This writing will become a living work, and new Farts and Thoughts will be added as they happen…or as soon as I get around to it. I will add new writing additions at the top of the list to minimize scrolling to find whatever is new. As a warning, I confess to being awake most of the time…but a far cry from woke…so if I offend anyone…bummer!
Have you ever seen a dog with its head thrust out a car window just reveling in the breeze during a car ride? Ask any dog, “Wanna go for a ride?” and they know exactly what you mean and start going crazy happy in anticipation. Cats? Not so much; they are more like, “Screw the ride…got any treats?”
Ever try to put a large tom cat into a pet carrier that he has absolutely NO desire to be in? It’s easy. [koff…] Being a generous, sharing citizen, here are 28-easy steps I’ve documented based upon a true story that unfolded at our house Saturday morning. I cannot certify that these 28-easy steps will work for you, but there may be several learning moments revealed for your benefit as I recount the adventure.
His name is Monster. That should be your first clue; 12-pounds plus of year old tom cat. My wife rescued him off an on-ramp at a truck stop on I-74. The boy has had it hard from the get-go…so the “Force” is strong in this one.
He belongs to my stepson and had been visiting us and our other three cats over the Christmas holiday. Bob, Wesley and Lilly will not be sorry to see him make an exit, though Bob was a little concerned over the ruckus leading up to his departure…but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Saturday was Monster’s last day, and it was time for my wife to drive him home to Greenwood, IN. Like I said earlier, cats aren’t so much for riding in cars; especially, when seeing the pet carrier in your hand translates to, “We ARE going for a ride and YOU…the cat…have no choice in the matter.” In advance of ever even seeing the car, there is a direct correlation here – pet carrier = car ride. Solution options that surface in a cat’s brain? Flee. Hide. Fight.
Unfortunately, those three options are not actually discrete options; instead they represent a chain of escalation.
After numerous adventures in transporting Monster previously, I’ve managed to reduce the number of steps required to stuff his sorry cat ass into a pet carrier with no injuries to anyone and minimal property damage. Here’s all that is required:
(Quick hint: Stretch out a little first to prevent blowing a hammie...)
- Pretend you’re NOT trying to capture the cat; in fact, do not even go near the pet carrier.
- Set a trap by closing all bedroom doors upstairs…denying the famous under-the-bed escape tactic.
- Search to find out which couch he’s hiding under because he can already feel the capture vibe going on and his cat senses tell him shit is about to go down.
- Wife puts raincoat on backwards and slips into gloves to minimize personal injury.
- Move couch away from wall so wife…who has arthritis in her back that limits her ability to effectively execute a snatch and grab…can attempt to snatch and grab the cat. Epic snatch and grab fail…
- Swear after cat bolts by crippled wife and flies upstairs.
- Dash to bottom of stairs to successfully spring the second floor trap, as all bedroom doors are shut and there is no way out for the fugitive cat. Cat meowed loudly once…sounded like “Bastard!”
- Move into defensive posture to guard bottom of stairs while crippled wife wearing backwards raincoat and gloves starts up the stairs on all fours in an attempt to execute another snatch and grab…sweetly calling the cat, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty, mama has some treats for you!”
- Regroup after he out-maneuvers my wife and blows by me saying, “Outta my way fat ass!” Wife is left sitting on the stairs wearing a backwards raincoat and gloves laughing hysterically.
- Repeat search step number three and discover he’s now under couch number two in the den.
- Realize that second floor trap strategy is now hosed, and move to Plan B – that calls for ripping the couch away from the wall and grabbing the f#*king cat myself. Epic snatch and grab fail number 3
- Resume chase…sprint through den…hurdling coffee table…stubbing toe on door jam leading into living room…swear…and stumble into living room knowing the f#*king cat is now under couch number three.
- Swear some more.
- Throw loose Christmas ornament at cat under couch number three and return to den to find wife doubled over on couch number one laughing her ass off and discovering she may have peed a little.
- Rest while wife empties bladder in downstairs powder room…still laughing…and formulate Plan C.
- Yank couch number three away from wall to grab f#*king cat. Another epic fail…
- Give chase back into den to couch number two…again…swear…again…
- Move rocking chair and recliner to block path out of den and position wife at choke point like a shortstop anticipating a hot grounder coming her way in the event of another failed snatch and grab.
