Archive for the ‘Human Behavior’ Category

Bruce and I, over a wee dram the other night, were discussing the latest in bridge peccadilloes. The latest of course being that of the redundantly named NJ Governor Chris Christie, Fort Lee, and the George Washington Bridge. Where it will all go is anyone’s guess, but this being New Jersey, my old home state, we should be prepared for an entertaining slew of theories, accusations, denials, finger-pointing, more denials, and ultimately not being any closer to the truth than when this story first broke.


But in digging through the archaeological rooms of our library, we discovered that bridges have played more rolls in bringing politicians down, or at least to heel, than assisting them in reaching across chasm-like aisles.

Who can forget the lovely Sarah Palin’s Bridge to Nowhere? To where did it lead her? Yes, she is still on the national scene pandering to those old white men who feel they would like to get her in a voting booth for some “fact-finding” or at least go moose hunting with her? Even cable TV tossed her aside, not once, but twice. Maybe she can get a gig as a guest host on Duck Dynasty which despite its questionable politics is quite funny.


Don’t even mention Chappaquidick. Oops, sorry we did. That was a tidy little bit of bridgework from which Teddy never fully recovered. Of course as with all bridges too far, it was littered with denials before the truth was eventually outed. What is it about bridges that lead pols to folly if not ruination?

And what about Congressman Wilbur Mills (R-Arkansas) and the Tidal Basin Scandal featuring stripper Fanne Foxe. Stopped for a traffic violation, old Fanne bolted the car and jumped into the Tidal Basin in Washington, DC to escape. They didn’t even wait to cross the bridge! That finally gave Fanny an amount of exposure she had never dreamed of previously.


History is filled with bridges which rather than do what they were originally constructed to do have achieved just the opposite. Just ask the River Kwai.


But at least, it helped Sir Alec Guinness’s career immensely.

We confess… we go to a gym. More specifically, a fitness center. One of those shiny open 24 (!) hours ones (do they think they’re New Jersey, for crissakes!), with an entire host of medieval devices designed to thoroughly torture you into submission all the while building you up to resemble an ancient deity, depending of course on your peculiar body type. Yeah, we go to one of those. It’s cheap, nearby, and there are thankfully people who look a hell of lot worse than us. Are we small for saying that? Well, maybe small was the wrong word – after all we are going to this place.

But, more often than not we get the feeling that we’re watching outtakes from the cantina scene in the original Star Wars. There are creatures there we don’t and can’t possibly recognize as  human. There are beings there we don’t understand at all. And it transcends gender. Getting fit is one thing; getting weird, unless you’re in Austin, is another.

9394332501_a74f9a5b31  How do my delts look, man?

The age span is unbelievably broad. From seniors who should know better than to hurt themselves in such ways to children(!), yes children who unless morbidly obese shouldn’t need such self-inflicted agony on their way to physical supremacy.

Not only are the mutated bodies otherworldly, so is the clothing. Normally, a lot of this would be found in a discarded grocery bag found by the drop-off bin at a charity store. But upon closer inspection (please, not that close!), one can see that good money was laid out for this. The tell-tale signs are otherworldly bright colors and insane graphics. Coupled with lycra straining against unbelievable tectonic pressures and it’s a miracle there haven’t been more cellulite explosions pasting innocent victims against gym walls.

One style that many guys appear to favor is the t-shirt with the collar band cut off along with missing sleeves. All the better to show you my delts and biceps, n’est ce pa? It’s a look that went out with the original Flashdance movie. And Jennifer Beals rocked it a hell of lot better than they do. Besides, if a guy is not from New Jersey, don’t try and look like one, poseur! Truthfully, it doesn’t work there either. The same goes for headbands on anyone. You wind up looking like baby Huey.

4524567027_f72bb3d4fa Get the idea?

But those aren’t the only issues with t-shirts. More often than not, the shirt is over-sized or advertising something. Commonly it’s a bar which explains why that person is there either working off fat or a hangover. Then there are those concerned citizens whose shirts celebrate some kind of rally, race, auction, cause, church gathering, or a prayer breakfast for literacy. We can’t forget the family reunion shirts either. Do you really need to be reminded who your family is? We sure as hell don’t. We guess we need to revisit those rules about t-shirts: wear it torn and unadorned or advertise and wear your size. It’s a start.

