Friday Fun - Got Some M & Ms?

In revisiting past blogs I found this piece that first appeared in October 2008. Thought you might enjoy the humor as you end the workweek and look ahead to the weekend. This is another one from Tracy Farr, a very funny guy who used to be a regular contributor to Winnsboro Today.com, an online community magazine where I was Managing Editor. Enjoy

 Peanut M & Ms Anonymous

Hello, my name is Tracy, I’m addicted to Peanut M & Ms, but I haven't had any for 13 hours and 22 minutes.

"Hello Tracy, and welcome to the group."

Thanks. To be honest, I was reluctant to come here at first because I didn't actually think I had a problem. I thought I could control my desire to eat Peanut M & Ms by myself, but I was wrong.

"Tell us your story, Tracy. You're among friends."

Well, I can say I'm luckier than most. Some kids are born with the need to eat M & Ms because their mothers ate M & Ms while they were pregnant. Even though the doctors warn and often beg these mothers to stop eating M & Ms during pregnancy, they don't listen. And then they have M & M babies -- newborns just twitching with the need to eat something round and chocolate. Luckily, that was not my case.

For me, my addiction started when I was quite young. I was hooked the first time I saw M & Ms, tore open a package and let them melt in my mouth and not in my hands. Those were just the plain chocolate kind -- the kind kids love -- but as I grew older and my tastes grew more mature, I naturally gravitated to Peanut M & Ms.

The first time I popped a Peanut M & M, my universe just sort of exploded with new possibilities. I could see things more clearly. I could understand things that I never understood before. It was like my senses were attuned to higher and more sensitive levels. And once you pop one, you have to pop another to keep that high going.

It wasn't long before I found myself buying a bag of Peanut M & Ms and eating the entire thing without even realizing it. And I'm not talking about the little $1 bag you get out of a vending machine. I'm talking about the family-size, 6-pound bag that costs almost $12 and should last a lifetime.

It finally hit me that I had a problem when my little girl said she needed new shoes and I told her I didn't have any money, when in fact I did. I was saving that money to score me another bag of M & Ms before the weekend. And that's why I’m here at this meeting.

I’ve tried stopping cold turkey, but it's just too hard. I figured with help, and with belonging to a group of people who have suffered through the same problem and survived, that maybe I, with support, could pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again.

But, maybe I should start slowly. Maybe I should only eat a small bag a day and ease off this addiction gradually.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Is there a vending machine around here?

