GREAT EXPECTORATIONS

There’s nothing like a mid-January, low-near-zero-degrees day with snow underfoot and icicles overhead, to remind us that spring is just around the corner — if not the nearest corner, then a corner in Arizona or Florida, where Major League baseball will soon begin spring training.

Baseball, as you will recall, is that sport where spitters are both frowned upon and commonplace — frowned upon, as in a long-illegal pitch called the spitter (spitball), and commonplace, in that few are the players who don’t partake in the manly art of spitting:

One would think that in this day and age, with so much attention given to sanitary practices, ballparks would be required to have spittoons placed at various points on the ball field. For example, how about replacing the bases, home plate, and pitching rubber with spittoons sunk into the ground and covered with a grate? Wouldn’t that be great? Same idea in the outfield and coach’s boxes. Hey, if grates work great on storm sewers, they should be able to handle all the spit coming down at baseball fields. As for the dugouts, a few dozen buckets strategically placed within spitting distance of the bench should do the trick, along with maybe a sandbox for those who need a bigger target. All this spitting image improvement at no great expense — what’s not to like?

While we’re at it, why not cover all the bases by replacing some of the uncouth music played at major league parks, like The Chicken Dance, with spit tunes such as this:

Speaking of covering all the bases (and then some), Who better to do so than….

I’m out of here.

 

 

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CONSPIRACY WEARY

Do you have a favorite conspiracy theory? Not to be morbid, but my theory is that we have all been set up for elimination. The proof of my theory is that every one of the billions of human beings born before 1900* is dead (with apologies to a possible unknown straggler or two still hanging in there)….and there’s no reason to believe that anyone born post-1900 (who hasn’t yet perished) will be able to avoid this deplorable fate in due course. Let’s face it — the god(s) on high created a helluva mystery down here, and we’re the fall guys.

Of course, there are many who believe there is no death, professing that the body will be resurrected with the soul in a next life — even  cremated bodies, whose ashes have been scattered to the four winds and seven seas, will go to that great watering hole in the sky for another round. I would drink to that theory, but given the untold millions who have suffered agony in this go-round, who could drink enough to forget that the hereafter operates under the same management as the present? Raising the bar won’t bury the past.

Now, unlike most conspiracy theorists, I do not hold my theory to be the god-honest truth. It could be wrong. Maybe the gods have a heart; maybe we will live forever. Michel de Montaigne wrote, “Socrates thought, and so do I, that the wisest theory about the gods is no theory at all.” A rather unconsoling thought, perhaps, but one, at least, that’s not dead in the water. In any case, there’s no use losing any sleep over it.

*If you doubt that billions of human beings were born and died before 1900, click here:
https://www.strangerdimensions.com/2014/07/07/many-people-have-ever-lived-died/

DUBIOUS PROPOSITIONS

I’m a big fan of old sayings, but even I concede that some sayings could no more pass the proverbial smell test than a rodent could pass a spell(ing) test. They may seem innoscent enough, but smellegant isn’t the same as elegant, and you must admit that a proverb like A turd in the hand is worth two in the tush is less than elegant. Really, close encounters of the turd kind could leave you holding your nose….if not checking your rear-view mirror.

That said, are such askew old sayings any less farcical than the twisted tweets America’s Tweeter-in-Chief oft twitters? “Fake news!”…”fake news!”…”fake news!” And if ANYONE can smell (like) a rat when it comes to fake news, it is obviously President Tweety Turd.

Leaving the President’s behind for a moment, here are some classic old sayings. Can you make out the fakeout — aka smell the rat — in these venerable gems?

If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and mocks like a mocking bird, duck — it’s The Donald.

A watched pot never boils….but it may get a bit peeved.

A rolling stone gathers no animosity.

A fool and his honey are soon parted.

Faint heart ne’er won bare lady.

Oil and water don’t mix — got that, Slick?

You can’t get blood out of a turnip, but you can get honey out of two-lips.

Monkey pee pee, monkey do do (easy come, easy go).

Dead men tell no tales, but some may leave a will which does.

Friends and would-be heirs, some of the above were almost enough to make me gag, but I can assure your butt that not every old phrase strays in dubious ways. For example:

….and this:

….and this:

Oh….and I almost forgot this old saying: HAPPY NEW YEAR!

 

 

 

Y ME, LORD

Friends, if you Xpected an X post after my W post, U haven’t been paying attention, because as I’ve previously Xplained, X is out. Even X post facto, there is no X factor here. Y? There are no old songs with girls named X in the title, that’s Y. That’s Y U C Y here.

Now that we got that straightened out, a word to the Ys: even if I were a Ys man (or a Ys guy, for that matter), I am not Ys enough to know more than one or two Y girl songs. So let’s start with that, and then, if necessary, I’ll pray for God’s help to find another Y song.

Sorry I asked, Lord. I could have done without that last one.

U CAN’T BLAME ME FOR MESSING WITH U

I need to take liberties with U girl, because U girl songs are scarcer than u might think. There is a song titled URSALA (from the Latin ursa, meaning bear)….but it’s not an oldie, so I’m going to pass on Ursala. Bear with me as I try to make it through the pass before my puns become unbearable.

Our first song, UTAH WE LOVE THEE, is a reach, but a few girls have been named Utah in Utah, so I’m of a state of mind to go with it. Georgia On My Mind, eat your heart out.

Next is an even bigger reach, as I’m going with a Lady called Ukulele:

Isn’t Ukulele Lady lovely? Who’d ever guess that gal is 92 years old (‘born’ 1925) and can still do wicky wacky woo…not to mention inka dinka doo? It’s all good in the moonlight.

This brings us to the biggest reach of all — but the season is right and the singer is a U, even if the song isn’t:

THEY’RE PLAYING R SONG (PART II)

Although R (Part II) brings the number of posts (18) in this series in line with the corresponding letter of the alphabet, I foresee that after S and T, most of the remaining letters are going to present a challenge to staying on course  — especially X. The only gal I’m aware of whose name starts with X was Xanthippe, wife of Socrates, but as far as I know, no one back then wrote a song about her….and if they did, they left no record — or even sheet music. Papyrus would have been available, though apparently it was used for different ends, which in hindsight was a good idea on paper, but went to waste in practice.

Meanswhile, back at the R, it’s time to ride:

Red may have had a head start, but Rosetta and Rosalie have their own tales to tell:

That’s all four now. Happy Thanksgiving!

B C-ING YOU (NO B S)

What do Bonnie and Clyde do?

What do mistermuse do?

He posits posts you can bank on for interest, though short term in sum cases (sumtimes as little as two seconds). If you’re thinking in terms of interest that goes on and on, read The Bard or The Donald (depending on whether you’re more attuned to Bill Shakespeare or Bull Shit).

For this particular caper, we stick up — I mean pick up — from the initial A, where our girl’s-name songs left off….this time killing two letters (B and C) with one post. For our B song, off to BONNIE SCOTLAND we go:

As long as we B in Scotland, we might as well C in Scotland:

OK, so CLYDE isn’t a girl’s name — not a minor detail, I confess. I am thus forced to acknowledge that selecting the ideal song isn’t as simple as A-B-C — our girl C will have to wait until my next post after all. I Be C-ing you then (Lord willing and the river don’t rise).