In a reverse sort of “don’t look at my body, I’m a person not a piece of meat”, men have adopted to wearing enormously baggy shorts as currently favored by NBA players. Gone are the good old days when a bit of leg showing was OK. On the other hand if you’re a woman, you are probably wearing the tightest of lycra (here we go again!) shorts which are painted-on-your-body tight. Yeah, they’re comfortable, but so are baggy gym shorts and you won’t get candida. Think about it.

Has anyone noticed the trend in gym shoes? Some of them make sense in case there’s a power outage and you can’t find your way out of the dark. They’re that bright. The same unfortunately can’t be said of those wearing black gym shoes with matching socks. Really? Does one really need to wear formal gym shoes while working out? So in keeping with that, how about the gym rat who wears the tuxedo t-shirt? He’d better be wearing black shoes to match especially after Labor Day.


Now the gym we go to, sorry – fitness center, is pretty complete. In addition to all the equipment, it features lockers, showers, toilets, and water fountains. So why in hell do people bring in bottled water? Why is there a vending machine, right next to the water fountain, selling bottled water along with other drinks designed to match your hideously colored shoes?  Why indeed.

And what about the inhabitants of this sweat shop? Grotesquely over-developed muscles make the body do rather odd things. Many of the denizens cannot walk straight through a regular door as their arms are sticking out from their bodies at strange angles. They appear to be at the ready in case they’re dropped into a tub of scalding water and are preparing to launch themselves out accompanied by terrified screams.

They also walk funny, duck-like almost, as their feet are splayed out also at ridiculous angles. Couple that with the psychedelic colored shoes, cut-off t-shirts, tightly clutching water bottles, and baggy gym shorts/or lycra and you’ve got a cast of extras from a typical Troma film. Good times, good times.

7439327504_7ea446bdf8                                                                  And as much depth as this cardboard cut-out.

So, during an hour or so at Castle Glute, one can witness all of this and more. So tell me why we pay for cable tv when this is so much more entertaining??

It’s that time of the year when the weakest among us of which I of course do not count myself, make New Year’s resolutions. It’s the same old, same old – “I’ll drink less”; “I’ll eat less”; “I’ll lose weight”. Yeah yeah, yadda, yadda. Come on. When are you going to get realistic? All of that will last a week or so before you come up with a rationalization for breaking it. I know because in the past I’ve been there.

So, the rest of you reading this probably have already started on how you will attempt to turn your lives around in 2013. My advice to you: don’t bother. You won’t keep the freakin’ things any way and will just embarrass yourselves when you finally admit your genetic weaknesses regarding commitments. Never, never make commitments around the holidays unless it’s to meet for drinks. And even then, be careful. You never know who you’ll wind up going home with.

2541584717_d7b509fc33 You never do know who you’ll wind up with.

And that’s another thing –  why is it so many people insist on making life commitments (marriage proposals, etc.) around the holidays? Isn’t there enough pressure to be falsely happy at this time of year? That’s what all the booze is for. Don’t ruin a good gin buzz for crissakes making a promise you’re almost certain to break!

4124361638_f79e6f80e3 Second thoughts already!

I know someone who is convinced they will find a new job in 2013: one that is fulfilling and financially rewarding. Really? Do they not watch or read the news? Yes, it’s true, that that practice will most likely lead to more drinking but not of the socially acceptable irresponsible holiday imbibing. But a new and good job? Maybe they’ve been dipping into the cooking sherry a little too much already. Resolutions just suck.

A few years ago, I made a resolution I’ve actually been able to keep completely. It’s simple – I resolved never to make another resolution again. And I’ve stuck to it. The good news? It hasn’t interfered with my drinking at all!

Cheers and Happy New Year!

It’s true. I don’t always drink beer. I don’t care. I prefer wine. But what kind? I don’t much care about that. Your kids are sick? Too bad. No, that’s not right. I just don’t care.

6314300858_17c0be6411 Not me. Who cares?

