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5,000 pound wench for sale . . .

WAREHOUSE BANKRUPTCY SALE

 Great Office Furniture

 Several Sizes of Conference Tables
Large Contemporary Reception Room Check In Unit
(Bar Height) with Glass Top
Chairs of Various Sizes & Colors for Desks,
Conference Tables & Reception Areas
Large Printers Including HP Design Jet Format Printer &
Mx4100n Sharp Scanner/Printer
Office Supplies, Computers, Phones
Drafting Tables, Desks, & File Cabinets
Water Cooler & Bottles
Time Card Machine
Modular Wall Partitions to Put Together to Form Office Spaces
Pictures, Mirrors, Accessories
Refrigerator & Dryer
Large Punching Bag & Harley Motorcycle Seat
Portable Diesel Fuel Tank for Pick-Up Truck
Large Pick-Up Truck Cover & Jeep Hard Shell
5000 Pound Wench
Metal Racks & Sides to Put Together for
Storing Heavy Items (i.e. Carpet)
30-40 Bookcases in White, Walnut & Blonde Finish

The bankruptcy sale shown above appeared recently in the classified section of the San Antonio Express-News, the only daily newspaper in the seventh largest city in the United States. I subscribe to the paper because it’s the only game in town, and I enjoy finding bloopers that were either missed by the staff proof-readers or perhaps some proof-reader had a good sense of humor. They probably depend entirely on their computer spell checkers. Such programs are a boon to writers, but spell-checkers do not do well with homonyms.

NOTE: I high-lighted the 5,000 pound wench in red to call the reader’s attention to the blooper, wench instead of winch. It was not high-lighted in the advertisement.

The lady in the image below consumes 20,000 calories daily and weighs a mere 600 pounds, a weight that falls far short of the 5,000 pound wench advertised in the San Antonio bankruptcy sale. When—and if— you tire of the sight of that tremendous amount of excess avoirdupois centered in the woman, scale down and read about a real calorie consumer, a woman that wants to be the fattest woman in the world.

I stumbled upon a slide show online that features a British woman who aspires to become the fattest woman in the world, and she is well on her way. She lives in England, is engaged to a chef, consumes 30,000 calories daily and weighs more than 54 British stone—about 800 pounds, and her waist measures 107.5 inches. She has been fitted for her wedding dress and is scheduled to marry her chef this summer.

Click here to enjoy her side show—oops, I meant slide show.

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Posted by on June 12, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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TIME magazine cover, breast-feeding four year old . . .

I’ve been seeing this magazine cover throughout the day. It’s all over television and everyone is weighing the pros and cons of breast-feeding a child for several years, considerably longer than our society has come to expect. I have decided to comment on it.

My comment will be neither pro nor con because it’s her breast (s) and her four-year-old son, and it is not in my nature to approve or disapprove the actions of others. I have enough faults of my own to worry about.

Many years ago I read a scholarly tome written by a professor from one of our ivy-league colleges. He spent a lot of time in one of our states, compiling jokes provided by citizens in rural areas of that state. He presented each joke, then went into a dissertation of its meaning. A few were somewhat obtuse but most were short, to the point and hilarious. I’ll keep the state anonymous and let the reader decide which state was selected.

I remember many of the jokes and would delight in sharing them with my readers, but I’ll be content with the one that is germane to this posting. Of course, there is a story about a young boy, an old man, a fence and a rabbit that I would like to post, but I will desist unless a clamor arises for me to post it.

The TIME cover dusted off the cobwebs from the following memory:

A traveler was driving through a rural area on winding unpaved roads with few direction signs and finally became lost. He came to a house and saw a man standing in the front yard, so he stopped and asked for directions. While he was talking, a woman ran out of the house and down the road with a young man chasing her, and the two disappeared around a curve in the road.

The woman was barefoot and her clothing was disheveled, so the traveler asked the older man why the woman was running away from the young man, and if the woman was in danger.