- Move couch slowly so cat can’t see me coming. Ignore wife who is still laughing so hard she’s snorting…
- Grab a handful of fur on cat’s flank…cat won’t budge…unable to drag him out from under couch number two…all four paws locked onto carpet, claws extended through pile and backing and embedded in padding underneath.
- Shove couch with hip and grab another handful of fur on back of his neck right behind his head just like his mama would grab him.
- Squeeze tightly using the Vulcan behind-the-neck grip to release claws and cause temporary Vulcan Grip paralysis, thrust hand and mostly-paralyzed cat into the air and crow triumphantly, “Gotcher ass, big boy!”
- Refuse to hand him off to wife who is wearing backwards raincoat and gloves knowing as soon as my hand comes off his neck, releasing the Vulcan Grip, he will go bat-shit crazy on her.
- Shout, “Just get the f#*king crate door open while he’s still mostly-paralyzed.
- Attempt to stuff wild-eyed, mostly-paralyzed cat into crate ass first while wife wearing backwards rain coat and gloves attempts to pry his rear claws…which apparently still function while mostly-paralyzed…off the edges of the crate door.
- Nearing a successful capture, attempt to slam crate door to prevent repeating steps 1 thru 25 again…despite there being three human hands still inside crate…with an unhappy tom cat.
- Remove hands quickly and carefully to latch door…never mind that one glove was lost in the scuffle and now is in possession of the pissed off tom cat.
- Walk away victorious…muttering something not very nice and start re-positioning all the furniture in two rooms like nothing ever happened.
And there you go. No fuss. No muss. You’re welcome!
About five minutes after the car pulled out of the driveway I found something my wife should’ve taken with her. I called her mobile and when she answered…she was still laughing. I hope she peed a little more…
Late last summer, I experienced an acute adrenaline rush while sitting at a stoplight waiting to turn. Minding my own business, I heard that crackling, scratchy, sizzling, unmistakable noise of large insect wings that preceded a psychotic cicada colliding with my throat right above where my collarbones met. That should have been enough, but noooo…he plunged downward and into my shirt. I released all 22 syllables of the “F” word as I beat against my chest and initiated ten hybrid mountain climbers, squat thrusts, and jumping jacks while still belted in my seat. The three hayseeds in the jacked-up pickup truck next to me got much enjoyment watching my gyrations and screaming like a little girl after the 22nd syllable of the “F” bomb left my lips. The bug died at some point in the melee, and I cannot swear to it, but I might have peed a little…
How do you do what you do for God’s glory? I struggle with that and have defaulted to praying to know His will…and let Him sort the next steps out. Who am I to sort out His perfect plan? Pray and get out of His way!
Since I was born on Ground Hogs Day, I always get the question, “Did you see your shadow today?” Stand down, pilgrims! Let me explain it one more time. Listen up!
- See shadow = 6 more weeks of winter
- No shadow = 6 more weeks of winter
Please write it down; it’s the same every year. Trust me; I’ve seen it (or not) 70 times now.
What’s AI? Abundant Intrusion? Maybe Annoying Interruptions?
These are some of what I experience coming from artificial intelligence. It’s the “Here’s what you missed!” messages on LinkedIn…or “We thought you’d like…” advertisements…or “We’ve added you to…” subscription announcements. I think AI is going to be everywhere. If today’s applications are any indication, I may never have to use my brain for anything other than unsubscribing from the shit I DID NOT miss while I was away…or NEVER thought I’d like…like a hot Russian wife…ever! Sure it’s all artificial, but the jury’s still out on the intelligence. Maybe tempered with Actual Intelligence is an option to explore.
There are several effective concoctions to clean one’s plumbing thoroughly; the most effective are three Skyline Coneys. After consumption, you have approximately 90 minutes before you take an 8-second ride on the porcelain bull, and it works every time…
I’ve determined that cloning humans is a reality. I know this because a woman calls me several times a day from all over the USA to tell me she received my credit request and thinks I’ll like the credit line she’s set up. First, I never requested anything of the sort. Second, she is a relentless clone. I’d love for iPhone to give a reverse explosive detonation feature to fry all clone spam calls. Blocking numbers is a bust because she is always teleporting to a new location or tagging a clone counterpart to call me. They’re relentless. Destruction is the only solution, as I can see it!
