BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Of course, that’s where mine usually resides, correct?

To hear some people tell it, it is. But, that’s not actually what we are here to talk about, of course…

The other day I wrote a blog about the USDA being out to get me. I still think they are. I’ve noticed way too many John Deere green trucks in the neighborhood as of late. On top of that, just the other day I found wheat chaff under one of our windows and the distinct odor of fertilizer was still hanging in the air. Of course, the fact that the FFA (Future Farmers of America) keeps calling and hanging up doesn’t help either.

But, again, not exactly what we are here to discuss… Actually, it was a comment on that particular blog that sparked this particular blog. Still with me? Good.

You see, a friend of mine – we’ll call her DeathStar, because that’s pretty much what we call her all the time anyway – pointed out that if one were to be pragmatic about it, the fact that someone from the USDA is searching me out just might be something as innocuous as an old family friend or acquaintance now working for said covert governmental organization.

Well, that’s not how my mind works. I mean, I can be pragmatic when necessary, but if it’s not, then why?

Let me give you an example. Several years ago there was a commercial for some cell phone service running on the toob. I know, I know, there are plenty of those. Unfortunately, I can’t actually remember which company this was, suffice it to say, it was in a black and white noir sort of fashion. At one point during the commercial there is this guy running across a street in slow motion as the announcer extolls the virtues of this particular service and the features it will be introducing very soon. The camera pans down and to the left, showing us a spot of color in the otherwise black and white frame – that color being a solitary, red, high-heeled pump lying in the gutter.

Upon seeing this I turned to the evil redhead, what with her being just as pragmatic as DeathStar. Besides, DeathStar wasn’t here… But, I didn’t just turn to her. I actually proceeded to ask, “What does that mean to you?”

“What?” she asked.

“That shoe in the gutter,” I explained.

Without missing a beat she replied, “Oh, that. Well, I take it to mean some woman was having a great time partying and lost one of her shoes.”

“Really?” I asked.

E K, being E K, instantly took on a stern tone. “You’re doubting me?”

“No, your worship.”

“Okay,” she pressed. “What does it mean to you?”

I shrugged. “Well, actually it raises a lot of questions for me.”

“Such as?”

“Is she still alive? Approximately when was she abducted? Were there any witnesses? Is it possible that there is any DNA evidence besides her own? Has she been reported missing yet? Are there any traffic cameras nearby? Didn’t anyone hear her scream? Was she alone? If she was with someone were they abducted too, or were they complicit? When will…”

“Okay, okay, lackey,” E K said, cutting me off.

“Well…” I grumbled. “You asked.”

“And believe me, I’m already regretting it.”

So, there you go… I guess maybe my mind really is in the gutter. Why? Because that commercial was on TV something like five years ago, and I still want to know what’s up with that shoe and why there hasn’t been an investigation launched to find out what happened to that poor woman.

More to come…

Murv

Commercials… You just never know what kind of havoc they will cause. For instance, you have that whole Filet-O-Fish thing going on. There’s even a ring tone for your cell, just like in the commercial itself.

As a matter of fact, E K was at a bank just the other day, stomping a printer into submission – what with her being Queen of the Printer Technicians and all – when a cell phone nearby began ringing. It was, of course, the Filet-O-Fish ring tone.

That’s when the havoc ensued.

As I understand it, E K went over and stabbed the guy in the head with a screwdriver, then stomped his cell phone until it was quiet. Oddly enough, she wasn’t charged with assault or even destruction of property. Apparently she received a standing ovation from everyone else in the bank. You may have read about it in the papers.

Now, me, I actually like the Filet-O-Fish jingle. But, don’t tell E K. She carries a screwdriver in her purse and I’m not big on being stabbed.

Of course, as usual, I am chasing a chicken of different plumage – by that I mean, I’m actually here to talk about a different commercial. Not the Filet-O-Fish song.

So… Anyway… Yeah… Guess I’d better get on with it then…

You see, the other day the O-spring and I were heading out to run some errands. While I generally listen to the local NPR station whenever I’m in the Merp Mobile, on this particular occasion I was in the mood for some tunes, so we were dialed in to the local classic rock station. Fortunately, the O-spring has very diverse musical tastes. She does get into some J-Pop and other stuff that really drives me insane, but she can also be equally entertained by ZZ Top, Black Sabbath, or Billy Joel (ad infinitum). Way cool, eh?

Yeah, I know, I’m getting off track again…

Back to the story… Since we were listening to a commercial station, obviously there were commercial breaks. Since this was shortly before Valentine’s Day, one of them happened to be for a Boudoir / Lingerie Chain that was advertising “Designer Underwear.”

Again, havoc ensues. The following is a best recollection accounting of the conversation that came in the wake of said commercial…

After a thoughtful pause, the O-spring, with an overabundance of confusion in her voice said, “Designer Underwear?! Who would want that?!”

“Well, honey,” I said. “Some people are all about the labels and things like that.”

“Oh, okay,” she replied.

I could tell by the way she said it that we weren’t finished. The traffic signal ahead of us winked so I made my left hand turn and proceeded down the road. The kid stewed silently for another minute or two. You could almost hear the cogs and gears clattering against one another as she concentrated.

Finally she announced, “I guess you just have to be old enough to want designer underwear.”

I was intrigued, so I asked,  “How old is that?”

“Old enough to have a boyfriend,” she replied with a matter-of-fact air about her.

I “schnerked” and tried to avoid spitting a mouthful of coffee all over the inside of my windshield. Gathering my composure I followed up with, “Well, how old do you think that is?”

Once again, gears and ratchets began grinding, clanking, and whirring. A moment later she replied, “I don’t know.”

Like any father with a daughter, I saw a perfect opportunity before me. “Well,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that you aren’t old enough to have a boyfriend until you’re 40.”

“Okay,” the O-spring said, not even flinching. “Sounds good.”

“So, we’re agreed then. You aren’t going to have a boyfriend until you turn 40, right?”

“Right.”

As good a memory as the kid has, I’m fairly certain that in a few years she won’t remember this conversation at all. I’ll definitely remind her, but I don’t think it will do any good.

All I can say is when “teenhood” rolls around and she decides to break the pact, I know there’s nothing I can do. However, if she asks for money to go buy designer underwear, we’re going to have a problem…

More to come…

Murv