“Life is about living with people, not counting the seconds”. With a grin on your face and an open mind, consider the following efficiencies:
Use one word where it is enough. Use two words where you wish to use twice as many. Find a friend who is that. Lose a friend who is not that. Redefine descriptions, perhaps.
Spare the rod and have a spare rod, as well as more energy. (T.M.)
Remember to rinse your disposable razor thoroughly to extend its workable life. You’ll get six months from it!.
Oil the axle of your wheel barrow and de-grease the shafts. Inflating the tyre is exercise-dependent!
Only curse if politically strategic.
Look your enemy in the eye, front or back of it. Look your friend in the eye; the front of it.
Like timely flatulence, release to the atmosphere all guilt that is not truly yours. Even if it is, consider a similar release!
Abandon expeditiously, your formidable hindsight, as it no longer applies. It is no more than a clever commitment to clutter the consciousness!
Use a pliable margarine over a difficult butter.
Copy and paste, as thats what it is for.
Never turn your head where the swing of an eyeball is sufficient.
Always, use a shorter word than efficiency where you can find it easily. If you ever had a difficult butter, you can reprint this anywhere and link it to the http://www.thetrivialtimes.com
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Sometimes, you can not solve every problem yourself. It is hard to admit that sometimes, especially as the type of personality that many small business owners possess lends itself to a certain independence. I have found that you can learn a great deal by using an affiliate marketing board to help you with some of the problems that arise in a home based online business. There are so many people just like you that are going through the same issues that you are, and you owe it to yourself to take advantage of this amazing resource. Try it today, and see how well it can work for you.
Or, where do all those daffy ding-a-lings from Canada call home anyway?
By Theolonius McTavish, a wayfaring wanderer in a very strange land full of blessedly big bugs, breathtakingly beautiful banshees, and more than a few bizarre blockheads
Canada is a country of extremes in terms of its size, climate, and geography. The good news is that it’s populated mostly by modest munchkins and mild-mannered moochers. The bad news is they have to compete for space on the back forty with a bunch of rapidly multiplying moth-eaten, mournful-looking, misbegotten maladroit misfits, (better known as “moose on the loose”).
It’s either pretty darn cold (99.9% of residents freeze their tootsies and booties off in the winter, except for the remainder who are web-footed, Westcoast wunderkinds …carrying brightly-colored bumbershoots to fend off the seagulls or showers whichever comes first), or it’s incredibly hot and humid, (except for the tourist traps in Victoria catering to dazed Americans looking for igloos, polar bears and ice-cream made by “The Udder Guys”).
To be sure, Canucks are pretty ho-hum “Tweedle-Dee & Tweedle Dumb” types who dearly love to blend in with beige-toned wallpaper if at all possible.
Every now and then however, some quirky characters emerge unobtrusively from their comfortable closets, peep out from under their “magic” mushrooms, or casually climb down from their ivory towers. If truth be told, Canucks can’t wait to dress up in war paint, quaff a few cold beer, and rant “I-AM-CANADIAN” at every blinking hockey team that comes to town!
Just where do all the dedicated dorks, delightful dingbats, and dialectical dunderheads, plus a lively assortment of daffy ding-a-lings call home-sweet home?
To answer this burning question meant observing the primeval penchants and perplexing proclivities of several singularly spaced-out souls. This painstaking research conducted during park bench conversations with utter strangers lead to a stunning conclusion that the majority of these quintessentially quaint but “cool” characters were conceived in some very funky, if not out-of-the-way spots.
In the interests of brevity, I have compiled a list of my favorites (see the alphabet soup ingredients below).
NOTE: This dollop of data will one day become the basis of an article appearing in a popular practical nursing newsletter on high-risk foot care entitled, “Lessons learned from sauntering strangers and the odd straying seagull or two while seated on a park bench in Beacon Hill Park (one fine summer afternoon in August casually contemplating who carried the recessive gene for knock-knees in my family and watching a pair of avid lawn bowlers debate the merits of munching medicated gum to relieve stress caused by a bunyan on the big toe of a next-door neighbor”).
With all these exotic places to visit, no wonder this frozen fairyland flings its doors open to the occasional inquisitive, idiosyncratic individual not to mention a happy horde of “can do” characters and yodelling “yes” people. After all, when it comes right down to it, Canada is one very hunky dory place to putter about, (at least that’s what all the tourist brochures say).
So, if you’re a dabbling dork, a dainty dweeb, or dashing ding-a-ling …there’s definitely a place here with your name on it. And when you’re roaming about in this blooming big bog full of backwoods burgs, just keep your eyes peeled for those “Welcome” signs inviting “accidental tourists” or “flat-earth folks” to drop by. And let’s face it, they need all the wayfaring strangers they can get to liven up their cute if not a tad peculiar corner of the planet!