As I said, it’s true. I could care less. There isn’t much of anything I do care about. My investments perhaps, but they are so many and so large, I just don’t care anymore. My trophy wife? Take her! She’s already my fourth one – they’re all the same anyway.

If I sneeze, no takes notice. Mosquitoes don’t fear me. I’m not on the Pope’s Rolodex either. And that’s all OK.  I’ve never excelled in sports, educational attainment, work, you name it. You see, I just don’t care. What I did care about at one time was that I’d been very good at making money. Don’t bother asking how, my attorney says it’s none of your business. Did I hurt your feelings by saying that? So what? I don’t care. Money can have that effect on one.

The funny thing is that at one point in my unbelievably fortunate life, I did care. Almost, but not quite bleeding heart liberal care. About everything. But after a while, a certain sameness crept in. I kept looking for greater thrills and stimulation. Oh, I found it and wallowed in it dirtily and happily. I had it all and I didn’t care any more. At this point if you’re still with me, and if you’re not, who cares?, I’ll tell you what happened.

Pure and simple, I ran for elected office and won. Would you expect anything else? I was able to convince the electorate that I cared. Isn’t that a joke? But I did. Deeply. And they believed it. And now I had to make good on all those bloated but hollow election promises. Do you know how impossible that is?  I’m surprised no one has been hung for some of the things we are forced to say in order to get elected. I guess it’s not perjury unless there’s a crime involved. Even then.

So, the first day in office, I was inundated by sycophants wanting something or to attach themselves to what they perceived as a newly minted seat of power. It was flattering at first but became tiresome rather quickly. I had my issues I wanted to advance. But, nooo, they had their issues too. They wanted snow removal; new pet pooper laws; real estate reassessments; zoning variances; that kind of crap. Before long, I started not to care any longer. It was that easy. And believe me, that quick.

So, while I know there’s a beer company advertising it’s “World’s Most Interesting Man”, the truth of the matter is that’s not me and I don’t care. He’s never been elected to office. He probably knows better than that. However, if he was, he wouldn’t care. And neither do I. And neither should you.

This is the other Bruce and I’m not happy. Not happy at all. Do you hear me? Not happy!

And you wanna know why? Probably not and that’s why I’m unhappy. I’m more than unhappy. But I promised Bruce I would confine that kind of talk to the bar or behind Mrs. Crosby’s more than ample backside.

Bruce has been moping about and there doesn’t seem to be anything any of us can do about it. We’ve offered him his favorite girly drink, Club Soda, Elderberry Wine, nightshade, a slice of lime, and Rose’s Lime juice with an expresso bean thrown in, but even that can’t seem to stir him from that damned funk he’s in.

Just add the nightshade and the coffee bean and Bruce’ll be happy…maybe..

And here’s the dirty little secret behind his crappy attitude. You. That’s right, You. Or really the lack of You’s. Each day he looks at the numbers on this blog and gets more and more pissed. If Bruce is pissed, then you can only imagine how I feel. Spittin’ nails, right!

Look, I don’t want to air our dirty laundry, but I can’t stand it when Bruce is this way. He’s mean to his wife, kicks the dog (and the cat, but she deserves it), and is just generally lousy to be around. Each day he toils on this blog and feels like he’s unappreciated. (Awww, poor little Bruce!) But hey, aren’t we all?

So, Bruce is threatening to leave this endeavor of ours and go to work for Rupert Murdoch. He claims he has had it. He might even run away. Talked about arrested development! Join the circus! See if I care.

He says why should he do most of the writing, as if you couldn’t tell, right?, if no one is going to read it. I keep telling him that the market (of which he thinks of as urbane and sophisticated) isn’t really there or if it is, doesn’t care. Bruce, look, maybe you’re not that funny after all. That was probably not the right thing to say. What do you think?

I can’t see this blog going on without him. What would I call it? – The Bruce? Not on your life! Of course, I could go out and find another Bruce, but truthfully, it wouldn’t be the same. We’d have no history, we probably would be too similar and that wouldn’t work. I guess I could use my brother, but he isn’t a Bruce, he’s a Richard and that’s all that needs to said on that count. He’s not even a pale comparison. This is not how I thought I would spend my final days in the nursing home. Disregard that last remark. I am fully capable and functioning and don’t use Depends… often. I’m just really upset over this.