And can somebody loan me a dollar?

~~~~~~~~~
You can meet Tracy at his website The Farr Place, where you can also find more humor. Be forewarned. He likes to write about goats.

Ghosts of Blogs Past

Since it is getting closer and closer to Christmas, and I am busier than a one-armed paper hanger (although I've never understood that old adage) I thought I would take a cue from The Blood Red Pencil blog and share some of my older posts that were most popular. Off and on I have had several regular contributors here. These are writers who used to contribute to the online community magazine where I was the Managing Editor. Tracy Farr was one of those writers, and he gave me permission to share some of his fun here on this blog. 

This piece ran on December 12, 2008

It's more than just a haircut

Our country is going through some dire times. Banks are collapsing, the American auto industry is hitting speed bumps, and people are just not buying executive jets like they used to. So, it is up to us -- you and me -- to get this economy going again, and that's why I did my patriotic duty this weekend and got a haircut.

Tim is my barber. He's been cutting my hair for almost 15 years. He knows exactly how I like it cut without me having to tell him. And if Tim's barbershop goes under, so goes the country.

It's a known fact that my money ($10 plus a dollar tip) helps to keep Tim and many others in business. 

When I pay Tim for my haircut, he spends it on things like rent, shaving cream and magazine subscriptions. His landlord is happy to be able to keep landlording, the shaving cream company is happy to continue delivering Tim's favorite shaving cream, and the magazines are happy because they are assured they can print next month's edition.

Tim takes a portion of that $10 as his salary and spends it at Wal-Mart, thus guaranteeing job security for the Associates. The Associates use their 10 percent discount to buy T-shirts and Jessica Simpson posters, thus guaranteeing that the T-shirt companies and Jessica Simpson stay in business. The T-shirt companies and Jessica Simpson are so happy to be making money that they decide to work together and make a Jessica Simpson T-shirt, which the Wal-Mart Associates buy in bulk and wear on their days off.

Since Jessica reaps the benefits of being worn all over the place, she takes her cut of the profits and produces a Christmas special, thus employing a bunch of Hollywood types who know just how to make a cheesy TV program but wouldn't be caught dead wearing a Jessica Simpson T-shirt. These Hollywood types produce "The Jessica Simpson Wish You Were Here Holiday Christmas Sing-A-Long Special" and make millions on advertising by airing it on prime time TV, thus causing simple folk like you and me to say, “How can they get away with putting this goat poop on television?” at which time we turn off the TV and get down on the floor to play games with our kids.

Because of my little $10 haircut, hundreds of people are employed, millions of dollars exchange hands, thousands of bottles of hand sanitizer are emptied trying to keep all those germs at bay, families all over this great nation are doing something family-ish, and I feel like I've done my part in bringing this country back from the brink of disaster.

So what are you waiting for? Our country needs us! Go get a haircut, and together we shall save the world!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You can meet Tracy at his website The Farr Place, where you can also find more humor. Be forewarned. He likes to write about goats.

Excerpt From my New Book

I do not have a guest this week for Wednesday's Guest, but I do have a link to my friend, Tracy Farr's blog where there are some cute cartoons. Check them out if you need to take a break for a little fun.

Today, I am over at The Blood Red Pencil, sharing a bit of my experience with our short story collection, The Corner Cafe.  It has been quite a ride.

To entertain you here, I am posting the opening to a new book that I hope to have available at the end of this month as an e-book.  Boxes For Beds is an historical mystery set in Arkansas in 1961. Enjoy....

"Hush little baby, don't you cry ... " The plaintive melody whispered in the otherwise resounding silence.

One small candle flickered hesitantly atop the dust encrusted chest of drawers, the feeble light unable to dispel the gloom born of the murky darkness. The yellow flame wafted in a sudden draft, casting macabre patterns on a precarious stack of old boxes supported by an intricate network of cobwebs. The pale light briefly touched a figure hunched over an open trunk.

The figure loomed more like a shadow than a real person and reached out a hand to lightly trace the features of the tiny bundle nestled within the trunk's musky interior.

"Would you listen to me. Singing to a doll-baby just like you was real."

Wide, unblinking eyes stared back.

"Sometimes I wish ... but no. It's better this way. If you was was real, then I'd have to tell you to hush for sure. The Man don't let me play with no real babies. Says I might hurt 'em. But he don't know. I can be real gentle. Ain't my fault those others broke. You ain't gonna do that are you?"

Silence.

Wednesday's Guest - Tracy Farr