About the Author
Theolonius McTavish, an oddball journalist who enjoys tootling about in a pitted pick-up truck with a glow-in-the-dark plastic heffalump hood ornament …when he’s not gathering ribald remarks from clodhoppers and cockamamies lollygagging about in the Court of the Quipping Queen
Progress is most often for the good of mankind. Developments in science and technology take us to greater, previously unimaginable heights. Advancements help us to find out more and more about this world that we live in and many aspects of it. Evolution, as all will agree, is fundamental to survival. But what happens when this evolution comes at the cost of the environment? Growth cannot be halted for growth feeds life. So then what can we do? The answer is simple: we must find alternative sources of energy to fuel this growth. Solar power is one of these alternative sources of energy: a choice that allows us to power even the most complex of technological and scientific processes while maintaining harmony with the environment.
Solar power is absolutely environment friendly. This is so because of its clean and renewable and non pollutant nature. Solar power is useful by employing the fundamental mechanism of converting available sunlight such that it becomes useful and usable energy. The energy emitted by the sun is captured using photovoltaic cells and panels and then transformed into efficient energy by converting it into solar power.
Solar power is the most practical variety of renewable energy that is available to man. It can be utilized to serve a variety of purposes of lighting and electricity inside homes and offices alike. Air Purifier will definitely helps in maintaining good living conditions in homes and offices.
Here we see a Brown Bear. Looks cuddly doesnt he. But that is not always what Luigi needs in his bears, and useless in cold climates.
Contrast this with Arctic Bear above, quite a large customer, but not much good in warm climates. Luigi needed a third way.
And as luck would have it, a totally new type of bear appeared. Unlike any seen before, the new BlairBear. He had apparently evolved, Darwinian like, just in the nick of time to save all mankind.
Unfortunately, after several seemingly successful years, his public mentioned he looked a lot like Arctic Bear and to cap it all he was found to have thawing snow under his nails, kept under wraps before. It was curtains for BlairBear. Its a fair cop Guv, I had a good run for my money he said.
Nevertheless he comes in useful at times on special missions for Luigi, Like here, preparing an honest level playing field, then shifting the goalposts, a classic sign of BlairBears.
And here, by day, controlling the sea, Canute like, enthralling onlookers with his seemingly awesome tricks.
Whilst by night he simply moves the beach. And leaves a little memento of what he calls his modest country residence.
He is available now should you want to set up a committee, or a seminar, or intensive investigation, or a council of war, or investigative panel, a quango, action group, listening panel, or even a full inquiry.
It takes seconds to activate these and they last months on end, and you dont have to comment on anything to do with it until it is over. He learned these skills from many years of hosting Teddy Bears Picnics in Antarctica, despite only having three bears at his disposal.
This new brown bear, the Gordon, is under testing with a view to full production in the near future. However there are teething troubles with his maths, and his propensity for taking money off smaller bears and then throwing it away, or just simply losing it and having to borrow it off bigger bears.
He also has a bit of a temper if he doesnt get his own way, and stamps on other friendly teddies. Nevertheless he looks like no teddy we have seen before doesnt he children.
So all is not lost, a contingency plan is in place, and in any event Luigi employs old clapped out bears for devious missions long after their original cover is blown.
They are especially useful if they have dubious associates.
But is there then even a FOURTH way. Rumour has it that Blair Bears female partner, DamsonBear would have you think so, and is trying to invent one in time for next Spring, in case GordonBear is not quite ready in time, or squashes too many little bears before then.
Remember, this is all fantasy land, and the bears here are all our friends.
Both ArcticBear and BlairBear are sponsored by Northern Glacier Union Co.
Blair Bear has been seen by people
Have you seen Blairbear. What was he up to today and where did you see him. Was he grinning. If you saw him, please email with his location, as there are fears for his health or that he may run away soon.
If you don’t give a heck about the man with the Bible in his hand. . . . –Mack Rice
No. Not those temptations.
I mean The Temptations. And I am not talking about whoever is touring under the name today. I am talking about Melvin Franklin, Otis Williams, Paul Williams, Eddie Kendrick and David Ruffin. The real Temptations.
Having all, except for Otis Williams, moved on . . . .