The older man said, “Aw, that’s just Junior chasing Ma—she’s trying to wean ‘im.”

I submit to you, dear reader, that the attractive blond mother on the TIME cover with the four-year-old boy “getting his ninny” direct from the source may have to outrun him when the time comes. She could outpace him now, but she needs to maintain that svelte figure as the years go by or problems might arise—so to speak.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

 
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Posted by on May 11, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

My hernia operation, Part Three . . .

With the admonition that a picture is worth a thousand words, I’m furnishing a composite drawing of hernia areas, but please don’t be alarmed—it’s nicely drawn and gracefully presented. Had you worried there for a moment, I imagine.

Now droning on:

This is the third posting of my quadrilogy, the operatic part (Get it? Operatic, as in Operation?). I know, I know—that’s a stretch, but it serves my purpose of presenting the details of my hernia operation in smaller doses. Believe it or not, I have been roundly chastised for the extreme length of my postings, and that makes me wonder if those who cast their slings and arrows at me have tried reading Ulysses, or the Holy Bible or the New Testament—now those tomes are really lengthy dissertations.

With the help of my three adult daughters I presented myself—no, belay that—I presented my corporeal housing, my body, to Same-day Surgery at an ungodly hour, 5:30 AM on a bleak Thursday morning. The bleakness had nothing to do with the weather or its outlook, and everything to do with my reluctance to be there. I felt the same way when I boarded a plane bound for Viet Nam to begin my 13-month tour during the height of the war, a vacation from stateside duties with all expenses paid by the US government.

The process began a few minutes after I was comfortably seated with a nice view of a big-screen wall-mounted television. A friendly and very competent nurse confirmed my identification, determined and recorded my vital numbers—height, weight, blood pressure, and medications taken in the past 12 hours. She tthen produced a hospital gown, bade me strip, don the gown with the open part to the rear, don soft non-skid booties and then recline on a gurney while she trundled me to an area near the operating rooms.

My daughters were allowed to accompany me to that area and remain there until a nurse came to roll me into the operating room. In the interim I was furnished a silver hair cover similar to that worn in Arabella. the Hollywood movie starring Jane Fonda. Incidentally, I still have dreams of Jane and the costume she wore. No, they were not, and are not, nightmares. We are just two friends, similar to two boats passing in the night.

But I digress, so on to the surgery. I was fitted with a wrist tag with my name and other significant data, especially as to the location of the surgery. When the doctor came, he wrote on my left lower side, probably something on the order of “CUT HERE.” A needle was inserted into the back of my right hand, and I was hooked up to a portable stand with two clear bags filled with unknown liquids which dripped from both bags and converged into a single line and into the line connected with the back of my hand. When all the little shut-offs were turned to shut-ons I knew my time was near, and I’ll give you three guesses what the operating nurse said as she started wheeling me towards the row of operating rooms, areas lined up precisely like the cells at San Quentin—private rooms, of course, but just as secure.

What the nurse said as we started that last mile—that Green Mile—was, “I’ll see you on the other side.” Just before I entered a state of nothingness, I asked her if she would please rephrase that cheerful remark, and she said that she meant after the surgery was over and that she would see me on the other side of the area after I had recovered from the anesthesia, and this allayed my fears—slightly.

This concludes the third part of my surgery quadrilogy, and I’m sticking to it.

Stay tuned for the fourth—and final—part of my surgery. I know, I know. I heard that long sigh of relief.

 
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Posted by on May 1, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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My hernia operation, Part Two . . .

Okay, come on now, admit it—you’ve been waiting with bated breath for the second installment of my recent hernia operation. I can understand your interest in this because everyone, whether male or female or a combination of both, are subject to such surgery. Other than a few statistics extracted from the web, I’ll leave it up to you to do the research. Click here to learn just about everything you probably never wanted to know about hernias and hernia surgery. It’s the most common operation performed by general surgeons in the United States, and males lead females in hernia surgery by a ration of 3:1 in the US. More than 750,000 inquinal hernias are repaired in our country every year by general surgeons.