Tracy Farr is another writer friend who has a terrific sense of humor. He has a great new website for sharing his humor and his cartoons.  The Farr Place - check it out if you get a chance. http://www.thefarrplace.com/   Tracy has always shared his humor with me and gave me permission to use it, but since Blogger does not appreciate us taking an entire post from another blog, I snagged just part of this one: 


Pinterest Alternatives

I’m really not interested in "finding" my favorite things and pinning them onto some digital board via Pinterest. But I might give THESE a second look:

Bunterest – Dedicated to your favorite sticky buns, cinnamon rolls, donuts, and whatnot. And I'll have a small coffee with that, thank you very much.

Finterest – It's all about the fish you like to catch, skin, filet and devour. But watch out for the bones.

Ginterest – Got a favorite drink? Well, pin the recipe to your Ginterest Board. Not limited to just gin-induced concoctions.

Henterest – For all those chicken farmers out there. And can I borrow a few eggs? Thanks.

Linterest – See what kind of animals you can make out of clothes dryer lint. Great fun for the entire family.

Pinterest – As in "Give me another pint, barkeep, and keep 'em comin.'" For beer lovers, of course.

Sinterest – There are seven deadly sins to choose from. Maybe even more. C'mon, we know you want to share YOUR sins with the rest of us. Don't be bashful.

Wednesday's Guest

Today I want to introduce you to some of the cartoons done by humorist Tracy Farr. I have known Tracy since he shared his work with the readers of WinnsboroToday.com, back when I was Managing Editor of the online publication. He is a funny guy who writes about all kinds of topics from goats to banjos to driving a school bus. He knows about all three because he raises goats, plays a banjo, and drives a school bus. He also plays in a band and teaches school.

Here is a little teaser from a recent blog post he wrote: "Today is my brother’s birthday. His name is Scott. We grew up together in the suburbs of Dallas, and like most brothers, we didn't always see eye to eye – actually, we’ve NEVER seen eye to eye because he’s quite a bit taller than me. But that’s neither here nor there. We didn’t get along and it was mostly my fault. I didn’t realize it then, but I do now.

"My brother and I, although raised by the same parents, are as different as night and day. I went to college, and he got a job. He joined the Army, and I enlisted in the Air Force. He plays the drums, I play the banjo. He knows how to fix a car and make it run like new. I know that if I step on the little pedal thing, it will go."

Tracy started out just writing essays and blog pieces, but more recently has started a cartoon series titled:  Thinking Out Loud. Sometimes it is amusing and sometimes it is laugh-out-loud funny. If you would like to check it out, here is a link to the latest offering on his blog.

Sometimes it is good to do something just for fun. It's been said that laughing is a good stress reliever and Tracy is doing all he can to help everyone stay healthy.

It’s not crazy, but it should be

The Youth Drama Camp is going well and is so much fun, but it is also very time-intensive. Two weeks to prepare for a production and mount it? Whew! Not to mention finding new ways to keep almost 30 kids engaged and focused. 
Today I'm sharing a bit of nonsense from my friend, Tracy Farr. Since the current mission is the last one for the Space shuttle Atlantis, I thought this reflection on the end of the Apollo missions would be fun to share.  

I don’t know how it happens – it just does. One minute I’m lounging on the couch sipping on a tall glass of sweet ice tea, when all of a sudden, WHAMO! a crazy idea comes to mind – such as: If I took a shower after mowing the yard, maybe my armpits wouldn’t smell so bad.

These little crazy ideas usually plop on my shoulders like bird droppings, and there’s nothing I can do about it – like this one: Want nice smelling armpits? Don’t mow.

For example, the other day while I was reading about the Apollo missions and how much astronaut stuff was left behind on the moon, the craziest idea of all time splattered right on my noggin: Want to get rid of a lot of moon junk and make a little profit? Sell it on Lunar eBay.

NASA wants to send man – which probably also includes woman – back to the moon. There’s a lot of space junk up there just lying around, gathering dust. When they get there, woman will mutter something about how man doesn’t know how to pick up after himself, and then tell man to clean it up (that’s her primary mission). They’ll slap sale stickers on everything, upload digital pictures to Lunar eBay, Twitter about it for awhile, and wait for the profits to pour in.

FOR SALE: Vintage Lunar Rover. Has 15.25 miles on the tires, electric engine is still good, but hasn’t been driven in awhile. Winning bidder is expected to pay for shipping which comes to about 45 cents per mile (.45 X 238,857). What a steal! Good luck on your bidding. If you have any questions, I’m “AstroDude67” on Twitter.

“Beth, come here. You’ve got to see this.”

“What is it this time, Ricky?”

“Why do you always talk to me that way when I find a good deal on Lunar eBay?” Ricky asks. “I want to bid on one of those moon buggies. It may cost a couple of million, but the shipping’s only $107,500. So, what d’ya think?”

Believe me when I say, you don’t want to know Beth’s response.

