The Hurricane is Coming! Err, the Tropical Storm! Err, the Tropical Wave! Err, the Tropical Remnant – Maybe!

God, I love Flori-Duh.  Most of all, I love my favorite time of year – Hurricane Season.

It’s show time for our state’s weather professionals. But folks, please take a step away from your weather maps.

We’ve got Erika, whose status could be anything from a hurricane to a remnant – which I thought was related to sewing and cloth – dallying in the Caribbean and apparently set to chug up our west coast.

When the “Spaghetti Models,” I assume named for Erika’s noodle-like paths, showed one path as a threat to us, the TV gurus raced to interview the managers of Lowes, Home Depot and Ace Hardware.

From what I could tell, “preparedness” meant we had to buy one of just about everything in the store.

A couple of days ago at Costco, I got the inside dirt on this Tropical Wonder Woman when I overheard the woman ahead of me say to the cashier, “Take it from me.  Don’t worry.  My husband’s a professional meteorologist and he says the storm’s a bust!  Don’t buy anything!”

Wow … What’s a guy to do?  In the meantime, we’re supposedly in the “Cone of Uncertainty.”

Oh no!  Not the Cone of Uncertainty!  WTF – Cone of Uncertainty? What happened to the spaghetti noodles?


Based on Saturday’s forecasts, Erika succumbed to an untimely hurricane death.  She has failed the primary hurricane test – no definable eye.  She’s flying blind?

By Monday, storm trackers tell us we should know for sure whether we’re in the path of Erika and whether she’s a hurricane, storm or just a remnant with a sh*t load of rain.

Since I don’t think you should ever look a hurricane in the “gift-mouth,”  Erika’s three day TV-weather-hysteria-binge pushed me to hone my own personal hurricane preparedness list.

So, for the sake of our collective sanity, here’s my adult non-LowesHomeDepotAceHardware approved hurricane prep list:

First – get ice, limes and vodka.

Next – make sure all your insurances are paid.

Then – deliver a box of chocolates to the one family in your hood with a full house generator.  Be sure you spell their name right.

Next – get more ice, limes and vodka.  Why?  Because you prepared early and drank your first supply!

Then – load up cash so you can go out to eat … and be sure to brush your teeth, shave, and complete other toilet necessities in someone else’s facility.

Bring all your plastic flamingoes inside … they hate hurricanes.

Oh, did I mention…get ice, limes and vodka.

Just sayin’.

Where Lost Fat Goes: A Modern Mystery

Small talk at a cocktail party?  It’s an art form.  After “Hi, how ya doin’?” what do you say?

Forget the senseless banter.

This tidbit guarantees you’ll be a treasured invitee.  You could even be an A-Lister – the person everyone wants at their next bash.

Here’s the secret.  At cocktail parties, everybody talks about diets and weight.  Who’s on what diet?  Who’s lost weight?  Or who’s gained weight?

But you can stop this blather in its tracks because everyone really wants to know what you know … “where does fat go?”

And you, A-Lister … you know where the fat goes.  Armed with this knowledge, you are the one everyone wants to hang with … so here’s the scoop on fat.


We all know fat can’t just disappear.  That’s against some kind of esoteric Laws of Matter … and surely the laws in a lot of southern states.

Personally, I always thought fat hid in my closet blended in with my “fat clothes.”  You know … the ones we save for when we fall off the wagon again, and again, and again.

If you listen to weight loss commercials, a fulltime job, you’d think that we have to “burn fat” to get rid of it.

Watch those exercise crazies who practice that Tae Bo Kick Boxing stuff.  Once you’ve destroyed a heavyweight boxing bag that withstood the assaults of Rocky Balboa, you can walk or crawl off your floor and declare yourself a new person … without fat.

But the dude who really knows where your fat goes is an ex-pudge-guy, Ruben Meerman, an Australian surfing physicist and TV talk show guest de rigeuer.

Meerman discovered that fat ‘burned” by your body is converted to Carbon.  In every 10 pounds of “lost weight,” 8.6 pounds are exhaled from your body via your lungs as CO2 molecules.  The remaining 1.4 pounds exits your body via “waste water,” probably from the sweat and tears it takes to evict the fat in the first place.

Go lungs!

So, exhale deeply, me hearties, and feel the fat fly from your body … but not in my direction because I so don’t want your discarded fat atoms entering my lungs and I sure as hell don’t want to smell your bad breath.

And the next time you’re allowed out in public, corner your friends and dazzle them as you solve the amazing mystery of where fat goes – though they may be a little disappointed to learn there’s no Fat Fairy involved.

Just sayin’.

Politically Correct This!

Have you ever heard “cris-cross applesauce?”  WTF, you ask?  Cris-cross applesauce!

The PC Police have invaded preschools and determined that sitting “Indian style” is verboten.  To teach the little buggers how to sit cross legged, teachers have been told to use this cutsey little rhyme, “cris-cross applesauce.”

Let’s face it, kids are going to find out they’ve been sitting “Indian style” while they’ve been cris-crossing their applesauce.  Then we’ll have to explain how insulting the term sitting “Indian style” is to Native Americans.

And, aren’t kids gonna be puzzled when they find out we have pro sports teams named the Cleveland Indians, the Washington Redskins and the Atlanta Braves … but we can’t sit “Indian style?”

Who are these self-appointed language janitors scrubbing up our speech?  Are there PC Police pouring through their outdated Funk and Wagnalls handing out death sentences to de-selected words?

