfill a dream and bring “Wal-Mart, The Musical” to the stage.  We’re considering Lady Gaga to play me, but just between us, I think she’s too straight-laced.  And she’s getting a little old.  And of course, I am still closely involved in approving the general concepts for, if not the actual writing of, my blog – Peg-O-Leg Ramblings Universe.”

Oprah: “What advice do you have for others who want to live their dreams?”

Peg: “When I started out, some said that constantly, endlessly hounding my family and friends to read my blog amounted to harassment.  That didn’t stop me.  Except when you took out that restraining order against me, Oprah.” (Peg turns to Oprah for shared laugh.)  “I would tell other dreamers, don’t worry about leaving a broken, bloody pile of people behind.  As long as you can climb over them to get to your goal!”

(Audience erupts into cheers, standing ovation, camera pans viewers wiping tears away. Fade out)

Posted in Operation; Dear Oprah | Tagged , , , , | 12 Comments

My Sister-In-Law Is Ruining The U.S. Economy

Posted on December 10, 2010 by pegoleg

Support your local eggnog farmer!

My sister-in-law, Lisa, just announced she is starting a diet.  With 3 weeks to go until Christmas. 

 

This is wrong on so many levels.  Besides the masochistic overtones, we have to consider how such a move might affect the nation’s economic recovery.

Lisa just wants to look hot for New Years Eve.   But she may be starting a dangerous trend.  Perhaps I can help her to see the bigger picture – what economists call the unintended consequences.

Seasonal industries have just a small window of opportunity to make sales.  (i.e. yellow marshmallow chickees that can only be sold for 1 week before Easter.)  In December, fattening Christmas food companies are scrambling to make their budget goals.

Take eggnog.   Its rich, creamy goodness is almost synonymous with Christmas.  But where does it come from?  Family farms in the heartland keep herds of  special, eggnog-producing cows just for the Christmas season.  No eggnog, no eggnog farms.

All the farms will be sold for shopping malls, the farm children will have to leave the land for New York to become actor/model/waiters and the cows will be processed into McBurgers.  Do you want to be responsible for the end of the family farm in America, Lisa?

And what about that company that makes those chocolate-covered cherries that you can get for $1 at Big Lots and other fine emporiums?  They do all their sales this month.  Does it occur to you, Lisa, that the firm that makes those has employees?  If health-conscious, get-in-shape people don’t buy those candies, all the chocolate-covered cherry employees and their families, some of whom might have lame children who use crutches, will be out on the streets. Just in time for Christmas, you Scrooge!

These are just a few of the businesses that would be affected. There are anise-flavored cookies, monastery-made bourbon fudge and whisky fruitcake, and candy canes.   I’m sure we could come up with lots of examples.

Sure, tofu sales will go up. But that won’t increase jobs.  There is such a huge surplus of tofu just sitting around on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator case in the grocery store produce section (often right under the Bleu Cheese crumbles, ironically), we could go years without making any more.

And what about after Christmas?  In the natural order of things, you sign up for diet and exercise programs in January.  If nobody is overindulging in December, no one will be repentant and resolved to change in January.

80% of the YMCA’s income is derived from initial membership fees garnered in January.  They can’t rely on the monthly fees, because those dry up in March.  That’s when the new members cancel, although they actually stop working out after only 2 weeks.  (The Y does get residual income from all the new members who forget they signed up to have the dues automatically deducted from their bank account.  They can end up paying for years after their actual 2-week attendance is over.)

Do you want to be responsible for closing the doors on a fine, old institution like the Young Men’s Christian Association?  And then what?  Our nation’s young men will be out on the streets, joining gangs, becoming hooligans, and not being Christian.

Eat papa, eat!

Nutrisystems will go back to using their food as industrial lubricants, Jenny Craig will have to get a job as a brownie taster and South Beach will be deserted. Dr. Atkins will turn over in his grave!

(“America the Beautiful” starts softly in the background).

We are trying to climb out of a terrible recession right now, Lisa.  Our president, and our congressmen and women, are working hard to get this economy back on track

(for amber waves of grain…)

It is the duty of every American to help in this struggle.  If you think your hot-ness is more important than your country, Lisa, keep up the pre-Christmas diet.  Help put thousands, nay millions of our fellow Americans out of work.