Last night, Bruce went to a gun show of all things. That’s usually the thing I like to do, but hey. He came back with a Kroger 90mm hand cannon complete with mother of pearl grip and elephant ivory sightings. He said it was formerly owned by Cher. At least that gave him some comfort. It’s what he may intend to do with it that has me scared. We need to talk him down off this ledge.

It made him happy for a moment until we took out the firing pin.

Please let Bruce know you love him. Tell your friends to read this too. Maybe even follow. Write him comments. Send him cookies. It will make my life much more bearable and will continue the fine writing that you’ve all come to love. Or like maybe. Tolerate? Please? Otherwise, it could mean the end of the Two Bruces blog. Unless you know of another extremely talented Bruce. It could happen. I’m open to suggestions.

Bruce and I were having one of our late-night-up-until-the-early-hours philosophical/theological discussion. He’d just seen an episode of Whale Wars and was bemoaning the fact that there were fewer and fewer whales in the world. I misunderstood him and thought he meant that with all the whales gone there’d be no more episodes of Whale Wars. Boy, was I ever wrong! He was really worried about the fate of the world, the way we take things for granted, our criminally poor stewardship of dear old Mother Earth (his words, I swear!), and the amount of waste in our lives. Taken in the context of his life of wretched excess and gas-guzzling cars (the Pignasaurus not withstanding), this was an amazing about-face for him.

It just made him weep.

I looked up and he was crying! “What is going to happen to all those poor, dead whales just floating around in the sea?” I opined that they could be harvested for ambergris, a key ingredient in his favorite cologne, but he found no comfort there. And it went downhill from there.

He calmed down enough for us to go out for dinner as our dear Mrs. Crosby had the night off again. (Aside – does she ever work? I’ll have to ask Bruce when he’s in a better mood.) So on our way to Casa del Pies for a favorite dish of ours – the pigs feet in rose wine and guacamole, Bruce saw a dead raccoon in the road. This set him off once again. First the whales, now the raccoons. (Please lord, give me strength!) But this gave me a brilliant idea.

Since Bruce was now exhibiting a concern for the world around him, this was going to be a winner. If you are like us, and we assume you are for you are reading this blog, then you are probably hyper-aware of the increasingly large amount of road kill these days. Ignoring them and leaving them on the road is poor stewardship. As our primary premise, we will be publishing the first ever gourmet road kill cookbook. Think about it: no more unsightly animal carcasses befouling our thoroughfares; we will now use all that is provided to us by a higher power, if you believe in such things; and finally, nutritious meals that can be had by all. We are going to provide a few of the recipes now slated for inclusion in our new French-inspired, but globally-adaptable cookbook, Rue de la Morte. What you will undoubtedly notice is that all palates can be entertained by these and all road kill can be adapted to multiple cuisines.

We wanted to make sure no children were traumatized by this post.

Tex-Mex Armadillo stew: 1 armadillo; 4 tomatoes; 2 tablespoons cayenne pepper, 2 slices American cheese; two large Idaho potatoes; 4 cups of chicken broth; 6 tablespoons sugar; 1 bay leaf. Toss in stock pot for 6 hours.

New England whale chowder: 1 whale; 4 tomatoes; 2 tablespoons cayenne pepper, 2 slices American cheese; two large Idaho potatoes; 4 cups of chicken broth; 6 tablespoons sugar; 1 bay leaf. Toss in stock pot for 6 hours.

New Jersey squirrel pate: 1 squirrel; 4 tomatoes; 2 tablespoons cayenne pepper, 2 slices American cheese; two large Idaho potatoes; 4 cups of chicken broth; 6 tablespoons sugar; 1 bay leaf. Toss in blender.

Montana Bambi stew: 1 deer; 4 tomatoes; 2 tablespoons cayenne pepper, 2 slices American cheese; two large Idaho potatoes; 4 cups of chicken broth; 6 tablespoons sugar; 1 bay leaf. Toss in stock pot for 6 hours.