The following series runs parallel to a cigar-smoking cessation project. I’d heard 21 days to break a habit…but no one mentioned suicidal thoughts on day ten and every day after that…
Day One: Maybe just one puff…maybe just…nope, cannot cave…it’s only been two hours.
Day Two: Contemplating eating one of the cats.
Day Three: Picked up some fresh asparagus at Kroger. You can’t keep them lit. Oy!
Day Four: No cigar. Woof! Just woof…
Day Five: Still no cigar. Cats are still uneaten.
Day Six: Pickin’ up sticks. And not the kind you smoke, and I am holding the line so far.
Day Seven: Google says three days for nicotine to clear your system, ten days for cotinine, 21 days to break an addiction, and 18 to 254 to kick a habit. Time to hunker down, dawg…embrace that turkey cold such as she is…
Day Eight: Smokeless still…and slowly building a relationship with the turkey despite her chill demeanor. I don’t want to get too attached, however, because, on day 21, I’m going to stuff her sorry butt and roast her for a celebratory meal.
Day Nine: Have the turkey by the throat and about to sling it like a fast-pitch softball. Mowing the grass relieved me, but I need to do the rest of the block to remain distracted. Want a cigar! Want to quit! Rock, Paper, Scissors by yourself is an epic fail. Can never remember which hand matters…screwed…12 more days…
Day Ten: Begin again. Oh my, reverting to nursery rhymes. Googled the lyrics to Teddy Bears Picnic late yesterday. Right, better not go alone… you know…down in the woods. Take the turkey. That’s it…take the freaking turkey. Eleven more days? Dang! The turkey and I are heading down into the woods today, and will kick us a little teddy bear butt. Now, who’s in for a surprise?
Day Eleven: The teddy bear’s picnic was a bust. It was the turkey’s idea and sounded novel at the time. She was trying to distract me, and I suppose it worked. I am still smoke-free. I was starting to like this turkey, frosty wench that she is.
Day Twelve: Despite bonding with the turkey, I’ve determined she is a temptress, a relentless deceiver with empty promises. Looking forward to the feast in nine more days when I slowly roast what’s left of her carcass. The only thing smoked on that day will be her sorry ass…
Day Thirteen: Still smokeless. Feeling okay so far, but part of me is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Headspace corrupted. It helps to understand that. 9 days to go. Turkey is doomed…
Day Fourteen: Almost day 15. Made it. No smoke again, but I shredded a big bag of buttered popcorn at a Top Gun matinee. Not proud, and my fingers still smell like Quaker State.
Day Fifteen: I woke this morning to taunts from the turkey wench describing my impending failure. I resolved to choke this turkey out, not to be confused with choking the chicken. No smoke. No mercy for the turkey!
Day Sixteen: The turkey is changing tactics and encouraging me to eat something…anything. Still no smoke. Hungry, and today is my fasting day. I must hold out until this afternoon despite jonzing to eat the butt off a Barbie doll. Yeah, hungry. That’s the ticket, deep-fried Barbie butt. Deep-fried anything. Six more days, then the gig is up for the bird. I am talking stuffing, mashed taters, and gravy. Overdose on tryptophan and wake up smeared with gravy and smoke-free at last…for good!
Day Seventeen: I was up early to walk in a misty fog. Breathing clean moist air felt good. Brought the turkey along. Mistake. Everything was fine until she nuzzled my neck and whispered, “C’mon, Gar, just smoke one!” Without a single utterance, I snapped and drop-kicked her fat ass for the final quarter mile. I twisted my ankle a bit, given she’s such a fat old bird. Worth it, though…actually didn’t know you could drop-kick poultry with any accuracy …but hey…something new every day. Speaking of days,…only five more, and still no smoke!
Day Eighteen: Still smoke-free. It’s not uncommon for me to awaken with a cat perched on my chest, silently staring at me. Not this morning. It was the turkey. She said softly, “You’re running out of time, big guy!” I laughed in her face…her ugly, fat turkey face… and said, “All I’ve got is time, you frost-bitten poultry! Only four more days and your sorry ass will be in the oven and your giblets in the gravy!”
