The Times

What's so special about a blue-plate special? Well, lets see... You go into a diner and order the blue-plate. The price increased since the last time you were in there-a couple of days ago. Nothing new or special about that. The plates are not blue. That's not special.

I've discovered that a blue-plate served Mondays is nothing more that last Tuesday's vegetables thrown onto a non blue plate along with the Wednesday's meat and Thursday's leftover apple pie. God only knows where the moldy apple pie came from.

What's so damned special about that? Hell, I used to get a blue-plate special every night when I was married and it didn't cost me a thing! Unless you figure 14 years and two kids a "thing."

I think that diners should stay away from serving their crap on blue plates anyway. It makes their water thin gravy look green which, in turn, makes it look like snot. I don't like snot on my potatoes or rice although there is the possibility that it can be stirred in and disguised.

Maybe that's why they are special. You can take leftovers and actually sell them if you give 'em a cute name, disguise them and claim they're special. Then people will eat it because they want to be special too. Maybe...

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What's A Little Beef Stew With Some Saturday Jam?

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood [whistles]. Welcome back for a little Saturday jam where the stories are sweet and I spread it on thick. Yesterday I returned a product I had ordered from Dell via the interwebz. After spending literally one hour and twenty minutes on the phone with three different Indians (knot heads-not feather heads) I began my personal collection of receipts and instructions.

By the time I added my shipping receipts, authorization # email, insurance receipt and copies of my shipping labels, I had a pile of 9 pieces of crap all directly related to sending one package back to Dell. Thanks for the pain-in-the-ass experience Dell. I hope the roof collapses on your warehouse and crushes my return!

A buddy of mine and his new wife invited me for supper a couple of nights ago. It was "beef" stew. I knew the moment I took a taste of the meat that it would be in my best interest to ask what kind of meat it is. Just in case the doctors wanted to pump my stomach.

My friend looked at me a simply said, "game." I asked, "Really? What kind?" His wife interjected here and I swear I thought I heard her say, "Oh, something Mike killed." Uh, Mike doesn't hunt... Mike runs over raccoons and possums. It's a hobby of his, but he doesn't hunt.

I never threw up though and I graciously finished the meal even though my stomach cramped with every swallow. It was like I was saying, "Down you go and stay there!", and my stomach was saying, "Oh, no you don't! One more time and I'll hurl!"

I'm alive to tell the tale, however. In my book, it truly is a beautiful day in the neighborhood [whistles].

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Holden Caulfield Is My Hero

J. D. Salinger passed away Wednesday. I'll remember two things about him. One, he wrote The Catcher in The Rye  and two, he became a follower of Buddhism and then Scientology. We were forced required to read TCTR while in military school, and soon found out that so many of us fit the mold of Holden Caulfield. 

Like Caulfield who was a prep school punk, we could relate to the obsessive, snot nosed, sniveling bastard quite well. Primarily because there wasn't a wit's bit of difference between him and a lot of us. We loved the book! It was hilarious...!

I would mention the book to some of my friends back home...telling them that it was funny as hell and how they needed to read a copy. Nobody back home had ever heard of it, and the public schools here would not allow it in their libraries. Huh?

I learned later the public schools found it too risqué and a detriment to student's character to require them to read it. What the fuck?! I was in an all boy's school! Even we didn't find it risqué, and believe me, if anyone could have found sexual innuendo or off-color remarks in a book it would have been us.

Seriously, I don't care that Salinger died. He was a crazy old cook anyway. I just hope that before you die you pick up a copy of TCTR and read it. It's a small book so if your attention span is long enough to allow you to blog, then it's long enough that you can read this book.

That's my Beyond Left Field's required reading for the month of February. Thank you and good day!

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To Beef Or Not To Beef

How many ways are there to prepare ground beef? I seem to know of only a few hundred! I like ground beef, but isn't there a "new" way of cooking it...something different?! I'm tired of burgers and meatloaf, spaghetti sauce, shepard's pie, tacos, etc., etc. Can I get an amen?!

Please no more cheeseburger casseroles! I can't handle another bowl of chili! I want ground beef, but other than raw I've run out of known recipes for cooking it. I'm not looking for another variation on the same old tiring plate either. Like dumping a handful of ground beef mixed with salsa on a taco shell and calling it a salad.