Now on to Part Two of my quadrilogy, the diagnosis of the hernia.

I reported to the General Surgery clinic as directed and was examined by a Doogie Howser look-alike, the young man who performed fantastic surgeries on the television show Doogie Howser, M. D. from 1989 to 1993. My doctor (not really a look-alike, just young looking) replicated the hands-on exam that I endured in Internal Medicine and scheduled me for a sonogram to determine the exact location and the size of both hernias. He decided that the left hernia warranted surgery, but the right fissure was small and would not need surgery unless it expanded or became uncomfortable or painful—uncomfortable or painful for me, of course, and not for the hernia.

The doctor told me that he had three hernia surgeries in his early twenties, and since then had no other symptoms. I suppose that was meant to reassure me concerning my pending surgery, but it didn’t work. I wasn’t sleeping well before I was scheduled for surgery, and the wait between scheduling and operating was for too short and in no way helped my sleepless nights (I unashamedly admit that I dozed off for a few hours in the mid-afternoon while waiting, and in fact I still do). I believe it is somehow related to age, but in my case I believe that it’s because I am bored, and napping is something that seems to come naturally for me to make the time pass.

The sonogram gave a perfect picture of the two hernias, and I was scheduled for surgery the following week. I made several demands—no, make that several requests—including local anesthesia as opposed to general, no breathing tube in my throat and finally, that I had to be back home before dark. My demands—I mean requests—were given consideration and the doctor said they would do their best to meet them—that was shortly after his laughter subsided.

Okay, that’s the second part of my quadrilogy, the diagnosis. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

 
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Posted by on April 30, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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In response to “Six degrees of separation” . . .

Some nine months ago one of my daughters—the middle one in age, the one that lives, loves, laughs and labors in Northern Virginia, blogged about her work as the designer and producer of a bimonthly magazine for the Hearing Loss Association of America (HLAA). I made a long-winded comment on her posting, and for nearly a year my comment has languished in the Stygian depths of blog comments.

I thrive on comments for my own blog, as do most bloggers. You can read her posting here, and you’ll have the opportunity to check our my original comment on her post. However, just in case you skip the comments, I will generously post the original comment below for your enjoyment., but please do not skip the original posting. If you skip it you’ll miss the last paragraph, the one in which my daughter gives me a really nice shout-out for assisting the publication. For your convenience I have extracted that paragraph:

I wrote to Ulf and asked if he would be interested in sharing his story with Hearing Loss Magazine readers. With editing and compilation assistance from The King of Texas   (who also moonlights as my father, Hershel M. Dyer) and beautiful photos by Anne K. Haga, Ulf’s story—From Silence to Sound: My Quest to Hear Again—is now in print.

And finally, here is my original comment on her Six Degrees of separation, moved out of the darkness and into the bright light of day—enjoy!

A beautiful magazine, professional in every respect, and I am very pleased to have been part of its creation—a part perhaps no bigger than a mustard seed as your grandmother Hester might say, but still a part of the whole.

Moonlighting as your father? Moonlighting?

Being your father has always been and will always be a full time job. All those years since you stubbornly insisted at birth in presenting the soles of your feet to the world first instead of your head, have been a full time job. I will admit, however, although presented last instead of first, your head was beautifully rounded, and certain features such as the temporarily flat noses that were presented by your siblings at birth were absent in your case. The flat noses were caused by the long slide, of course, and soon rebounded.

My moonlighting since then has consisted of incidental tasks such as making a living to keep food on the table and shoes on everybody’s feet, assisting my country in losing two wars—Korea and Vietnam—working overtime to staunch the flow of illegal narcotics and illegal aliens into the US, detouring harmful plants, animals and vegetables away from our fields, cities and tables and controlling the outflow and inflow of people, vehicles and merchandise entering and exiting the United States..