Day Nineteen: Three days before that freezer-burnt turkey falls under the knife and drowns in gravy. She’s just part of my Babylon to endure before being prospered…whatever that entails. The nation of Israel waited 70 years…I can handle 21 days with His help before being restored…and set to enjoy a turkey feast.
Day Twenty: In the home stretch. I am not even thinking about cigars…well, maybe a little. The turkey is dragging her tail and is far enough behind that I cannot hear her whining taunts. I confirmed I had turkey gravy in the pantry and fresh milk for the mashed taters. I will pick up some bread dressing at the butcher shop later today. Going to be a feast, and the turkey thinks she’s going to be a guest as opposed to a featured entrée—no sense ruining her expectations.
Day Twenty-One: I made it, but it’s still early…Going cold turkey only works if you have a cold turkey, even if she’s only a manufactured figment of your imagination. She gives you something to think about besides the nagging desire to smoke. I mean, seriously… the satisfaction of throat-punching poultry will distract you for at least a couple of days. A drop kick here or a bitch slap there, who would even think about lighting up…unless maybe it would be her tail feathers. Light the poultry up!
Smoking Cessation Epilogue: Not sure 21 days breaks an addiction, but it does end a hostage situation. Sadly, not sure if I was the hostage or it was the turkey. Either way, one of us got Stockholmed. Thank all of you for your encouragement over the last 21 days. I’d have a party, but I’ll be better off without witnesses to poultry abuse. The bird already went down, many feathers scattered about…
We seem to be able to seize bank accounts and levy sanctions all over the world… why not cartels? They just seized $20m worth of fentanyl in California and knew which cartel was the point of origin. We know the base chemicals come from China and India. So why not cripple the sources? What am I missing?
Am I the only one who would like to smother Mike Lindell with one of his MyPillows?
My ten-foot mammoth sunflower finally bloomed. I named her Alice since she’s ten feet tall. I never asked her anything, and just told her she was beautimous. Found her towering over her eight and nine-foot sibling volunteers. No magic beans were used, and I still have the cow!
Sometimes a truck stop omelet is the perfect start for a day.
Why can’t I live in those mountaintop moments in the valley? Maybe it’s because I try to live IN Him instead of embracing His life IN me. Maybe it’s not about me…it’s about Him in me. Him through me…let His light shine. #shineonyoucrazydiamond #lifethroughtheholyspirit #surrender
I did the big trash day dash this morning. I woke early to a flashback of the sounds of missing the school bus…the only way to get to school…my parents were not an early Uber option…then it hit me…it was not a school bus I heard…it was a trash truck…it was big trash day, and my big trash was NOT on the curb. The truck was groaning and clanging in the cul de sac next door. I jumped out of bed in bare feet and boxers and did the big trash dash. More panic than pride. Did not even care. I got it all to the curb and back in the house before the big trash guys saw me. The saddest thing was high-fiving myself before picking grass clippings off my bare feet and slipping back into bed.
I’d love to drive a new $100,000 electric pickup off the lot but expect the cops to be on me in a few minutes. At least I could avoid grocery costs with the free meals I’d score for a few years in the slammer.
What’s left to do when joy has busted your chops? Methinks a prayer of thanksgiving is a nice fit!
Here is an old Celtic proverb I ran across this morning, and I thought it profound… “Never give a sword to a man who can’t dance. It means a man must know how to celebrate life before he can be entrusted to protect it.”
I must be the luckiest man alive, with so many people trying to reach me to deliver all the crap I’ve won, but no one has my address. So far, I’ve scored four riding lawnmowers, six major appliances, and who knows how much mystery stuff from Amazon. How lucky can one guy be?
I spend time with Oswald Chambers most mornings – “We tend to use prayer as a last resort, but God wants it to be our first line of defense. We pray when there’s nothing else we can do, but God wants us to pray before we do anything at all.”
I’ve noticed that TV news interviews get crazy when the interviewee does not answer the interviewer’s leading question. They both talk over the other, making the conversation unintelligible, and the only solution is to pray for a Mike Lindell MyPillow commercial or just shut the damn thing off. Done!
Bless Mike Lindell: he just gave me one last chance for the 3,458th time to buy MySlippers. Oy!
Mike Lindell just made an exciting announcement that the original MySlippers are finally back.
I think I might have peed a little…
“You don’t have a soul.
You ARE a soul.
You have a body.”