That's a friggin' taco that isn't rolled up yet! Can hamburger be substituted for dog meat? There are plenty of Asian restaurants here. Maybe I could get an idea from them. Hamburger "steak" served with gravy? What's that?! A big hamburger covered in a mixture of salt, water and brown grease.

I'm looking for a completely new recipe for cooking ground beef or a ground beef dish. Every time I think I am on to one I see how it ends up on the plate. A pile of ground beef with different additives and a fancy name. It's still damned hamburger!

Guess it's back to basics, and instead of Googling everything I'm going to browse a few cookbooks hoping that there will be at least one more "secret" family recipe for cooking ground beef. Praying for a breakthrough in the realm of hamburger preparations. Ciao!

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Edgar Allen Poe Fo' Shizzle

Good news...today I was notified that my two entries to The Urban Dictionary were accepted and published. We all know that The Urban Dictionary is second only to anything beginning with "Wiki" when it comes to facts and sources for information in their relative fields. I liken The Urban Dictionary to a thesaurus and dictionary for ghettoese. My two words/phrases? Behold...

"Blogger Brain" and "swamp sow". I used the term "blogger brain" for the first time about four days ago. I hadn't seen this phrase used anywhere else, and TUD did not have it listed either. My second submission was a phrase I have used hundreds of times in the past.

"Swamp sow"... I used swamp sow for the first time to describe my sister after she gave birth to her third child almost thirty five years ago.

The bad news...how smart do you have to be to get shit like "fuck buddy" or "retarded" published in anything?! Let's face it. Ghettoese and punkspeak ain't exactly used by Harvard grads or the people that design child proof safety caps on medicine bottles.

In fact, I've come to the conclusion that most people that submit entries to The Urban Dictionary sit around all day and try to make up a bunch of crap, assign some arbitrary meaning to it, and then submit it for approval.

Hmm, ya know? I don't think "punkspeak" and "ghettoese" have been defined yet as per T.U.D. policy. There ya go! Well, you got a problem? Face it! It's the closet to Edgar Allan Poe  I'll ever get!

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Is It Just Me Or Is It Jesse Ventura?

Do you see an evil conspiracy lurking around every corner? Are you a fan of Jesse Ventura? Do you believe that Oliver Stone's films are factual or that Don Knotts was a field agent for the F.B.I. in the sixties and seventies?

My former father-in-law was in the army after the Korean War but before the Vietnam throw down. Apparently, he ate lead paint as a child because he saw nefarious behavior and covert activity brewing behind every smiling face.

He would not discuss his MOS in the army. Turns out he was a typist...basically a staff secretary, but according to him he only typed "secret" shit. He warned me of talking on my cell phone once because local police could listen in on my calls.

He "patrolled" his front yard with rifle in hand on the weekends, and once he even stuffed a .38 revolver in my wife's purse (unbeknown to her) before he dropped her off at the New Orleans airport. She shared this story with me while handcuffed at a New Orleans' airport security checkpoint.

He saw evil in the Freemasons and could "see" more shit and secret codes on a dollar bill than James Bond could have dreamed of in his lifetime!

When I visited him I carried Xanax and whiskey along. I knew that before the end of the day I was going to need it. I was right. I always went up there straight and sober, but his story relating to Geo. Bush fucking him out of some money guaranteed me another day in a stupor. Thank God, and Geo. Bush, for drugs and alcohol!

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If Birthdays Are Fun, Why Am I Not Smiling?

Another birthday has come and gone. Even though this occurs every year, it still takes a little getting used to. I'm always asked if I feel my age...I don't know. What does my age feel like? What can I base it on? I'm not sure, but here are a few changes that I can see...for better or for worse.

Waking up in the morning requires effort now. Once in the sitting position I fart, scratch and begin looking for the aspirin bottle. Back "then" I wanted just one more shot of whatever it was I drank the night before.

Coffee not only smells good now, but it taste good too! No more rum and Coke with my Cheerios.

A grandchild calls to check on you...even having a grandchild.

When I watch Forensic Files and Dr. G. I see my future. Then there are the reruns of Andy Griffith. I remember my crush on Helen Crump. Now I'd take her down and go anal on her in a heartbeat.