Brazilian dolphin ragout: 1 dolphin; 4 tomatoes; 2 tablespoons cayenne pepper, 2 slices American cheese; two large Idaho potatoes; 4 cups of chicken broth; 6 tablespoons sugar; 1 bay leaf. Toss in stock pot for 6 hours.

Pepe Le Pew Jambalaya: 1 skunk; 4 tomatoes; 2 tablespoons cayenne pepper, 2 slices American cheese; two large Idaho potatoes; 4 cups of chicken broth; 6 tablespoons sugar; 1 bay leaf. Toss in stock pot for 6 hours. Add ketchup to kill smell.

Jambalaya – it’s all good.

I think you get the idea. Anything with this universally helpful recipe can turn the most disgusting road kill into a gourmet’s delight. And keep in mind, if it’s been on the road for a day or two, even better. It’s just like aged beef. So, take a chance. What have you got to lose?

Get aside Bruce, I’m writing this one myself, move it! I’m pissed! I just lost an hour and a half of my day that I’ll never get back and it’s all Larry’s fault. Stop it Bruce, I’m warning you. I’m doing this one alone. Oh, put down the fireplace poker and have another sherry. You’re getting tedious. There, that’s better. And, Readers, please forgive me in advance as the post that follows is not written with our usual decorum and tasteful prose. Poor service gets both of us upset. We tip exceedingly well and expect exemplary service. It’s only proper.

I don’t know who to blame for this, but the concept of globalization and out-sourcing has gone too far. Maybe Ross Perot was right after all.

We have plenty of non-English speaking people here without jobs in the US without having to employ non-English speaking people in Pakistan. That’s just not fair. It’s truly a non-partisan issue as far as I’m concerned and that IS all that counts.

You know it’s one thing to complain about immigration and illegal aliens taking our “high-paying” jobs here at home. It’s quite another to send those same “high-paying” jobs out of the country and give ’em to people who don’t shop at your local Walmart, keeping the money here. Where’s all the political hoo-hah over that? Yeah, neither is doing much about it. And for those of you out there who may be so inclined, this is not a Tea Party rant. Both of us are too grounded in reality on that one. Well, at least I am.

No, what this is about is Larry…from Pakistan. How do I know he’s from Pakistan? I don’t, but he had an accent that certainly wasn’t from New Jersey and he was way too polite to come from the Garden State as well. Now, he may have been from another country. I’m not singling any one country out, but it seems like a lot of “customer service” is handled way outside of the country. It could be that they’ll work for a lot less than our illegals will. “High paying” has a whole different meaning to them. They are certainly more polite than most of us. All I needed to do was transfer my satellite radio account from my old car to a new one. Simple, huh? Only in the delusions of a cost-counting, corporate hack.

So, Larry, this one’s for you…wherever you may be. I have to give it you, you are one polite guy. You were patient and very understanding, I think. I say I think, because in the over one hour we shared with each other on the phone, not once did you lose it. On the other hand, you never really found it either. You called a lot of other people to help you help me. After our sweet time together embraced in cellular bliss, my problem still existed. Politeness only goes so far before competency needs to weigh in on the issue. But, I did say you were polite, right? You offered me more trial plans and options. Low rates even. But truthfully, that’s not what I wanted. I just wanted my problem fixed. I would have even foregone the politeness.

Uh-huh. That’s Larry in the background.

So, after our hour into our “customer service” courtship, our relationship remained unconsummated. You didn’t even offer me a cigarette or call me a cab. Like some inconsiderate one-night stand, you put my number on the wall and passed me off to another “customer service” guy. Believe me, I’m not waiting for you to call me in the morning.

But, at least the second “customer service” pro, let’s call him Bob (with a midwestern accent!) had the right phone numbers to call, even if meant going in to a chat room. Really! I didn’t know those even existed any more. Maybe he went on to the Customer Service FaceBook page for the answer.

So now Bob and I were in a budding relationship too. Bob was also polite and contrite. Please remember that those two words together (in behavior especially) will work wonders. That and knowing what you’re doing too helps immensely! Bob took yet another half hour plus of my time to get it fixed. And don’t forget, he was polite and contrite.