I wonder if Bernie Ebbers, frowning and dour, white beard and cheap, stained raincoat, pushing his way past the TV cameras on the Manhattan sidewalk; I wonder if Bernie maybe just for a split second heard a street radio, that great bass line holding up the introduction so well that the tune immediately gets ingrained in your soul so deeply that you don’t even know how it got there; I wonder if Bernie heard the same song I did when I learned he’d been convicted and pronounced guilty on all counts; I wonder if Bernie heard:
“I got sunshine, on a cloudy day!”
And as we walked through the throng, his lawyers clearing a path, I wonder if Bernie looked up into the narrow band of New York City Sky; and saw all five original smiling Temptations on a floating Motown stage that hovered just in front and above Bernie Ebbers head, an unseen orchestra playing as the Temptations came alive above the packed and vibrating New York City street. Bernie watched them dance:
And when it’s cold outside. I got the month of May. I guess you say What can make me feel this way?
As Bernie looked up, not really sure what he was seeing or why he was seeing it, he thought: “Nothing can surprise me now. I didn’t now it would all turn out this way. But nothing, nothing can surprise me now.
And who exactly are these five black men, all smiling, dressed in fine white silk suits?”
Bernie didn’t really even hear the shouts of the reporters and they all bounced into some unseen and unknown compartment in his brain. A compartment he kept locked. Forgetting long ago where he had hid the golden key. But he could hear the Temptations sing and he marveled at the unity in their dancing moves.
I got so much honey The bees envy me I got a sweeter song Then the birds in the trees I guess you say What can make me feel this way. . . .
He watched the dancing spin like flowing silk. He was entranced that there was such unity. It was as if the dance and the tune and the words were all the same. Coursing like blood through some sort of larger life force, some sort of life force in the way those five men smiled and moved on that floating stage that hovered just above Bernie’s line of sight. He heard and watched them sing:
My girl, My girl, My girl Talking bout my girl!
And as we was jarred into a back seat of a big black car, the 5 men who sang and danced with a unity of some sort of spirit Bernie had just never known before, the 5 men vanished—Bernie closed his eyes and heard only the sound of the bassthe lines “My girl” fading and then the bass rising again to a newer, even more powerful line.
The newer bass line rose into a groove that was even deeper, not loud—but deep. it was as if this single bass line packed the power of a locomotive, a brutal black metal, coal fueled fire box locomotive just like the one that ran between Winona Mississippi where Roebuck Staples was born in 1915; and Clinton Mississippi where in the late 1990’s most everyone worked for Bernie; a locomotive bass line, that just shook the earth—not from its noise—but from its simple power. And then the voice of old Pops Staples asking Bernie:
If you disrespect every body that you run in to How in the world do you think anybody’s s’pose to respect you?
Bernie opened his eyes and the back seat of the New York town car was gone.
He was in the back yard of an old grey stone on the south side of Chicago. It was summer, lots of smiling. And on those two tables, heaping platters of fried chicken, ribs, and sausage, burgers and greens. Sweaty pitchers of lemonade. Kids shouting and that same song playing:
If you don’t give a heck about the man with the Bible in his hand Just get out the way and let the gentleman do his thing.
Bernie shook his head, closed and then opened his eyes.
He could do this. He was good with new crowds. He could always sell. Always had. Always would.
That song kept coming:
You the kind of gentleman who want everything his way Take the sheet off your face boy It’s a brand new day. Respect yourself. . . .
Bernie approached the wise old man who seemed to be at the center of all this. “Mavis” the man was shouting, “Cleotha, Yvone, come over here now!”—he was smiling, motioning over three women who Bernie guessed to be his daughters.
But as Bernie began to walk towards the man everybody was calling Pops, Bernie realized that no one could see him.
He reached out to pat a small, running child’s head and the child didn’t even look up! He said, “Good afternoon sir,” to a man drinking a cold beer and the man looked right through him!
Bernie tapped Mavis Staples on the shoulder where she stood listening to her father speak and Mavis didn’t even turn around!
Bernie Ebbers, totally alone.
He smelled the burgers on the grill. He could see the smiling, laughing people in what was a legendary Chicago back yard picnic at the Staples, he could hear that song (Respect yourself! Respect yourself!)
He was completely alone. No one knew he was there.
Bernie Ebbers felt himself began to break. He heard the bass line—
Respect yourself Respect yourself
Bernie Ebbers thought he had known every kind of pain there was to know. He thought he’d faced the worst. He thought, none of this was really my fault.
But in that back yard on the south side of Chicago: realizing that, no one could see him. That he had no idea where he was. No idea how to get home to Mississippi. No notion of what do next.
Bernie Ebbers kept hearing the song (Respect yourself. Respect yourself) and he felt himself breaking into a shame that was new. A shame that came from no one being able to see him, No one even knowing he was there. Bernie Ebbers knew he would break and he would never even really know why.