Watching people in the mall used to be fun. Now all I think is, "Goddamn! She's my granddaughter's age!"

Paying taxes was something that I dreaded doing. Now, I find it a challenge figuring out new ways of cheating. Kind of like those Sudoku puzzles my son gives me for my birthday every year but without the jail time.

Tipping the pizza delivery kid because I risk getting shot if I don't has got to be an age thing. Not being able to distinguish between a VHS tape and a Blu-ray disc is definitely an age thing.

Last, but not at all the least, is going to bed at night. I used to look forward to going to bed with enthusiasm. Now, I see the bed as a place to sit, fart and look around for the aspirin bottle. Sweet dreams junior...

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The Times

Now I remember why I used to go to church...because there is absolutely nothing worth watching on t.v. Sunday morning. The movies are old and shown at least six times a month. Worse still are the t.v. shows...poor ripoffs of previously successful ones. Even the commercials are now 3 seconds of product sale and 57 seconds of government required warnings that are sure to make you think twice about buying the shit anyway!

Okay so I did watch a couple of the old Rod Serling versions of The Twilight Zone earlier this morning. It looks as though the future of television will have to rely on it's past for success.

What with all of the money that network and cable execs are doling out to these production companies for quality programming I would think that at least one in three would be better than piss bucket quality, but no...

I used to enjoy watching golf on television with my dad Sunday afternoons. Well, the old man is dead and the most exciting thing in the world of golf today is that it's black golden boy wonder is locked away because he let his dick and his brain become one.

At least the NFL playoff games today are live. They're fresh productions with new faces. No, they're not always great shows, but at least they are new. Unless of course the Saints lose today which is nothing new because they haven't made it to a Superbowl in their 40+ year history!

God, I would love to Welcome Back Kotter today!

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Spreading It On With Saturday Jam

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood [whistles]. Hello kids! Welcome to another laid back version of Saturday jam with Raider. It's always nice to see your smiling faces. Feel free to use the Purell by the door. Coffee is being brewed as we speak...no doughnuts today though.

Which is the best cup of coffee during the day? Does the first cup taste the best or the last cup? Is it the cup after eating a complete meal that seems to hit the spot more than the others? Coffee – a matter of taste.

Same with cigarettes. When I used to smoke the best cigarette was the next cigarette; however, there's the proverbial "smoke" after sex or the smile on one's face as they light that after dinner cigarette.

Speaking of sex...which is the best time of day for sex? Does it really matter? Personally, I always thought having sex before rolling out of bed in the morning was best. It just seemed more efficient that way.

Unlike coffee whereby many folks claim washing the pot will ruin the flavor of the next pot of brew, that "rule" doesn't apply to sex. Please, wash the pot! Why? Because it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood [whistles].

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Blogger's Brain...A Social Disorder

What's the latest on Haiti? Has it been put back together yet? Life back to normal there? I just heard something about a riff between NBC and Jay Leno. Somehow Conan O'brien works into the scrum. What's that about? Oh, according to some reports Tiger Woods had sex with Michelle Obama. Something like that...

Have I become an addicted blogger? Sometimes I'll pick up a newspaper and read a three day old story thinking that it's hot off the presses. I swore that I would never blog to the point that I felt an obligation to do so, or let it keep me away from other things I enjoy doing. 

I see my blog as a blindfold, and when I don't touch it for a day and suddenly remove it, it's almost like walking into a different dimension with real faces and real voices talking about crap I don't give a damn about but talking nonetheless.

So far I don't feel any obligation to my blog, but there's enough attachment there that I feel like I'm abandoning my post (get it?) if I don't write something. If guilt ever sets in for not showing up at the BLF headquarters, I'm hanging it up. It's supposed to be fun!

Having said that...I'm having a fucking blast! 

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Tiger Is A Big Pussy

We've been hearing a rumor around town for the past week that Tiger Woods is a "resident" at a treatment center for sexual addiction here. As more rumors seem to become substantiated and now some pictures have evolved purported to be him, I suppose there may be some truth to the story.

I started to admit myself  into this center a couple of times in the past year, but they told me that I would have to be segregated from the women. What's the point? I thought that I would offer my services to help a bunch (gaggle) of over sexed females. You know – volunteer.