Well, almost. He got most of it fixed, but for some reason one poor channel refused to come in. Of course it was Bruce’s and my favorite channel – Cormorant Fancier Radio. As this is their pre-mating season, we need to keep up on things as they progress, but will we be able to? Not likely, unless Bob, or Larry, or whoever picks up the phone knows the right chat room to go to.

And the kicker… their closing line, “Thanks for choosing us.” Like we have a choice!

Sometime after Bruce and I returned from the war, we got to reminiscing about the things we missed about serving our country. Certainly the camaraderie of corps, the singularly and spectacularly bad food, pressed combat fatigues, the latest in military weaponry, and a bed made so tightly, one could bounce a coin off of it. And bounce coins we did. I remember one night, I won $ 163.00 bouncing on the… sorry, that’s another story. And don’t ask Bruce either, he won big that night as well.

Not Bruce. Neither of them.

A tight bed. Who could ask for anything better? Room for another to be certain. But a bed made so beautifully, it was almost a sin to throw back the covers. One would just as soon sleep on top of it then muss it up. Good times indeed.

Making a bed the right way is something that takes years to master and perfect. Strict adherence to the process bordering on anal is to be desired. That said, it is an activity best done by oneself (to preserve the relationship) as another will not share your obsession with this. More’s the pity for them. Let them sleep on a futon if that’s the cavalier attitude they strike.

Bruce and I are of somewhat different dispositions on how to make the proper bed. There are a number of ways, some of them correct, others just poor excuses for covering up the wrinkled bed linens. Both of us do prefer different styles that are both correct. In a third-party competition, the measurements of bounce height and rapidity of levitation between the two styles were virtually identical. Neither of us came away with a clear cut sense of victory.

To ensure our continued friendship, we will only discuss one style of bed-making. Since the results were so close as to be indistinguishable from each other, we flipped a coin. On a bed of course. Bruce won so he’ll be sharing his method for making a proper tight bed.

No bed can be properly made without fresh bed clothes. All components must be freshly laundered and still warm to the touch from the dryer upon placement on the bed. This is particularly welcome in colder climates. In the summer, line drying, then ironing is the preferred method.

Of course the quality of the linens is paramount. We recommend a 12oo count Peruvian cotton/hemp blend. It provides an incredible softness with just a touch of civilized rusticity that will remind you of a lodge in the Adirondacks.

But before you even do that, you must have a proper bed. No self-respecting bedder would purchase a bed with a name that starts with an “S”. Yes, that’s right – no Serta, Sealy, Stearns and Foster, Simmons, or Sleep Number. It’s too confusing. We recommend beds by Royal Fumwick Foamerpedic. Our families have used our original Royal Fumwick mattresses for over two decades, and with only an occasional mold problem, they have served us admirably.

So now that you know what kind of bed to purchase and what kind of linens to dress the bed with, you’ll need a few more items to complete the process. The first thing will be new pillows. Thankfully, Royal Fumwick makes a wonderful line of head support that match the coverings on their mattresses. We wouldn’t have it any other way. Would you?

Next you will need a blanket/quilt, whatever to keep you warm. Blankets by Pendleton are not acceptable. What are you, a tree hugger?! That would be too great a mold smell along with the mattress. A down comforter is perfect. Just make sure to purchase a corresponding duvet cover with a high count Peruvian cotton/hemp blend. It is so worth it.

Mrs. Crosby.

You are now ready to make the bed. Assemble all the items you need on the bed, again making sure the bed clothes are freshly laundered and dried. Next, call your housekeeper (in our case, the indomitable Mrs. Crosby) and tell her the bed needs to be made. It’s late and you need your sleep.

This is the moment of truth. How many of you out there have purchased one of those “_____ for Dummies” books? Don’t sit there and deny it. We’ve seen the sales figures and we know what you’re up to. Get the hell over yourself already! That book ain’t gonna help you! If we can’t help you, then no one can and you’re just SOL. (Look it up, Einstein!) See what we mean by Dummies? Jeez!

