Retroactive Birth Control...A Thanksgiving Wish

The car business can be ridiculous at times.  And entertaining.

Especially when small children are involved.

Just now, a family (husband, wife, four small children) stormed out of our dealership, angry at us.

Now, for the record, I have no problem with people being angry at me.  I've had a lifetime of it, and most of the time I brought it upon myself.  But not this time.

These folks weren't mad because of a vehicle, or deal, or payment, or anything remotely having to do with buying a car.

They were mad at us because THEIR STUPID CHILDREN WOULDN'T BEHAVE.

Like Daddy used to say, "I think those parents need a whippin'."

Take a girl, about five years old, add two brothers--let's say eight and ten, throw in some complimentary balloons, and prepare for the apocalypse.

"YOU CAN'T BLOW IT UP AS BIG AS JOHNNY CAN, DAD!  NO YOU CAN'T!  NO YOU CAN'T!  DAAAAAADDDDDDD!"

Hey, kid, your Daaaaaddddd may not be able to blow it up as big as Johnny can, but guess what?  I can light your ass up like a bottle-rocket on the Fourth of July.  In a split-second.  And your entire family to boot.

Now, after this child verbally pukes on his dad, with Mom standing close by, he proceeds to lie down on the floor of the showroom, kicking and screaming.  (Insert visual of Sales Consultant walking by, silently shaking his head).  At which point Mom, drawing on her vast wealth of Mother-Wisdom, loudly proclaims, "Come on, let's go.  These people are all smartasses.  We're never buying a car here."

Lady, you got that right.

And let me get this straight.  You can't control your children, and it's somebody else's fault.

A little perspective:  I don't really have a problem with children who sometimes misbehave.  I have a problem with parents who allow said behavior to go unchecked and uncorrected.


A little more perspective:  in a few years, these same children will be driving on the same roads I use.  And I'll know who they are.

I'll be able to tell by the giant Johnny-Blown balloons filling up the minivan.

An Invasion of Privacy--At A Reunion

So...my sweetheart and I attended the First Annual Baptist Student Union Re-Union at Mercer University in Macon this last weekend, where she was both the youngest- and best-looking alumnus on campus.

We gathered at a restaurant the night before (which shall go unnamed, but the initials are Cheddar's), where my love squealed with delight at seeing friends we hadn't seen in over thirty years (except for our respective roommates, who married each other, and with whom we had kept up over the years).

She breezed into Mercer's Newton Hall, site of the infamous Berry-Coppage nuptials thirty-two years ago, without a hitch the next day.  She squealed with delight as she saw friends she hadn't seen in over twelve hours.  It was last night all over again.

As I strolled in behind her, a burly woman (I found out later her name was Butch) looked me over and said, "Not so fast, bud.  Please walk through the body-scanner before entering."

Now, I realize I may be a little rough around the edges, but a FULL BODY SCAN at a REUNION?  Please.  No, really, please.

As I passed through the body scanner, and Butch perused all my most private, prized possessions, I wondered silently, What the...?

"Please, sir, no profanity.  This is a former Baptist Institution of Higher Learning."

Butch could read my mind?  This would not end well.

"Sir, please exit the scanner and step to the side."  As countless other former BSUers waltzed right on in (well, not exactly, since we all know God didn't put no praying knee and dancing foot on the same leg), I was being pushed around by a woman on a college campus.  Deja vu.  All over again.

"Sir, I'll have to do a pat-down to make sure you're not carrying any concealed weapons or the King James Version of the Bible."

No.  And again I say, No.  No pat-down, no strip-search, no body-scans, no nothing.  In the words of that great theologian Oz:  "Not no way, not no-how."

I ran--RAN--toward the barbecue sandwiches and tater chips, daring anyone to stop me.


My future daughter-in-law will be flying in to Atlanta tomorrow from Orlando for Thanksgiving, "National Opt-Out Day" at airports nationwide.  I'm sure the TSA will demand to scan/search her since she is so obviously a threat to national security, being a hairdresser cosmetologist and all.

The philosophy behind all this nonsense reminds me of what a preacher once said about the beer commercials which showed a guy screaming down a snow-packed mountain on skis, sliding to a perfect halt just outside the lodge, where a beautiful woman waited for him with a cold six-pack.  The preacher said he'd like to see that guy drink that six-pack at the top of the mountain, then see if he could slalom down that slope.

I think I'd like to see the TSA personnel spend some time in full body-scan/search mode before they're allowed to inflict the same on babies, grannies, and my son's sweetheart.

Especially Butch.

I Had A Colonoscopy and Went To Heaven

As that great theologian, Elvis Presley, once said, "It's been a long time, baby."

While you've been away, I've had a couple of things happen.

A couple of Fridays ago, I had a colonoscopy.  Let me explain.

Thursday afternoon, before the procedure ( a term loosely defined as a gross invasion of privacy on one of my most private parts) on Friday morning, I was instructed to use the product "Evac-U-Crap" to "cleanse" my intestinal tract.  At 4:00pm, I began.

First, I mixed 32 ounces of a semi-clear, fizzing concoction in a container provided by the manufacturer (all for the low, low price of $64.00, handling included).  Then, every fifteen minutes, I drank eight ounces of the stuff.  A play-by-play:

4:15pm--nothing.

4:30pm--nothing.

4:45pm--still nothing, although by this point I've decided I hate warm Gatorade.

5:00pm--a slight rumbling in the nether regions.  A preview of things to come.

So...about 5:18pm, more or less, I exploded in the first of several eruptions, the details of which are better left unstated.  The good news was that the whole process would begin again at 7:00pm that same day, when I would consume another 32 ounces of Evac-U-Crap, after which it would consume me.  Again.

7:15pm--pure fire turning me inside out.

7:30pm--I decide to have "Exit Only" tattooed on my lower back in hopes that will prevent the doctor from performing the procedure.

7:45pm--"Exit Only" doesn't even begin to describe it.

8:00pm--I want to die.  Or at least get a padded toilet seat.

The instructions clearly stated that I was to have a "clear liquid" diet the night before my colonoscopy.  No problem, that's what it looked like I'd been having for the past month.

Friday morning I went to the hospital, accompanied by my sweetheart, for the "procedure".  The doctor had told me that I'd be drowsy during the colonoscopy.  I demanded to be put to sleep.  Not under anesthetic--put me down, like a dying dog.  Please.

He did.  I slept through the entire twelve minutes it took him to figure out that my colon was, and is now, fine.

While I was "under", I saw Daddy and Uncle Johnny.  They were standing in front of me, somewhere which looked like the mountains where I live.  Daddy said, "We've been waiting for you", then turned and said something to Uncle Johnny, and they both laughed.

Then I woke up.

My wife said as I was coming out of the anesthesia, I asked her where Daddy was.  When she told me he wasn't there, she said I started crying.  I'm sure I did.

Not from the procedure.  From that little glimpse of heaven.