Apparently, the people that stay there have a problem with sex, and I don't mean a lack of sex. They can't control their sexual impulses. I have sexual impulses all of the time. I call them erections! I don't even have to see a therapist for them. Unless the therapist is a babe!

I'm not sure that confining Tiger with a group of men for weeks is a productive method of treating his "problem." Seems to me to be counterproductive instead. Can you say, "Bend over and hand me the soap please?"

I suggest that people being treated for sexual addiction do what I do. I call it "selective detox." It's easy, fast and cheap. All you have to do is go to your local Wal*Mart and count the number of hot women you see in a ten minute period. That's it! Cured!

You're welcome... [wonder what Tiger's wife is doing?]

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A Blast From The Past

Since I'll be out of the office for the better part of the morning and my staff is on strike...they want a lunch break now...I leave you with this BLF exclusive blast from the past. It's all a matter of choice and personal taste. Have a good day!

When I was a little kid I remember my dad walking around the house in boxers.  Apparently I was traumatized enough by the sight of my dad's body seemingly oozing out of the boxers that I cannot or will not wear them.  It's just a thing I have...

Ironically, I like loose fitting clothing but not in underwear.  I'm a briefs guy all the way.  Even going without anything and flopping freely for a day or two is cool with me.  Freeing the junk from the trunk is an experience not unlike being emancipated from the briefs that bind me.

I like simple, cotton briefs and I don't care what color they may be either.  Silk is out of the question.  I've been given silk boxers before, and aside from the fact they were boxers, I hate the feel of silk against my skin.  I do not enjoy wearing something made from worm snot!

Whether you wear boxers of briefs isn't really the important thing here.  It's all about taking care of the boys.  Hell, whatever a guy feels is best for the boys works for me.  For me the ultimate in cod care begins with the soft, warm comfort of cotton caressing them my every step.  Now that's love!

Note: Originally published August '09-

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The Con And The Case Of The Missing Uterus

Yesterday I was at America's store, and as I was returning to my car, a young girl about twenty years old asked if she could speak with me for a moment. Since I did not have an erection I assumed the only other reason she would show an interest in me would be to ask for money. Bingo!

Her game went like this. She had just recently undergone a hysterectomy. The day before she developed some intense pain in her abdomen and "rushed" to the e.r. After an exam, she was given a prescription for antibiotics and released.

That was her story. Money for antibiotics. Okay, I'll play along... So I asked her where the prescription was and she pointed back to the store and says, "In there. I dropped it off already." I replied, "Great! So it's ready to be picked up and all you need is a little cash right?" "Yes sir," she exclaims.

"Okay, come this way [walking back to the store] and let's go pick it up. I'll pay for it...," I told her. She just looked at me and smiled. Then she said, "Mister, that was good. I have never had this happen before." She turned and walked away liked I had just kicked her in her missing uterus.

As I backed out of my parking spot, I noticed her running towards another middle aged guy. I'm not sure whether he had an erection or not either.

I don't know how this played out because as I drove away I notified the police of her activity. Anyway, she'll get all of the antibiotics she wants at no charge in the county jail. I understand the fried bologna is outstanding as well!

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The Times

After suffering through days of sleepless nights thinking about the sad situation in Haiti, finally some good news. Actually, two pieces of good news... One, better them than me. Two, nonamedufus gave me this little token (see insert) because I make him "feel at home" when he visits. Thanks John. Just be glad home isn't Haiti!

Double your pleasure, double your fun. Welcome to another edition of The Times! As I sit here fighting toothache pain, I'm trying to find my old VHS Faces of Death II. I figure watching that will convince me that any pain I am experiencing could be much worse!

I heard another media outlet today state that the Haiti quake was probably the worst natural disaster the past ten years. I thought the '04 Indonesian tsunami took that honor. I've come to the conclusion that the "worst" natural disaster is the one that kills you!

Speaking of natural disasters my grand daughter called me today to say that her dad ate some chili he made last night and that he won't stop "pooting." She never said, "Hi" or "I love you." She just said that her dad was "pooting". Thanks for the phone call Courtney, I love you too [click].

On a lighter note, this closes out this weeks edition of The Times. I'll begin reading some new blogs this year so that I can get back to noting my favorites right here on The Sunday Suck-Up Times... Remember the words of a great American statesman, "Happy trails to you, until we meet again..."