He reached out his hands in shame, in terror and in total aloneness and he began to cry.
And just when he did:
Pops Staples handed him a heaping plate of chicken and burgers, beans and greens, looked at him with deep sad eyes and said,
Memory is a very tricky thing, at least for me it is. Looking back, over a year’s span of activity my memory seems to pick and choose what it remembers. It amazes me not so much what a person remembers but what a person forgets.
Often some old-timer will moan about how much he misses the good old days. I’m not sure if he is thinking of World War II or the great Depression. I’m positive that during the great Depression some wonderful memories were created, but I’m not sure anyone wants to return to those thrilling days of yesterday.
The bad was not as bad as we remember and the good was not as good as we boast.
Some things are best forgotten and some things should never be forgotten; my trouble has always been remembering which is which. (Personally, I don’t know the difference between “which” and “that.”)
Several things about the old year bear serious consideration. The past year, in my opinion, was not just one year but several years flowing together. Sometimes I’m not sure which year I lived.
The year 2004, like all its brothers before it, actually consisted of three years.
First, there is the year that really was. “Just the facts, ma’am.”
I’m a little fuzzy about this one. For one thing, looking at my checkbook entries (at least the ones I remembered to enter) the past year was a completely different one than I recall.
I really do not recollect having all the fun indicated by my bank statement. Why is it that no matter how much money I put into my bank account, more money comes out.
Evidently, some phantom creature has access to my checkbook.
President Ronald Reagan was accused of voodoo economics. Reviewing my bank statements, I could be accused of “Who-do” economics.
My income tax statement is another perplexity. I can never figure it out. If the government said I made that much money, I must have made that much money and owe that much in taxes.
Speaking of the government, what I don’t understand is how they know how much I owe, to the penny, along with millions of other Americans and cannot find Osama bin Laden. I know exactly how to solve this conundrum.
One surefire way of finding him is leaking to the government that Osama bin Laden owes taxes and he will be caught before April 15, guaranteed.
Second, there is the year I re-member.
By Rev. James L. Snyder
This year is much shorter than the previous one, for some odd reason. The year I remember had only two months; this month and last month. And believe me, “last month” is a stretch for me.
Honestly, I remember paying the electric bill, contrary to what the electric company says. My problem with the electric company is that during the space of a year they send me 12 bills and I can only remember two.
They penalize me for screwing up but they do not credit my account when they screw up like being without electricity for four days twice this past year. Oh, that I remember and remember it well. In fact, if my memory serves me correctly it was more like 90 days.
I remember deducting the monthly service charges from my bank each and every month. Well, maybe not “each and every” month. Why those three checks bounced is beyond my comprehension.
Should the bank charge a larger fee for a bounced check than the face value of the check? I don’t think so. Isn’t it the bank’s business to keep their records straight? Why do I have to spend so much time each month on my checkbook account?
Last, but certainly not least, is the year the Gracious Mistress of the Parsonage remembers.
At times, I am tempted to think (at least it’s what I call thinking) my wife lives one life and I live something altogether different from hers. The things she remembers that took place during the year are beyond my remembering.
I am beginning to believe she remembers things that never took place. Of course, and I say this with all sincerity, I would never contradict her memory.
For the life of me I don’t know where I was when all these things happened that she says happened. Nor do I know where I was when I promised to do all those things she said I promised.
Even in my right mind, (of which I don’t have much left) I would never concede to help remodel the family room. I would never accuse her, heaven forbid, of taking advantage of me in this area. The thought is not a stranger inside my head, although rational thoughts are.
King Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived, framed his thoughts this way, “Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them;” (Ecclesiastes 12:1 KJV.)
Solomon’s idea was, “now” is more important than “then.”
The Apostle Paul had the right idea with this matter of remembering. “Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 3:13-14 KJV.)
It is not important how much I can remember about the past, as long as I don’t forget to set Christ before me in all I do in 2005.
About the Author
Rev. James L. Snyder is an award winning author and popular columnist living with his wife in Ocala, FL
A WORD OR TWO ABOUT MUGWUMPS – Where oh where have the mugwumps gone? –
If you think we’re living in some “tough tiddy times”, you could be right.
After all, when the makers of “Wonderbread” and “Twinkies” have just declared bankcruptcy, it makes all the wafflers, whifflers, and wunderkins of the world a tad nervous.
Not to be discouraged, it’s time to look on the bright side of things. After all, the arrival of mad cow disease just means there’s a lot more opportunity to find the new love of your life in the organic veggie department at your local super-duper market. And, if that doesn’t work, try hanging out in the tool section of your nearby big box home renovation store. That’s where you’re bound to bump into all the do-it-yourself pennypinchers who just adore swapping tall tales about their latest extreme-makeovers.
