Money Saving Scheme

Ok, so I was thinking of a way to save money, and I think I may have come up with something. Find a Christian girl, born on X-mas, and get married to her on X-mas. That way, you take care of birthday present, Holiday present, and Anniversary present on the same day. You would probably have to get a more expensive present, but it would just be one, and I feel that it would be less than the cost of all three presents combined. Plus, all the time you save!!! If it wasn't for Valentines Day, it would be perfect.

Words I think more people should use.

I have noticed a dearth of vocabulary from otherwise loquacious orators. Here are some words I feel should be incorporated into everyday language:

Tawny
Snifter
Perambulate
Avuncular
Ebullient
Augur

More to be added as I think of them...anyone have any ideas?

Poems I wrote on plane trip to New Jersey

Here are a few poems that I wrote with my sister while we were flying back east to Philly/New Jersey:

Freckles

U dot my skin
Like a fingerprint, u mark me
brown points of recognition
so I am not the same
brown points of imperfection
or possibly skin cancer
Chimo?



Alligator

Oh alligator, oh alligator
so green, so scaly
how u lay there
ur teeth so sharp
so incisive
ur brown, swampy home
is like paradise to you
I wish I could lay low
in the murky muck
to trap the unsuspecting buffalo
Lucky alligator.


Cumulus

Clouds in the sky
like a pile of mashed potatoes
oh let me be your gravy!
The mirage of the sky
Tempts me, like youthful snow
How I yearn to play
in your fluffy mounds
But I am old, and know
U are but a tease
and offer no support
just bitter rain
and suffocating darkness.

My Goldfish Smokes a Pipe

Since I don't have anything creative to add right now, I will just stteeeallll and post a funny little article my brother wrote some years ago. Here it is, enjoy:

My Goldfish Smokes a Pipe

by Derek Hecht

Greetings ladies and gentlemen. I come to you with important news that I discovered last night while feeding my many pets. My goldfish smokes a pipe. Now, I know what you’re thinking, but you are wrong, Suddenly Susan is not the worst show on television. The worst show was a show called Sisters, which consisted of three sisters who only stopped talking when their mother started. So for those of you who remember their multiplication tables, that makes 4 women on a one hour show, which according to Geraldo’s theorem makes 4,000 total hours of women whining about men. The only show possibly worse than this would be a show called Golden Girls which goes to great lengths to depict as in depth as possible the active and wrinkled sex life of 3 octogenarian women and their highly Italian mother. This turns men on about as much getting kicked square in the jiggles. This show could easily have been called Overcooking the Pasta, as both leave you with a permanently limp noodle and yes, Overcooking the Pasta would be a great name for a rock band (D.B.). Now guys, before you get concerned wondering how I know all this, and possibly even alert the Testosterone Awareness Board, allow me to explain how I know so much about these shows. In a childhood game of Field Hockey, I was playing defense, when the other teams star forward, who looked as though he were an escaped murderer, (though his parole officer assured me he was only convicted of rape and arson) fired a shot at roughly mach 4, straight at me. Although, in his defense, I was stupidly standing in front of the goal area, which was where the coach told me to stand. If I had my choice, I would have chosen some place safer, like Cleveland. Anyway, the shot appeared to be heading straight for my shins, so I placed my stick accordingly, although I believe the stick would have proved no more defense for me, then a sneeze guard would at a salad bar for midgets. However, I of course forgot to account for NADAR (Nuts and Dinga Ling Attracting Reaction) which occurs in all sports projectiles (just ask Harry Flat-Ball Stevens). Needless to say, this was the most painful experience of my life, except for possibly the time when I had to sell my pet clown (See clowns for sale) but that’s a story for another day. Hey! Women out there who complain about how men can never understand the pain of childbirth, grow a pair and take a line drive or two, then we’ll see who’s got it bad.

a

The point of this little ramble, is to show that for several days, the flow of testosterone to my remote control finger was cut off and I was powerless to resist the evil magnetic pull towards Lifetime. But I digress, back to the goldfish.

a

When I first noticed he smoked a pipe, I was shocked and concerned. I ran immediately to my parents and said, “How come my pets get to smoke and I don’t?” But then my parents explained to me that fish don’t have lungs, and there is no such thing as gill cancer. They also told me that since I keep my fish in a bottle of white wine and feed it nothing but the worms from the tequila bottles, that he probably wasn’t going to live very long anyway. This made me feel much better, and I began to encourage smoking in all my pets; my dog even fashioned my pet snake into a makeshift bong. But none of my pets took quite the same shine to it as my goldfish did. He just sits there, puffing away, and he looks so damn sophisticated. He’ll sit silently, pipe in his mouth, a fine cognac in his fin. I often sit in utter amazement, I think I amuse him slightly, in my own primordial way. He often tosses me bits of his vast wisdom and clever wit for me to feed off of. He’ll sit there reading, or in deep, meditative thought, and after a few hours, his mouth will open and state nonchalantly some profound universal truth. Last night, while contemplating the meaning of life he looks straight into my eyes and with the confidence of one who knows his own superiority says, “Blub” and I reel back in awe. My mind races to contemplate the subtle truths and brazen implications of his statement. The magnitude overwhelms me, and I am lost in a murky sea of knowledge. I consider myself a smart man, but this pipe-smoking fish, made me feel like Saliarie. I fear my puny and linear mind can not even fully comprehend his enigmatic proverb. Is life “blub”? Is God “blub”? Is a ham and cheese on rye with mayonnaise “blub”? So many interpretations, and I am afraid that therein lies the tragedy of his genius. He is so damn smart, that only he, the one who doesn’t need the intellectual security of his word, can understand and truly appreciate the magnitude of his own statements. More importantly, he can blow smoke rings in the shape of Mickey Mouse shaving with a belt sander. Yes, he does love that pipe, I don’t think I could pry it away from him. It will be a shame to lose it when I flush him down the toilet. That was my favorite pipe too.

Dave in Melbourne 

First Blog

This is the test of my first blog ever.