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Lack Of Port-a-Potties In Port-au-Prince Causes Concern!

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood and time to spread on a little Saturday jam [whistles]. I have been thinking long and hard about the problems facing the Haitian peoples in the aftermath of the terrible earthquake that slammed that country earlier this week.

What was I talking about...? Oh yeah, Haiti.

Anyway Pat Robertson has come out and blamed voodoo for the disaster. That's no do-do. Voodoo! Danny Glover blames global warming, and President Obama blames President Bush. I know the truth. Come, follow me.

A lack of Port-a-Potties! Yup! Without Port-a-Potties in Port-au-Prince where on earth do those folks use the bathroom? They have no plumbing... In the streets? Oh come on...! They're Haitians!

They dig deep, deep holes in which to dump their sewage and waste, but after a few years the shit piles collapse triggering "the big one."

Voodoo my lily white ass! Anybody knows that with Port-a-Potties you eliminate the need to dig turd trenches. With Port-a-Potties all of your wastes are contained in a sanitary, enclosed environment.

Port-au-Prince should invest in Port-a-Potties. Just so happens I know a ...never mind. I'm grieving.

Enough of that shit! Why? Because it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood [whistles].

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When A Friend Cries For Help I Am There.

One of my friends was recently married. Already she is complaining to me about her manboy. Well, it doesn't come as any surprise to me. I tried for several months to warn her about this dude. Even though I knew my efforts would prove fruitless I wanted to shack up with her before she married him.

I tried to make him out as a bad guy...a scumbag. Actually, I barely know him, but like I said, I wanted her for myself. Well, that didn't happen (yet) so I no longer have a vested interest in their relationship. I mean if I couldn't screw it up for her then why waste my time now?

I am still a sounding board for her marital problems. She's been married less than two months and already is talking about a divorce. Yes! She refers to him as "fat ass!" Yes! Things are looking up. Come to papa little girl...! I'll give her the sympathy and shoulder she wants to cry on.

This (sympathy shit) better not be for naught. I'm encouraging her to stop with the marriage counseling. It's through a church. Wasn't it God that got her into this mess to begin with? Huh? The vows? Remember? She'd be much happier if she let me counsel her.

I told her that I think she's going to be one of these girls that stays in a shitty marriage and is miserable her entire life because she has too much pride to admit she made a mistake. I suggested she stay with me a week or two – give her time to think. I'm a sweetheart that way.

Well, with any luck their marriage will collapse and I can get back onto the field of play. Monogamous relationships suck! I should be a counselor because I know when to say to a young couple, "Your marriage is fucked. It's time to bail." See? Now that's easy isn't it? Yes!

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Emperor Commodus Is Giving Away Grocery Carts!

I was watching "Gladiator"  the other night for about the third time, and it struck me just how much the people of ancient Rome and the people of modern America are similar. They had their emperor...we have ours. They bowed to their emperor...if the shoe fits. They were a subservient people. Blah, blah, blah.

The scene where Joaquin Commodus  threw out a few trinkets and morsels to the endearing crowd reminded me of the way our government throws out a few scraps and leftovers to people here and they struggle for the first bite. "Oh thank you almighty for the crumbs!"

Are you serious?! People in New Orleans are still holding out their hands waiting for more government "assistance" in the wake of that little storm they had five years ago. They can't figure out where the money is. Sorry you morons...have you checked the pockets of your emperor lately?

Remember when a move was on years ago to have the government help in the purchase of grocery carts for the homeless? Sure! What better way to help the homeless than helping them to maintain their lifestyle. Fucking emperors! How about just sending a bunch of canoes to New Orleans?

Here's a fair warning to the emperor's slaves and subjects: Accept the emperor's handout and you may lose a hand. You are only begging for that which is already yours. Morons!

Now I must leave. It's time to pay a visit to my local state tax commission's office. I'm off to pick a fight! I pumped! I'm pissed! I am – Red Raider! Hail!

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All Hail The Plumber!

All hail the plumber! Anyone that will crawl under a house in mud and raw sewage just so that I can take a crap without flooding the house is my friend. The same goes for fixing a plugged shower. Fix it and your my friend.