By the time NASA closed down its Apollo program in 1972, six crews of astronauts had been to the moon, 12 men had actually walked on the lunar surface, and an estimated 300,000 pounds of man-made “debris” was left behind in order to bring home 800 pounds of rocks. Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, but then again, I’m not a rocket scientist.

Wait a minute! Is it possible the folks at NASA were thinking ahead? That they left all that stuff up there on purpose for the sole reason of selling it one day on Lunar eBay? Is it possible they KNEW?

“Buzz, this is Houston Mission Control, can you hear me?”

“Affirmative, Houston.”

“Buzz, try not to hit those golf balls too far. We’ll need to find them in about 40 years. Selling just one of them at auction could pay for the entire Apollo program. Do you copy?”

“Roger, Houston. Slice it into a sandpit, make a few bucks. No problem.”

FOR SALE: Two vintage golf balls hit by Astronaut Buzz Aldrin on the Par 3 Lunar Municipal Golf Course. Please review payment options. Credit cards or cash only. We do not accept Pay Pal. Good luck on your bidding. If you have any questions, contact “AstroDude67” on Twitter.

Yep! Those NASA guys are pretty smart!

Of course, there are some people who have “bad” crazy ideas, choosing to believe man never made it to the moon. They believe the whole thing was a hoax orchestrated by NASA in order to win the Cold War. Yes, they do believe man-made debris is scattered on the moon’s surface, but they think it’s there because NASA dropped it from a low-orbiting rocket to hoodwink the rest of us.

These naysayers did a lot of drugs in the 60s and 70s. They probably get “earth” and “urethra” mixed up.

I undoubtedly believe that man has walked on the moon and will do so once again. It’s our ability to recognize and take advantage of “crazy ideas” (the good kind) that will one day take us to Mars and beyond; it’s our crazy ideas that define us and make us who we are.

So the next time you catch me lounging on the couch when there’s yard work to be done, just remember – I’m contemplating a crazy idea that just might change the world in which we live. The snoring helps me think.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tracy Farr is a teacher living in East Texas and drives a school bus for the fun of it. In his spare time he plays the banjo, but never on Thursdays.

My ‘sweet ride’ is a yellow school bus

Today I am in Ann Arbor Michigan, where I am going to stop by Aunt Agatha's Mystery Bookstore. I have always wanted to visit that store but my trips to Michigan never took me close enough. My daughter has friends in Ann Arbor and asked if we could go visit them. I couldn't say no. I didn't find out that we would be stopping there in time to set up a signing event, but one of the owners, Jamie, was kind enough to order a few copies of OPEN SEASON for me to autograph. In author lingo that's called a drive-by signing. Tomorrow I will be at Howard's Bookstore in Bloomington IN from 6-9pm. If you live nearby, I hope you'll consider stopping by. I would love to meet you. The link will take you to a map.

Here's another column from Tracy Farr. Enjoy...

I’m proud to say that I’m a school bus driver. Not only that, but last year one of my riders gave me a certificate that says I’m the greatest bus driver in the world – which makes me an Award-Winning School Bus Driver. The certificate is hanging up in my office. Feel free to drop by and see it.

Being an Award-Winning School Bus Driver is not all glamour and paparazzi. Yes, there are perks that come with the job (I’m still searching for mine), but there’s also a certain amount of responsibility that comes with the award.

Bus drivers have to be friendly and ready to wipe up liquid motion sickness at a moment’s notice. Bus drivers have to be welcoming, but ready to give students the “evil eye” when they’re not following the rules. Bus drivers have to understand a little bit of child psychology, be able to work under pressure, and have the ability to tune out distractions while keeping their eyes and ears open for Little Johnny who loves to use his markers to color on things – especially other riders. And bus drivers have to carry an extra bottle of deodorant with them because driving a bus is a sweaty job, and stinky school bus drivers don’t get certificates.

Driving a school bus is not for everybody, and to be a school bus driver is to be practically superhuman but without the cape and spandex. That’s why I’m surprised there aren’t more movies made about them.

“In a land where time has stood still, where American values are as deep-rooted as the Rockies, there lives a man who is more than what he appears to be. His name is Bud Randle. He drives a school bus twice a day, but he’s hiding a secret that will soon amaze all his friends and neighbors. And in the end, he will save us all. Transport Pictures presents Johnny Depp in a Peter Jackson film – ‘Mr. Bus Driver: The Movie.’ Coming to a theater near you.!”

I’d gladly pay my money to see a movie like that, and I might even spring for some hot-buttered popcorn and an ice-cold soda pop. Wouldn’t you?

Driving a bus doesn’t have the greatest of reputations. The buses rarely have air conditioning, the heaters barely work in the winter, they’re slow, the engines are loud, the brakes squeal, the children sometimes get noisy and obnoxious, and dealing with a bunch of hot, sweaty kids on a hot, sweaty day is worse than having a root canal without medication. But other than that, it’s not too bad – especially if you have a Little Emily onboard.