Here are some words already executed.

Swamp … A no-no.  “Wetlands” is so much friendlier.  Who wants to protect a muddy, smelly, insect infested, reptile filled swamp?  Can you hear the Florida Gators welcoming rival teams to “The Wetlands” and not “The Swamp?”  I don’t think so.

Jungle … Nope.  Try rainforest.  Jungles are filled with dentist eating animals.  Rainforests are filled with Disney characters and songs.  Jungles are filled with head shrinking cannibals.  Rainforests are filled with Macaws and tree frogs.  Get it?

Foreign … So rude.  It’s now “international” – much more sophisticated.  The Turner Network’s World Championship Wrestling performers ran into a PC problem in the late 1990s.  When The Hun bashed our homegrown hero in the head with a chair, the chair was no longer a “foreign object,” but instantly became an “international object” used in an international incident.  True … no s**t!

I just read that the phrase “politically correct” is up for review and may be declared, well, “politically incorrect.”  It seems that the term politically correct has been so misused and misunderstood it’s become ineffective thus causing it to dwell in the land of nonsense.  To be politically correct may soon no longer be … well, politically correct.

Could it be that we’ve finally plunged into an alternate reality of politically correct incorrectness?

Just sayin’.

Is my RBF Showing?

You might think the big news this week was the GOP debate.  Think again.  The big debate is about RBFs.  What’s an RBF, you say?

For you cave dwellers, RBFs are the hot social networking topic.  An RBF is a woman’s “Resting Bi*ch Face” – her photo posted on social media when she is not smiling.

Many people infer that a woman’s RBF implies that she is angry, sad or vacuous. Some women feel it’s another opportunity for gender bias because men are not held to the same standard of the constant “smiley face.”

I’m here to tell you that this is not just another gender specific problem.  Men have their own versions of RBFs.  To support our cause, several male RBFs come to my twisted mind.

READER ALERT – avert your eyes if you are squeamish about language.

The RAHF:  Most men easily qualify and deserve to have this photo posted.  With very little provocation, we men can produce Resting A-Hole Faces at a moment’s notice.  Our RAHFs generally occur when we’re angry over anything that didn’t go our way and we want you to know it.  It doesn’t matter how minor the situation may have been.

The RPF:  This is a naturally occurring facial mode for any man.  The RPF, Resting Prick Face, is similar, but actually more hostile than the RAHF.  An RPF involves more facial contortion and generally is accompanied with puffy pouty lips.  It’s to let you know we’re really pissed and disappointed in something you have or have not done … no matter how inconsequential.

The RATF:  This is the latest addition to the male expression arsenal.  You can thank the election season, the GOP, and The Donald in particular.  Since Trump has exploded on the political scene and dominated with his facial debate style, the Resting Angry Trump Face has grown exponentially in popularity.  The RATF is worn pretty much all the time.  Squinty eyes, pursed lips and not-a-hair-out-of-place are the hallmarks of the Resting Angry Trump Face.  And we know, not in a million Apprentice episodes, will he apologize.

There you have it.  Move over ladies, we have our not so inviting moments, too.

Just sayin’.

For examples of RBF, click on this New York Times link.

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Just like “Sharknado,” Donald Trump rains down on the GOP in a hurricane of destruction and devastation.

“Hello, Grand Ole Party.  I am your worst nightmare,” yells the Donald, sounding like Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” as he brings his reality TV ax to the GOP primaries.

Trump plays the media like a maestro romancing a Stradivarius.  Heedless of the treasure he’s clutching, he makes screechy, “look-at-me, look-at-me music” never before wrenched from the instrument.

And the media’s pissed because they know he’s playing them, too.  But they continue to dance to his cacophonous Strad lusting after the “ratings” and money he puts into their career coffers.  Let’s see, who looks worse here–Trump or the media?

If I hear members of the media say one more time, “He’s sucked-up all the oxygen in the room,” I think I’ll stick a pencil in my eye.  Then I could at least make “one-eyed Dick” jokes.

Trump has the impulse control of a sleep deprived two-year old.  He’s made Chris Christie’s tough New Jersey style, resemble Little Bow Beep weeping over lost sheep.  And remember, Christie’s the one who said “Politics ain’t bean bag.”

Well, politics ain’t bean bag now … it’s Russian roulette with the gun pointed at the other candidates and Trump’s finger on the trigger.

GOP heads beseech Trump to get out, saying he’s bad for the Party, which is kind of like saying botulism is bad for salmonella.  Sure, he might be bad for that “Party,” but he’s great at throwing a big-assed party for the rest of us.  Witness his Iowa barbecue served from silver chaffing dishes rather than takeout boxes.

“He’ll peak,” the candidates yell.  Bloviating political pundits forecast is imminent demise.  But week after week, Trump comes up with a list of new targets and epithets to stoke the media frenzy.

“The Apprentice” lasted for 14 seasons – 185 episodes.  Don’t you think he can hold out for a measly year of primaries?

You’ve got to hand it to the Trump-meister, he’s electrified the campaign as he roasts his opponents with the regularity of a Presto Hot Dogger.

Thanks Donald!  I salute you for turning the GOP primary into a pumped-up political version of the “Terminator,” all the while screaming, “I’ll be ba-a-a-ck.”

I don’t know about you, but I think I’ll take the Trump-inator at his word.

Just sayin’.