Today I rely on a plumber once again. This time it's not toilet related. Guess my roommate finally figured out that cigarette butts and mini pads don't do well in a small pipe full of shit and piss. No, it's my shower. I can use another shower, but I want to use my shower!

I thought about going to moooooog's house and scooping up some of that slippery shit in his shower and see if it would unclog my drain, but I hear hazmat suits are expensive. Sorry moooooogster but having your bio-hazardous waste swirling around my tub ain't gonna happen.

Hopefully, within the next few minutes I'll be back in my own shower with cascading streams of hot water and steam surrounding my manly loins. If not, I'll have to use my roommate's shower. The thought of her pubic hair between my toes...

Anyway, pubic hair notwithstanding, if this guy fixes the problem, and if I were gay – not homophobic – I'd fuck him. Plumbers are like hemorrhoids. They can be a pain in the ass and expensive, but when they're gone you sure do feel better.

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When Everything Is Nothing...

My dad used to tell me stories of how he walked two miles to school every day even during snow, rain, ice, etc. I don't doubt that he did. Growing up in the teens and twenties in Iowa was probably not the same as being reared in the lap of luxury.

Me, on the other hand, would say something like, "Son, I had to walk two blocks to school every day except when it rained in which case our maid would drive me. Then when I was in middle school I had to rely on your granddad for gas money for my car!"

Somehow my dad's stories and my stories didn't have the same impact. So when my kids would ask for some spending money I would say, "Do you know just how difficult it was for your grandfather going to school?!" They'd be like, "Huh?"

"Okay, okay so forget about your grandad...." I didn't have any hardship stories to pass along to my kids. Not any that were true that is. I told them once how my mom made me walk home from school with my leg in a cast because she was tied up with her bridge club and couldn't pick me up.

Then there was the time I told my daughter that I never got to sit on my ass and watch t.v. until all of my homework was done. She reminded me of the t.v. and telephone that her mom and I gave her for her bedroom so that she would stay in there instead of bothering us.

My dad had it made. He had all sorts of hardships. Growing up during the "dust bowl" and depression. Walking to school in the snow. Getting up at 4:30am in order to complete chores before heading off to class. I had nothing because I had everything. Boy, did he ever deprive me of some good stories!

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My Grandmother And Norah Jones. Two Of A Kind.

Every generation has it's stories to tell of it's favorite shows growing up, and of course, we all think that ours was better than previous generations' or the ones that followed.  The Little Rascals and Captain Kangaroo were two of my childhood favorites.

In my case, the "previous" generation had only a few radio shows to enjoy. I can remember my grandmother telling me that the best of times were spent with the family in the living room huddled around a monster sized radio listening to Fibber McGee...

I was thinking about the fun I used to have as a kid perched in front of the t.v.. Especially on weekends. Last night I tried to find something interesting to watch, and with over 200 channels to choose from what did I do? I turned off the t.v.

I put a Norah Jones c.d. in the player, and placed the headphones securely on my head. Then...closed my eyes.

Maybe being huddled around that old radio in the living room had it's merits after all. My grandmother used to quip that with radio you could close your eyes and imagine any world you could dream of while the voices guided you along the way.

Well, me and Norah sure as hell had a good time! In fact, we've got another date tonight. Thanks grandma!

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Prune Juice, Limberger And Farts-Raising A Stink!

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood [whistles]. On with some sweet Saturday jam as determined by the ever mindless and flagrantly fruitless me! Speaking of fruitless I understand Florida's fruit crops have taken a major hit from the recent cold snap there. There goes any hope of a fresh squeezed glass of prune juice.

Have you ever heard your mom fart? Seriously. I've heard my dad fart and my brother fart. Hell, I even heard my sister fart once when she had a wreck on her bicycle. Guess it was a forced fart. However, I've never heard my mom fart-not once! I never did consider her a strong woman. Guess I'll reconsider.

Growing up (figuratively) my next door neighbor's dad loved Limburger cheese and stored it in a tightly sealed can in the carport. I found out the reason for that one day when my buddy opened the can so that I could get a whiff. Have you ever smelled a maggot infested carcass? I'll bet that would have made my mom fart!