Aww, c’mon! Really? (

The publishers have pretty much made their statement as to what they think of you. It’s simple – to them, you’re all dummies. Why else would they keep printing these books?

There is a “Dummie” book for just about anything in the world or so we thought until exhaustive research proved that these, so-called smart guys, (the publishers), over-looked some categories that without these books, you’d all be real dummies. With the exception of course, the two Bruces who will now happily join those so-called smart guys. So before long, you’ll be able to get these new books and enrich your wretched little lives. (Sorry about that, Bruce sometimes forgets his very humble beginnings.) These will be available at all popular book stores not including Borders.  Hey, we’re not dummies here!

For those of you who have mastered writing or some such approximation, take down these titles and buy these books if you want to move up to the position of shift manager of your local Dollar store. That guy in front of you isn’t any smarter than you, he’s just the owners’ idiot offspring from his second wife.

“Breathing for Dummies” – You’d be surprised how many schools have private remedial breathing classes. This should be mandatory to achieve citizenship. It has an advanced section on exhaling which should be read several times to perfect this activity.

“Walking for Dummies” – Left, right, left, right. How hard could that be? Amazingly, not following this can lead to serious and sometimes fatal tripping. The book comes with many simple to follow diagrams and one syllable words for easy reading. (Special discounts offered on crutches.)

Yeah, this is what we’re talking about. Read the “Walking for Dummies”” one first so you can then strut like a pimp. (

“Blinking for Dummies” – Once you get the hang of this, it’ll take forever to read.

“The Dummies’ Guide to Drinking Water” – This is not to be confused with the advanced book “Drinking for Dummies” which is all about alcohol consumption. This, through extensive research and illustrations, will demonstrate the correct way to consume water. Such chapters as “Not through your nose, Dummy” and “Ears are for Hearing” are must-reads.

“Hair-growing for Dummies” – Just look around and you decide who you want to give this book to as a gift. Special six-packs available.

After all of this, if you’re still struggling with life or whatever, we have just the book for you. Do not attempt to read it while walking, talking, eating, any natural process, or for you really big dummies out there, reading.

Let’s be careful out there. (

When Bruce and I were little kids in separate schools, divided by geography, years, and parents who wouldn’t talk with each other (How could they? They didn’t even know each other!), we indulged in the kind of mindless entertainment all young boys do. No, not the kind that’ll make you go blind. The kind that kills brain cells without artificial additives. Stupid stuff. The kind of stuff mindless people will do given the opportunity to vent their prepubescent rage. Or at least we’d like to think we did.

Mindless thing #1. Let’s hang “Tommy” from the bridge. Drivers will see, freak-out, cause multi-vehicle collisions and hilarity will ensue. We didn’t really hang “Tommy”, our version of an early crash test dummy, so much as take his clothes, sew up the sleeves and pants legs, stuff them with paper and then hung this paperboy from the bridge. Nobody saw “Tommy”. No collisions, but in truth, we thought it was the funniest thing ever. See, mindless.

Not Tommy! (

Mindless thing# 2. Impersonating the law. This usually happened under two conditions: lust or drunkenness. Sometimes those two walked hand-in-hand. Picture chasing in our car, flashing the red-covered driving lights, two nubile young women in their car, exhorting them to pull over.The NYW, seeing the flashing red lights on our VW Beetle (!), thought they were being pulled over by the law. Obviously they weren’t too bright if they thoughts cops drove VWs! Upon seeing it was two young dudes in heat, they split as quickly as they could. We did warn you this was mindless. Grateful that they did not report us to the real law, we followed suit and split, but in a different direction.

What we thought we looked like. (

Mindless #3. Being the really good friend by going out with hot girl’s not-so-hot friend in order for your friend to take out Miss Pretty. Yeah, that’s what friends are for. Nothing will contribute to reprobate behavior and quick inebriation as taking one for the team. What team? I don’t have a number on my shirt! And I’m certainly not going to make it to first base with this girl either! But, friendship prevails and a good time was had by two of the four people involved. Yeah, mindless.

The feeling was mutual! (

Mindless #4. This is easy. See our previous post, Blogging for Idiots, 101. Yeah, mindless, very mindless.