I had a part-time job just trying to keep up with you, an effort in which I failed miserably. Six degrees of separation? That leaves some 354 degrees of separation between your mastery of so many varied skills and my success in trying to emulate them, so much separation that I officially surrender.

I give up, but I am exhilarated by the fact that you could not have done any of them without me. I take full credit for your creation—okay, half the credit—okay, okay, let’s just say that I suggested to your mother that we should have a second child—I guess one could say that I planted the seed, so to speak. Of course, I only suggested that to her after she announced that she was again in the family way—folks didn’t use the word pregnancy back in those days—they referred to it as being “in the family way.”

Nice work—kudos to you and Barbara for an outstanding publication.

Postscript: I took the liberty of extracting the following paragraph from a recent posting by Barbara, the lady mentioned above. You can find her home page here, and be prepared to begin experiencing hunger pains. She is a talented writer and a chef extraordinaire—oh, and she has really good hair and a marvelous smile.

These are her words:

When I’m not welcoming people to our home in the Washington, D.C., area, or writing this blog, I am deputy executive director of the Hearing Loss Association of America. I am also editor-in-chief of Hearing Loss Magazine. I don’t have a hearing loss myself but with one in ten Americans having a hearing loss, I have family and friends who do.

 
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Posted by on April 3, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Anatomy of loneliness . . .

At any time I am out and about and anywhere near a Half-price Book store, I park and enter and browse and usually find something I cannot do without—oops, I ended that sentence with a preposition. It should read “. . . something without which I cannot do.” Such was the case recently when I found a copy of McGuffey’s  First Eclectic Reader, a revised edition copyrighted 1907 and 1920 by H. H. Vall—yes, my copy is of the $5 variety, not one of the $1,000-plus revisions. My imagination is not strong enough to speculate on how much an original first issue might be worth.

I paid the princely Kingly price of $5 plus tax for my copy, primarily because its browned pages sheltered a newspaper clipping, torn and tattered and darkened by the years and held together with Scotch tape. The clipping also showed a brief statement labeled Lone Star Steel Company Drops. The statement dates the clipping at sometime during 1949 or 1950—probably in early 1950. The author, Nat Lamb or perhaps Nathan Lamb would now, if still living, be somewhere on the north side of eighty years in longevity. Dallas has more than its fair share of Lambs, both Nat and Nathan, and I could not pin one of them down as to age, gender or occupation.

As an aside, I have heard and seen the term fair share used in conversations and on radio, television and  in print so often that I now cringe when it appears, whether through sight or sound. Enough, I say—enough, enough, ENOUGH!

The complete article follows:

THE PIED TYPER
by
NAT LAMB

Loneliness is a babbling hunch-back soul, lost on the way to tomorrow, groping its way through the misery of unending space, forever looking back . . . seeing nothing.

This is the anatomy of loneliness . . . the deformed bones of its being, the wasted flesh of its twisted body . . . this is the shape of loneliness.

A wispy scent of forgotten fragrance, jerking the mind back to memories of a dead first love . . . the uneasy stirrings of gardenia leaves, discarded, dropping onto the ash heap of a burned out love . . .

Soft murmured phrases, whispering through the corridors of time, breathing the glory of an undying love in days long dead . . . raising the gray and misty ghost of a forgotten romance.

The haunting lilt of music swirling through the night . . . a tune played on a harp with half the strings missing, a melody heard in a dim-lit cafe over wine glasses on a checkered table . . . music of the past, intruding unwanted into the present.

The half-remembered warmth of a caress, mingled with a vision of time-withered flesh, creased and wrinkled with the passage of years . . . the creeping death of marching time. . . the slaughter of youth and the mangled dreams strewn over the years . . .

The crackling pages of a lavender-scented letter, yellow with age . . . faded ink blurred with tears except for a signed name under the words “Yours forever.”