I knew a girl in junior high that smelled like Limburger. She always had b.o.-always! She liked to "put out", but I never could get my nose past her underarms much less twixt her legs. I used to hear stories from other guys that would say were it not for her body odor they would go back for more.

Well, those are a few of the weird and wonderful thoughts kicking around in my head this morning. Although the idea of a fartless mom, maggots and Limburger may make some of you cringe, it's still a beautiful day in the neighborhood [whistles].

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Somebody Gets It!

Johnathan, a journalist and author of the blog Tax Tips For Democrats, recently had this to say about Beyond Left Field:

"True Comedy does not have to tell you when to laugh. Beyond Left Field delivers just that, sucks you into the private hell of one man and spits you right back out, feeling somewhat dirty inside... This kind of fun is infectious, and once you take a disease you too will decide this is a disease you want :)"

Johnathan gets it, as do so many others, and for that I say, "Happy Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day!" Although I don't know when it is nor can I ever remember if it's in honor of his birthday or the day the bullet missed Jesse Jackson and hit him instead...thanks Johnathan!

That's about it for this "Pat on the Back" edition of another fun filled Friday edition of Beyond Left Field. We'll be back tomorrow for another exciting venture into the realm of whatever the hell it is I wish to talk about... Pardon me now while I search out my next victim subject for praise-BLF style!

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It's The Bread Stupid!

There are two locally owned sandwich shops in town that I like to patronize from time to time. The ingredients are fresh. It's not fast food. It's good, homemade eating. They both specialize in various types of po'boys. Really, either place is as good as the other. At least they were until the other day...

One of the shops is owned by a Vietnamese family. I know. Vietnam and po'boys?! It works. They serve their po'boys on a real French roll. It's crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside.

The other shop, and because of my prejudices and bigotry my favorite, used the same type of bread. No more! In a cost cutting effort my former #1 sandwich shop changed their French bread from a real roll to nothing more than a over sized hot dog bun shaped like a po'boy roll! Sacrilege!

Hell, I'd be willing to pay an extra dollar or so for the pleasure of biting into the crisp, chewy bread. Hell no! Cost cutting...screw that! The damned Vietnamese shop hasn't lowered their quality in order to save a few cents. They're as good as ever!

I guess, in the name of classic oyster po'boys everywhere, I'm going to have to make Victor Charles' joint my #1 now. My old reliable shop has betrayed me. My old school pal who owns the shop has betrayed me.

Even my bigoted, skewed approach to things can't diminish my discerning taste for a great oyster and shrimp po'boy served with a cup of super hot and spicy gumbo. Really though...Vietnamese po'boys?

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I'm Feeling The Love...Hoo-Aah!

What can homeless people do in sub freezing temperatures to occupy their time? I envision a group of parasites sitting around a fire eating pork and beans and singing "Kumbaya" . Ratcheting up the spirits when somebody pulls out an old beaten up guitar with a broken string and plays "Leaving on a Jet Plane" . All holding hands and smiling and giving thanks for nothing...

With night time temps in the teens here one large shelter has opened but requires a photo i.d. to get a bed. Huh? How many homeless people carry a photo i.d.? How many can afford one? If they could, don't you think they would spend the money on something else? Maybe like booze?

I suggest the homeless population stay in the woods and let nature take it's course. I understand that hypothermia is basically painless. Survivors would be able to divide the goods of the freshly frozen deceased. And if food is a real problem, well then...there you go.

I'm trying to think of fun and games for the homeless while they attempt to survive the nights. Something to keep their minds off of the frigid cold and wind. Maybe have a slideshow showing my latest pictures from Cancun. I don't know what to do to help them. Offer them warmth? Fuck that! I need that!

Anyways, it should be interesting to comb their favorite hideouts Sunday to see how many survived the sub freezing cold. If I find a guitar with a broken string or empty cans of pork and beans, I'll know at least that they died with a warm heart...perhaps holding hands and singing:



HOO-AAH!

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TSA, BVD's And SEx. Obama's Security Plan...

The TSA has announced the formation of a new security division to execute Obama's profiling directive. Select Underwear Disposal Specialist, or SUDS will now conduct a grab and feel search of the underwear worn by nationals from selected "enemy" states.

The enemy states include Yemen, Somalia, Pakistan and all southern states in the continental U.S. The Obama administration decided the best way to prevent future BVD bombers aboard commercial airliners is to conduct a full body hand search of anyone with excess hair or that says "y'all".

