Anniversary Issue (Part 1 of 2)
I started blogging just over a year ago. (You’re like, “What? You did? I didn’t know that!”) In case you missed any entries, here are “highlights” (very liberal interpretation of the word) from the first 6 months on this unnamed blog:
Italians must possess ranges that work!
I thought it would be worth fishing for jobs that I wasn’t exactly qualified for, and immediately found several to apply to.
The campaigns have been hijacked by political strategists and operatives who are threatening to “put America to work” (What is this, North Korea? Do your own damned work!).
Benjamin Franklin is famously misquoted as saying that beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy, when in fact he was talking about cleavage.
I’ve come to know who the bad boys of wine making are.
I was recently informed by an extremely smart person I encountered in a bus depot that friction isn’t going anywhere, at least not anytime soon.
Ironically, this year’s Thanksgiving battle is occurring in the middle of yet another of my occasional attacks of anosmia, and I can’t smell a damned thing.
This past summer, I stopped for fuel on a trip back from Maine, and found myself inexplicably drawn to a packet of teriyaki-flavored jerky hanging on a hook in the snacks section.
I also love seeing Jerry Jones all the time. He seems like a great guy!
I had to drive around in a beat up old station wagon with steaming pies distracting me from the back.
“Burn it more,” said the patron. “Burn it more!”
I do not own a single pair of drinking gloves (!!).
Who is going to look up Led Zeppelin’s 1977 concert tour dates (besides me)? No doubt someone would, exposing me as a fraud and causing a scandal, such that this website suddenly gets millions of hits and I become famous.
I feel I have earned the license to call myself “Rick Wheelwright” and will proceed with the legal name change process for myself and my two children once I get all the forms.
This white-collar criminal enterprise has, you can imagine, a dark underbelly, where lowlifes looking for trouble inhabit seedy parking lots and need to be taught lessons by gentlemanly tough guys.
In my teen years, my parents converted to the religion of Dijon mustard, no doubt thanks to the marketing geniuses behind Grey Poupon.
Guns keep going off inadvertently, shooting out a lamp right next to a dozing homeless guy who's allowed in momentarily to warm up, blasting the hat off the bald, blowhard Doctor Mump, who keeps giving the wrong advice to teenage girls about acne.
One day, The Cook hears on the local sports radio station that a full-contact football league for bored middle-aged guys is forming, and, deciding that he’s bored with his empire, joins the league as a wide receiver and sustains a head injury from a violent helmet-to-helmet collision.
It would have been very possible for the “casual” Griffin Report reader to come to the conclusion that we thought S.S. Pierce was a fascinating company and decided to pad our newspaper with several extra pages just to give those windbags a place to sound off.
Despite her position of leadership and respect, Janet is saddled with Richie, a total schlub who’d latched onto her when she was just a fledgling postdoc in some esoteric something-or-other humanities discipline, and somehow tricked her into marrying his lazy ass.
Ralph is like, “You’re gonna have a great life, Uncle Harry. She was dragging you down anyway, the old bat!”
The first bit of trouble on our escapade came almost immediately: we had been advised by Enterprise Rent a Car to use the electronic lane whenever we came upon a toll booth, and every time we did red lights flashed and buzzers went off.
I have dark, prescription sunglasses that I believe could make me seem famous if I wear them indoors all the time.