Thank you to C.S.Lewis
Rage is the ugly antidote for reconciliation.
A heart filled with Anger won’t produce a life filled with peace.
Holding onto Resentment accomplishes much the same result.
Choose peace with a side of contented joy…
Hate has become a habit found in darkness. We need to walk in the light as a direction, not a perfection.
If 97% of Americans have hemorrhoids, does that mean 3% are perfect assholes? Asking for a friend.
The key message from this morning’s sermon is finding unity over our divisiveness over so many points of view…
“When the message we’re known for is anything other than the Good News of Jesus, then we have lost our way.”
How hard do we strive to find joy in our lives only to be made to feel guilty and undeserving when it finally arrives? Too much blessing to not embrace it for what it is… a gift from the Spirit. Be joyful like a big dog with a bone.
Apparently, Google has decided I drank poisoned water at Camp LeJeune, and I need a bigger penis. Google’s algorithm is 0 for 2.
Read this in my morning devotional and thought it worth sharing: “Everything the devil says sounds like a trick to get back what you think you deserve, but it’s actually a trap to take away what you’ve already been given.” Have a blessed day!
Sometimes you need to have faith that God’s got this. That’s enough for me. I will not be eaten by a lion, stoned by an angry mob, or nailed to a tree. He’s got this!
To prepare Thanksgiving for one, I put a 15-pound turkey in the dryer for 45 minutes and wound up with a 3-pound Cornish hen. Genius! Happy Thanksgiving to all Y’all!
Signed the final papers today. It was easy and now starts the hard part. Pray she can heal too.
From our sermon this morning: “We can never know grace until we are convinced we don’t deserve it. Grace is not fair…and it is unsettling because we know we cannot earn something undeserved.”
“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river, and he’s not the same man.”
I don’t know who said this, but I’ll be a different man an hour from now.
I’m sorry, but Gary Danielson makes me swear. No matter what the game is…it’s just the sound of his blathering.
Pride can be like a roaring lion that devours families and kills before it’s time to die. Devil’s work is never done.
Please don’t wait
It’ll be too late.
I just treated myself to breakfast at Waffle House and watched a new grill cook get her first lesson on flipping an egg in an omelet pan. She practiced with intense concentration until she flipped one perfectly. That was just a little thing as little things go, but the triumphant smile that lit up her face was worth the 22-mile one-way journey for breakfast. Celebrate the little things even if you’ve had nothing to do with them.
Two older men sat in the booth behind me, talking loudly like older men do. Not calling out older men because I am one. One of them says, “My wife says I cain’t hear shit!”
“Me too,” says the other one, “ She been bitchin’ at me for years.”
The first guy asks, “How long y’all been married?”
The second guy says, “All my life!”
I had to stifle a laugh…
The first guy says, “Well, I finally broke down and bought me some of them little hearing aids.”
Second guy again, “Yah? What kind was they?”
The first guy answered, “Bout 7:45.”
Waffle House coffee is very good, but not so much when you cycle a hot fresh cup through your nose.
I’d been sitting in my booth for five minutes. No greeting. No move to take my breakfast order. Two young servers ignored my arrival. One jabbering to the other. The other was on her phone, ignoring her jabbering co-neglector. With my quick-to-anger trigger tripped, I walked out and got in my car to leave. Melissa, my regular server, saw me leave from her seat in the back office, flew out the door, and knocked on my window. “Hon, I was in the back and did not see you come in. I’ll serve you. Just come on back inside.” Felt good to have someone care about me finally. How often do we demonstrate caring for someone else? How often do we feel worthy enough to be cared for? Make someone feel worthy. Give a rip about them today! Serve them.
Grace is unfair, especially when you see someone receiving it that you feel is unworthy. We cannot earn grace, and it’s undeserved and unearnable. But we can give it freely. Give a little Grace this Christmas morning. Help someone feel worthy. Peace!
I read something this morning that made me think and be hopeful that 2023 would be a better year and that sharing it might brighten someone else’s outlook. “If you are walking through the valley and in the shadow of death, remember His light is still shining; you just can’t see it from where you are right now. So keep the Faith and commit to moving forward. Have a blessed New Year, my friends, no matter how dark it may be!
Gary G. Wise
Writer of Things, Workforce Performance Advocate, Coach, Speaker
Web: Living In Learning