An addition to "Gitmo" is also in the planning stages. The new addition is to house all legal, passport carrying, Caucasian senior citizens who have been determined to have less than ten years to live. This will help TSA authorities in expediting security clearances for terrorist with no passports.

In the meantime, UPService (UPS) and FedExpress (FedEx) have announced that they will soon begin their own commercial passenger flights. The new airline will be called Service Express or SEx. Efficiency, on time arrivals and departures and working crappers are all guaranteed.

Where is Sully when you need him? Only in America!

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Do You Want To Kick Cigarettes? Kick A Puppy First.

I quit smoking a few years ago because it was becoming increasingly more expensive to die and it interfered with things I liked to do, e.g., breathe! As I recall my efforts to quit smoking, I probably remember the agitation more than anything else.

Normally, I'm not easily agitated. I'm usually very laid back and relaxed. I'm the type of guy that would ask somebody else to call 911 if a fire broke while I was watching a movie.

I first noticed the nicotine withdrawals manifesting in "puppy punting". That's the best way to describe it. You figure it out. After that, I went through a stage of blaming all young parents for giving birth to butt ugly babies and ruining chances of a hot S.I. cover model in the year 2020.

Next came the third stage of tobacco restricted living. I would sit in smoking sections of restaurants breathing deeply until the shakes disappeared. Not once did I cough up blood in the linguine.

Finally, I reached the last stage of nicotine withdrawal. This was the worst, but I knew if I could conquer it I had it made. Going to a bar...drink but don't smoke. I did it!

Now I'm wondering if it was worth it. Actually I know that tobacco and smoking is a potentially dangerous habit and health risk. That's why I'm sticking with the roofies and Jack! You may call 911 now?!

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The Times

I discovered yesterday that I had done it once again. I was somewhat amazed because the competition is always tough, but with fortitude, brilliance and a wee bit of luck, I came through. I won the caption contest at nonamedufus' place. Thanks again to nonamedufus for the opportunity to exclaim once again that "I Be Hangin' With nonamedufus!"

I recently had to admit to myself that one of my best friends is not perfect. I know...why choose her as a friend? After all of this time, she has become blinded by a lie...beleaguered by the scourge of mankind. She's in love-again!

I told her that her man child's love was not reciprocal. Whatever I can do to help you know? I explained that he's only interested in sex with her. She reminded me that I am the same way. Okay, so maybe she's not completely blinded yet.

Just when you think you really know somebody they let you down by doing something stupid. We'll no longer share those romantic midnight meals at the Waffle House . No more blacking out in each others arms. Never again will we share an entire weekend on the couch watching an Andy Griffith  marathon.

I mentioned to her that no matter where she went I would never forget her. She thought I was being sweet. It was at that point I reminded her not to let it go to her head. The reason I said that was she owes me fifty bucks! What the hell are friends for anyway?

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Saturday Jam With Mr. Compassion

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood [whistles]. Birds are chirping, squirrels scampering about, the sun is shining and my fucking neighbor woke me up at 7:00am with his fucking new Christmas present! A brand new orange and white high powered leaf blower! Son of a bitch!

Now for a little jam BLF! style. My purpose in life is simple. Let me illustrate. Compassion and empathy for the weak and oppressed, the miserable and down trodden, the scum and bile of the earth is why I'm here. I bleed compassion! I wreak of empathy. I piss tears.

For example, yesterday I was taking a leisurely walk about the 'hood when I saw a child running and crying hysterically. It was a young lad of eight or nine years...he was scared. I stopped and asked if I could help.

The young boy, after wiping green snot from his mouth and eyebrows, began to explain that a ferocious dog had chased him through an alley. He had known this dog to bite others and was deathly afraid of meeting the same fate at the teeth of the canine mauler.

Instantly, compassion kicked in. I asked the boy where he lived and he pointed to a house down the street. I put my arm around him and said, "Quit wasting my time you sniveling little snot and go home! ...And blow your fucking nose!"

My duty done I continued my leisurely pace and began to whistle. Why? Because it was a beautiful day in the neighborhood. [whistles].

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New Year's. A Day To Relax, Reflect And Puke...

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