Musings Of The Muddled Male

By Bob Stevens

The Muddled Male 

A note to anyone who might be reading today’s column.  We have been moving this whole week and I have been lost somewhere in a haze trying to remember which box might contain the miscellaneous cords and connectors needed to make my computer work.  To add to the dilemma I still don’t have an internet connection and am trying to use my beloved iPhone as a hotspot so that I can send this to our beloved editor who cracks a mean whip and suffers no excuses since she manages to edit the paper even while on vacation somewhere in the outback where there is no internet and no electricity. 

She manages to do so only because my friend the professor, to whom our editor is married, has a large cache of gold bars with which he has been able to purchase a satellite channel which allows her to access the internet where ever they might be traveling.  What’s more, he has a stationary bike to which he has attached a large generator to produce the electricity needed by our editor’s high tech equipment.  So with a no excuses boss I went back into my archive and came up with a story (all true of course) which I will share here in hopes that no one remembers they read it in 2010.  If you do, please forgive me.  And if my hotspot doesn’t work then you will just know that I am AWOL without knowing the reason.

EDITOR'S NOTE  The only things true is that 1. He is moving and has no hotspot and 2. I am a mean editor.

Appendages

        Ann, my wife, and I are having another argument.  This one is not a minor disagreement.  It is, in the words of Ann, a matter of life and death.  She thinks it is my fault.  I am claiming that I am just getting old and that causes my addictions to grow and health issues to escalate.

        My addiction is sugar.  My health issue is diabetes.  Ann is claiming that I am in control of the problem.  I am claiming that the problem is in control of me.  It's not my fault that food tastes best when coated with chocolate.  Ann wants me to eat health food which tastes like cardboard since it has no salt, no sugar, no fat, no cholesterol, and, from my perspective, no flavor.

        When Ann orders a scrumptious hamburger she has them hold the salt, hold the dressing, hold the onions, and make certain that there are no French fries unless they have been placed between two paper towels and stomped-on to remove any remnants of the cooking oil that gives them flavor.  She does allow a pickle, if it has been run through the dishwasher to remove salt and sugar, and she will occasionally drink a small glass of unflavored water.

        My idea of a scrumptious burger is to double the dressing, melt on a thick slice of cheddar, ask the cook to pile on a few deep fried onion rings, and fill the plate with curly fries.  Then I wash the whole thing down with a Vanilla shake for that much needed hint of sweet.

        Ann says that I will know that she is right when they start cutting off my appendages because of the lack of circulation in my extremities.  When I expire, she claims, she will be able to save money by burying me in a shoebox since there won't be enough of me left to need any more room.  On top of that she says she will nail a sign to the lid that says, "Don't be sad, he did it to himself."  She is guessing that they will probably have to cut off my nose which will let her use a shallow shoebox made for sandals.

        She can't bully me.  I think I will go sneak a chocolate bar which is obviously a vegetable since it came from a bean.