I did some more investigating about Einstein (to go with today’s earlier post), and discovered this site, ireport.cnn.com/docs, where Ron Rothman explains, “Some of you might be aware of the relationship between the great scientist, Albert Einstein and my grandfather, David Rothman…Some of you are aware of their initial meeting and how Einstein came into the store looking for ‘Sundials,’ in his thick German accent really asking for sandals. My Grandfather mistook his asking for sundials and took him out to the back yard to show him the only sundial he had, his. Upon realizing his mistake, they proceeded to go back to the store where Einstein bought a pair of sandals that my grandfather had on the shelf…
“As Einstein came in asking for the shoes and after the misunderstanding about what he wanted, he was taken into the store to find that the only pair left which would fit was a woman’s size 11. Between the combination of Einstein’s embarrassment about the sundial incident and my Grandfather’s enthusiasm to make a sale to the great scientist, Einstein bought these beach shoes with grace.”
Fine. Whatever. But how do you explain him reclining in these (do my eyes deceive me?) stilettos?
And, P.S. Einstein, you do not look remotely like Burt Reynolds did in the Cosmo centerfold.
Hey, Einstein, why are you wearing ladies’ sandals? It’s the theory of RELATIVITY, not femininity.
And what about Marion Morrison, the butchest guy of all time? The virtual paragon of manhood? What is this get-up? No, I won’t mess with The Duke. After all, he said, “I don’t have to assert my virility. I think my career has shown that I’m not exactly a pantywaist.”
Okay, you two, you can keep your man cards. But it takes a REAL man to sit patiently through this.
You know you want this. Toss this into your hatchback, head to the park, and bam–a picnic. Flip it over and bam–a playpen. Go back home, lob it on its side, and serve your friends up some Amaretto Sours in style. Later, after the guests leave, strap your mod boots on and rock and rock and rock. Now that’s what I call a Good Friday.
Is Gramps exhausted from potting plants, feebleminded, or just overjoyed that the woman behind him poured just the right amount of head into his glass? To me, it appears as thought the pretty colors and bubbles have him entranced. Limit yourself to one glass, okay? Remember what the doctor said about mixing Coumadin and alcohol?
Look how Rick holds that glass of Schlitz up, just of out reach for poor Joanne Woodward’s body double. Is he wearing pajamas? Why don’t her gloves match? I don’t get it. This is all very donkey and carrot to me.
I believe this depiction represents the best of both worlds, Hannah Montana. Gardening is getting done AND beer is being enjoyed. He has his own glass; she has hers. The weather is lovely. He’s pensive; is that a mortgage bill in his hand? Who cares? With argyle socks and a butterfly apron, you can never go wrong.
If nothing else, blogging makes you realize that you can appreciate (and even follow) blogs of those who don’t share your political or religious views. I don’t want to shove my beliefs down anyone’s throat more than I want them shoving theirs down mine (I’m talking to you, Jehovah’s Witnesses, knocking at my door at dinnertime). I’m pretty set in my convictions at this point, so I won’t lie and say that I try to stay open-minded. I don’t. Bobby Brown says that’s my prerogative.
However, when I walked into an office waiting room and sat down with this magazine as the only option, I tried to keep an open mind.
After all, I like natural things. I buy the expensive eggs from happy chickens; I don’t eat whipped pig part hot dogs. Like most of you, I dig hip-looking older black guys in curved brim hats. The necklace, not so much, but you get my drift. But what is inside this magazine, this bed of deceit, made me want to hoard every copy and set them ablaze in an Aggie bonfire.
Let’s not call this slander; let’s call this my opinion, which is the heart of most blogs. Go ahead and close this post down if you in any way find life coaching a legitimate career. You are certainly allowed to be a gullible schmuck, but you’re not gonna like the rest of this. And remember, I’m not always going to agree with you, either. A rainbow wouldn’t be as pretty with just one color, would it? Diversity…
Now do I believe that therapy can benefit people? Yes. We’re all carrying around years of baggage, and sometimes we need help unloading it. But you can bet your sweet bippy you can’t become a licensed therapist in two days. Lifecoaching, however, you betcha!
Certification is only $595! That’s waaaay less than the bother of actually going to college. It’s like the TurboTax commercial, where the “tax professional” is also a “master plumber.” Sure you are. Let me get some advice on how to run my life by someone who couldn’t even get into the University of Phoenix.
Let me say first that I’ve spent YEARS YEARS YEARS with doctors who were unable to remedy my ailments. Thousands on meds, doctors get paid to pimp new products, the American healthcare system is corrupt, etc, etc. You all know the deal. I was so desperate for help that I resorted to hoodoo guru new agey acupuncture. And guess what? The acupuncturist made a whole heck of a lot of sense. In fact, he knew more about my body by looking at my EAR than most doctors did after seven vials of bloodwork taken fro me. So, yes, I can accept this 5000 year-old art as a legit form of healing. And I can see how people get soooo fed up with doctors, so desperate for relief that they resort to absolute craziness. Like crystals.