Anyway, where was I? Yes, the mugwumps, well they’re an endangered species.
It seems that the world is only looking for cowboys these days. And, not just any cowboy will do thank you. Only those with a pronounced Texas drawl, an oil well on the back nine, and a long blunderbuss that will blast the heck out of varmints digging holes in well-manicured fairways, need apply.
Mugwumps, (formerly known as “great chiefs”), appear to have lost their pre-eminent position in pecking order of life. Fallen on hard times, they’ve become ‘middle of the road’ blokes with their mug on one side of a white picket fence and their wump on the other.
So, if you see a long forlorn face with flat feet, looking for a place to hang his deep-musing cap, don’t annoy him by calling him an “ambivalent aardvark”, a “doubting doormat” or a “vacillating vagrant”. Mugwumps are sensitive souls who dearly love their uncomplicated independence. Oh, and if you’re looking for someone to kick butts or kiss babies, try a high-achievement hoodwinker or a controversial contrarian, mugwumps are not interested.
Do not however mistake their calm demeanor for compliance. They just like keeping to themselves. Though not hermits or recluses, they do enjoy their own space to ruminate about what makes the world go round not to mention what makes people tick.
Clearly, the world sorely needs a few more mugwumps to remind us of the need for less “wrangling” and more “winsome” occasions to celebrate life in the slow lane.
So, if you run across a mugwump in your city or neighborhood, just smile and inquire about the health of the heffalumps, who makes the best bubble bath, and where’s the best place to see shooting stars. They dearly love a good chinwag, so don’t disappoint them!
And, don’t forget to take time out and participate in the festivities of “International Mugwump Appreciation Day” — any day of the year will do just fine!
About the Author
Victoria Elizabeth enjoys musing about Life, the Universe, and Everything in between through the pages of her blog aptly entitled, “The Quipping Queen”, (www.quippingqueen.blogspot.com).
My worst roommate (and I’ve had some bad ones) was on my semester at Tel-Aviv University. It started on the group flight there, with this obnoxious surfer looking guy who was seated next to me (I was on an aisle, he was in the middle). On the ten hour flight, he had me put something in or take something out of the overhead for him at least fifteen or twenty times. He just wouldn’t leave me alone, and was constantly begging me to change seats with him, and grab a pen, and put this card in his bag… When we got to the dorms and had our orientation meeting, it turned out that I was in the same apartment as him, though thank god not the same room (each apt was 2 double rooms with a common kitchen and bath).
This guy was unreal. He was a bleach-blond surfer, rowed crew, was well over 6′ and very muscular (I’m 5′7″ and thin), and just a total jerk. He constantly ate the food belonging to the rest of us, claiming that he had no money, nevermind the $100 packages full of crap he’d send back to his girlfriend in CA. After two weeks or so of his constantly disrespecting the other three of us, things got a bit tense. The first turning point was when he used an entire pack of my roommate’s razors to shave part of his head, and from then on he seemed to be in ever-lessening contact with reality.
About a month into his stay, he decided to adopt a stray dog that he found near the beach while surfing. This, of course, couldn’t happen, because you can’t have dogs in the dorms, and the rest of us weren’t too keen on having a stray dog around. Jason, the psycho, completely lost it when he was told he couldn’t keep the dog (”if he goes, I go, because he’s the only one who understands me”). He got right in my face and threatened to kill me if I turned him in (remember our size and strength disparities…), since I was the only one who was home when he came charging in with this poor mutt. Later that day, after the security guards and the program people told him the dog had to go, he took off, and wasn’t heard from for a couple of days.
A few days later, he showed up and was hanging out in a room down the hall, when someone called security, as we had been instructed to do should he return. From what I’m told of the incident, he went out onto the balcony (4th floor) and threatened to jump when the police arrived on the scene. After a tense confrontation, they charged him and were able to subdue him after he punched at least one officer. He was then carried - literally kicking and screaming - off the University’s property and was taken into custody. He spent about a month or so in a mental facility in Israel before he was deported back to America.
When my roommate got back to the apartment, he discovered that Jason had left us a final message. Using a razor, he had cut open his finger and painted a message in his own blood on our bathroom mirror (”you all lied to me, blah, blah, blah”), then tied the bloody razor to a rose and left it on the kitchen table.
Now that is a roommate from hell.
About the Author
Since 1989 i have helped 1000’s of people find good rooms or roommates. Need help? Contact me at www.roommateexpress.com