Loneliness is the day after forever . . . the waking moments after a dream . . . memories forgotten until the midnight hour.

Loneliness is the throbbing moan of a half-heard train whistle wandering through the night to nowhere . . . a wild ride on a runaway nightmare with no beginning and no ending . . . the muted throbbing of an aching heart.

It is a compound fracture of the mind . . .a creeping paralysis of the soul . . . a gust of cold wind over the emotions . . . this is the anatomy of loneliness . . .

Pity the poor heart.

Postscript: In my first reading this post I considered it a sophomoric attempt at humor, or perhaps a tongue-in-cheek satirical analysis of loneliness. It reminded me of the time a college professor noted that my writing was somewhat turgid. It that is indeed a fault, I cannot continue claiming that I am sans faults in every respect. I confess my guilt to the accusation of turgidity—in fact, I embrace the fault, if in fact it be a fault.

Just one more serious afterthought: With subsequent readings I realized that the article on loneliness mirrored many of my own thoughts and feelings, and even now after those readings I still find mirrored emotions that parallel the author’s thoughts, and if that means I am sophomoric, or of a satirical bent, so be it.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

 
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Posted by on April 3, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Don’t lick the cookie bowl . . .

This post is the first in a series. It gives the link to a specific posting on a blog maintained by one of my three daughters, the second-born of three lovely girls—yep, my wife and I were short on boys, even though in every instance I placed my order for a boy. However—and that’s a really big however—we got the best of the deal.

I have a tripod of reasons for starting this series of postings. First and foremost, I want to give my readers the opportunity to view the gorgeous images on my daughter’s blog. She has mastered the art of photographing people, places, animals, insects and above all, glorious floral images—in fact, she has a comprehensive presentation of her talent now on show at Green Spring Gardens in Alexandria, Virginia. The show began this week and will last through March and April.

Click here for the Garden Muse Show display.

Click here for directions to Green Spring Gardens.

Click here for a brief biographical narrative on the artist/photographer/world traveler/sculptor/writer/publisher.

The second leg of my tripod is to provide fodder for my blog, and if you decide to view those sites, please don’t forget to return to this site—the best is yet to come. I frequently comment on the artist’s postings, and most of my comments are somewhat lengthy because I almost always have a lot to say. As any blogger knows, most viewers neglect to give comments the attention they deserve, unless of course the comments are on their own blog. Thus my third reason for beginning this series is to showcase my comments, to bring them up and out of the Stygian darkness into the bright light of individual posts in order to give them the attention they so richly deserve.

In the interest of full disclosure I freely admit that I am blessed, or perhaps cursed, with a giant ego, one that of necessity requires constant attention and—well, constant adulation stemming from all those complimentary comments on my comments—got it? I will gladly and gleefully accept non-complimentary comments, but only if they are presented in proper English, reasonably temperate in tone and bereft of foul language.

Each posting in this series will begin with all the above en toto, including this sentence, and my comment will begin with the URL that prompted the comment. You’ll need to read the posting first, then return to the comment—if not, you’ll have missed the best of the best on Word Press.

http://cindydyer.wordpress.com/2011/12/12/how-not-to-bake/

My comment follows:

As a youngster I cleaned the cookie mixing bowl one finger-load at a time (the social finger of the right hand). I mean, like, you know, when I was finished loading and licking the sweet dough and the wayward chocolate bits from my finger, the bowl could be returned unwashed to the cabinet shelf.

I estimate that in my early preteen years I consumed enough raw cookie dough that had the cookies been baked and allowed to accumulate, they would have kept several Girl Scouts busy delivering cookies for several days, and it in no way affected me, affected me, affected me . . .

Nice photos and a great narrative. By the way, are you sure the black cookies were not enhanced with Mary Jane? I remember (vaguely) that such enhancement darkened them—some might consider them tainted, of course.

Hey, daughter Number 2, I’m joking, I’m joking!

 
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Posted by on March 8, 2012 in Uncategorized