Wow! How did they DO that? It’s like magic! Like the incredible Burt Wonderstone waved his magician’s wand across her and boom! Photoshop 101. I’m sorry if I don’t believe that wearing a pendant will strengthen my energy fields. In the words of Hall & Oates, “I can’t go for that. No can do.”
Hey, while we’re at it, news flash: astrology is entertainment. I know when you’re fifteen and you’re infatuated with the cute boy with the good hair, the first thing you do is find out his birthday and look up his sign and discover he’s a Leo, and no wonder he’s so arrogant and self-absorbed, and you giggle with your friends because you’ve unearthed a grand mystery and pried him open like an oyster, and soon he will be yours. Yeah, guess what? It’s pretend.
Haven’t you ever wondered when you’re sitting there, eating your egg drop soup and looking at the red Chinese Zodiac placemat, that maybe it’s just hogwash? You ever think of all the kids in your class in school born in your same year and wonder how you could all share identical traits? Well, you can’t. It’s make believe. Like fairies and centaurs.
Apparently, I was born under the sign of charm and aggressiveness. Ya think? Oh, and my sign “can be talkative sometimes.” Yes, and sometimes we convert oxygen to carbon dioxide JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE DOES.
I don’t know what Pranic Healing is, and I haven’t studied the Reiki of the Fire Dragon, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that psychics are scam artists (or perhaps just evil). Uh-oh. Hit a nerve? Do you recall the scene in The Wizard of Oz where Professor Marvel consults the crystal ball? Note his words:
This is the same genuine, magic, authentic crystal used by the priests of Isis and Osiris in the days of the pharaohs of Egypt in which Cleopatra first saw the approach of Julius Caesar and Mark Anthony and and so on and so on. You’d better close your eyes, my child for a moment, in order to be better in tune with the infinite.
He ran a good game, though, didn’t he? Cretins and twits and dolts, OH, MY!
Without giving out free advertising, I will say that there is a “Dear Abby” type forum, wherein simpletons write in to ask such deep questions as when they will win a lottery ticket. And the gifted one then channels ascended masters and archangels to tell her to build an altar–BUILD AN ALTAR–to a deity to get the winning numbers. #$%^#(@!!!!!!
And this one–this one is the worst. No, I don’t know what it is either.
I know what quickening is in terms of pregnancy, but I don’t think this is what Pat is peddling. I say Pat because I am reminded of the old SNL skit.
So, Pat–did you mean to put “Safty” or did you mean “Safety”? And you also wrote “Less Then.” Yeah, methinks it should be “Less THAN.” So maybe you’ve got a great grasp of whatever the hell quickening is, but you really should brush up on your basic English. Just saying.
And LASTLY, we’ve got a little Watsu. What’s a watsu, you say? Well, it’s aquatic bodywork. And maybe it does help your joints, and God knows mine need it. But I don’t particularly enjoy feeling fondled by the mammogram tech at the radiology dept when she yanks and heaves my breasts onto the glass. So I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t cotton to cavorting about in the water with some stranger like a sea otter. No lady’s face needs to get that close to mine. Ever.
Wow. I congratulate you on reading over 1000 words. Long posts are the WORST, aren’t they?
And that, my friends, is the difference between men and women. Adrenaline delights one and strikes fear in the other. Today’s post documents the Senior Class Favorites of the 1955 Pine Burr, selected “as tops in fun, sparkle, and friendship.” Most yearbook pictures are taken on location at the high school, but evidently these favorites traveled off site. Why, Jo Ann and Edward got suited up for a poolside session. Perry and Pat went horse riding through what appears to be a swamp.
Earl and Shirley were stuck riding pretend horses on a carousel, as though they were still young children.
Thurston and Lovey Howell enjoyed an afternoon of boating. Are these people really teenagers?
Susie and Morris enjoyed a bicycle built for two.
Barbara and Donald braved gusty winds to sit on the dock of the bay. Or is that a bridge? Look, Barbara, I’ll catch that catfish for you and fry it up for dinner with some hush puppies. Won’t that be swell?
Miss Wheat is delighted that Mr. Turner parked next to her namesake. Or are those plumes of feathered reed grass? It may be Daddy’s car, but he’s got quite a grip at 10 and 2.
Our last picture is the Football Sweetheart. Wait–isn’t that the same girl (with her name misspelled) wearing a polka dotted cape and sitting on a diving board earlier? She gets around. She’s a double favorite!
My advice to you, Miss Yianitsas–marry one of those football players asap and shed that tragic maiden name. Preferably Earl Wright. It’s just one syllable!
Can anybody tell me what insect this is, hovering over my flowers right this second? A black and yellow stripey thing should be a bumble bee, but this looks more like a moth with his antennae. Any ideas?