But as for me and mine, we love the U.S. of A., and we will support her!

(music builds to a crescendo, “from sea to shining sea!”, I get up and walk out like that scene in Animal House where Dean Wormer revokes the Delta’s charter because they have been on double-secret probation ).

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go buy some peppermint stick ice cream!

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Wal-Mart, The Musical

Posted on December 8, 2010 by pegoleg

Thanks to peopleofwalmart.com for this cast member photo.

Most Americans have been to Wal-Mart.  But you haven’t truly experienced it until you see Wal-Mart, The Musical.   I attended a performance just a few days ago. 

The entire play takes place in a Super Wal-Mart.  It is Sunday afternoon during the busy, holiday shopping season.  

Here’s the story in a nutshell.  Our heroine, a young ingénue who looked almost exactly like me, visits the Land of Wal-Mart.  She has been sprinkled with holiday cheer fairy dust and sent on a quest.  She must find a magic wand that will reanimate the Christmas tree lights when half of each strand has gone out (kind of like a Christmas light defibrillator).  Then she must get checked out and back to her car before the dust wears off and she turns into a mean, bitchy old crone.

During the prelude we were treated to Mariah Carey’s spiritual take on “Santa’s Got A Booty Call (So You Better Be Naughty!)”.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the place when one of the female leads, imaginatively costumed in black stretch pants and a shirt cut low enough to reveal a pair of angels tattooed on the upper slopes of her…charms, softly crooned a simple ballad to the children gathered around her cart: “I TOLD You 20 Times”.

“I TOLD you 20 times you gotta be 8 years old before Santa will bring you Grand Theft Auto.  I’m going to have your daddy (Rodney, that guy whose staying with us and kinda like your daddy) WHUP YOUR A** if you ask me ONE more time!” 

I wasn’t the only one who left the show singing THAT moving tune.

The children’s choir almost stole the show with their rousing hit, “I Want THAT!”   The lyric was not complicated – only “I Want THAT”, over and over – but the performance elevated the words to art.  The volume of their childish cries built and built to a mighty crescendo.  The number ended with the whole choir falling to the floor and kicking its collective heels.  Unforgettable.

The Greeter’s Gospel Choir’s a cappella rendition of “Go Tell It On The Mountain (The Holidays Are Here)” had everyone clapping along.   The reworked lyrics explained in an uplifting, catchy way why saying Merry Christmas at the door would be the same as forcing shoppers to submit to full-immersion baptism in order to get in the store.  Entertaining and really thought provoking. 

But the showstopper was the big production number finale.

I took a couple of dance classes as a kid, so I’m familiar with steps like the flap-ball-change.  But I’ve never seen the moves the Wal-Mart Shoppers Dance Troupe perfected for this extravaganza, a routine they call the Oblivious Shuffle. 

Each shopper/dancer leaned on his or her cart and pushed it slowly, oh so slowly, back and forth across the stage.  Their shuffling gate kept one shoe (or house slipper, as the case may be) on the floor at all times.  The shuffling feet made a “shush, shush” sound that underscored the “squeak, squeak” of their unoiled cart wheels.  The occasional crash of colliding carts played like cymbals in the composition.

About half of the dancers had cell phones pressed to their ears.  One at a time, each would burst into song with lyrics like “…so that witch he married said they couldn’t take the kids Christmas Eve and I told her if you think I’m going to pick them up on HIS weekend, you can just tell their dad…” Their solos were incomprehensible, one-sided conversations when taken by themselves.  Together, they wove a timeless Christmas story.

The dancers went through their movements with vacant, glassy stares that gave the illusion that they were totally unaware of everyone else around them. 

Think of Night of the Living Dead as a ballet.

Meanwhile, the young ingénue wove her cart skillfully in and out of the shuffling throng, trying to get to the registers which kept receding out of her reach.  The checkers cried “price check on 10, change needed on 5, register frozen on 8“ in a surprisingly harmonious medley.

I don’t want to give away the ending in case you decide to see it.  Suffice it to say our heroine bore a marked resemblance to the apple-wielding hag in Snow White as she hobbled to her SUV when the curtain fell.

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