“Mr. Bus Driver, why are you whistling? Whistling isn’t allowed on the bus,” said Little Emily.

“Who says whistling isn’t allowed on the bus?” asked Mr. Bus Driver.

“I did,” said Little Emily.

“You did? So, you mean when I’m happy, I can’t whistle?”

“Well, I guess I can make an exception. But just this once,” she said.

Little Emily has plans for her life. Maybe she’s going to be a nurse, or a lawyer, or the CEO of a global financial institution that will decide whether or not I should get the loan I need to one day take my family to Europe for the trip of a lifetime. Who knows? What matters today is that she doesn’t mind riding to school on the bus. She’s been doing it since kindergarten. It’s just a morning and afternoon ritual that will continue until she can drive herself to school. But until that time, she relies on me, the bus driver, to get her there safely so she can become the person she’s meant to be.

So like I was saying, driving a school bus is a big responsibility. Not everybody can do it, but those who can should be respected, admired, and valued as important members of our society. And the best way that you can show your appreciation for the thankless job these school bus drivers do is to remember two things:

1)    Stop when you see their red lights flashing. There’s a Little Emily on every bus, and they all want to grow up safe and sound; and

2) Bus drivers love to eat. A couple of glazed donuts or an apple fritter in a bag is sometimes better than money.

Now, if you’ll excuse me – I’ve got riders to pick up.


*************

Tracy Farr is a teacher living in East Texas and drives a school bus for the fun of it. In his spare time he plays the banjo, but never on Thursdays.

Let the Adventures Begin

Today's post is from Tracy Farr. He has a twisted sense of humor to say the least. When he first started writing a column for me at WinnsboroToday.com, his blog was related to a fictional town, Stinky Creek, Texas. Then he started another blog at TracyFarr.net. His latest is School Bus Cowboy and it has the best of all of his writing. If you visit his blog, be sure to read his May 16th post about breakfast cereal. Enjoy....

Just the other night as I was driving home from Dallas, an SUV zoomed past me and I could see the kids sitting in the backseat watching a video. “Wall-E” it was – right there in the backseat. So since I’d never seen the movie, I sped up and stayed right on their bumper to watch it. It wasn’t quite as relaxing as a drive-in theater, but sometimes you have to take what you can get.

The movie wasn’t half bad (even without sound), but when it was over, I started feeling sorry for those kids, as well as all the other kids of today. They’re not near as lucky as we were when we were kids. Kids of today never go anywhere without a hand-held video game or a stack of movies. And it doesn’t matter if they’re driving to Washington to visit the Smithsonian or they’re going down the street to Wal-Mart. See kid. See car. See kid get in car. See kid in car watching “Wall-E.” See parents thankful their kid is quiet for two hours.

When we were kids, we didn’t have such things as video games and DVD players and cell phones and text messaging. Nosirree! We had it much better. We had comic books and Etch-A-Sketch and portable chess games and maps so we’d know where we were. And if we got tired of all those luxuries, we made up games like “Count The Road Kill Between Towns” or “Stare Your Brother Down Until He Punches You In The Gut.”

Ah, yes. Those were the days.

My favorite long-trip activity was to follow our route on a map, marking off the towns as we passed them by. I’d say, “We’re coming up on Childress. Only 509 more miles till we get to Wolf Creek Pass.” And when we got to the other side of Childress I’d say, “That was Childress. Next town is Memphis. Only 506 miles to Wolf Creek Pass.”

I’d do my little human GPS thing until my Dad would say, “I’m coming up on a Truck Stop. You mention how many more miles we have left to Wolf Creek Pass and I’m leaving you there.”

Kids these days don’t care about maps. They don’t appreciate the joys of unfolding a new one, trying to follow along from town to town, and then trying to fold the map back exactly the way it came – which, by the way, requires an engineering degree to do.

Maps are a part of our American legacy. Our Founding Fathers came to this country using maps; they founded Virginia using maps; they went west and discovered Hollywood, Rodeo Drive and Big Screen TVs using maps. Of course, those maps were not folded – they were rolled up. Trying to fold a map back then would have taken precious time away from exploring the “New World.” And that sense of exploration is what is missing when our kids watch “Power Rangers” instead of counting the utility poles between Wichita Falls and Amarillo. (“Count The Utility Poles” was another fun activity our parents challenged us to do)

When we were kids, parents were much more inventive and creative than the parents of today. They had to make up things to do, tell stories, challenge kids at who could be the quietest the longest, and a whole lot of other fun-loving trip activities. Parents had to think on their feet, they had to manage crises on the go, they had to be sneaky, inventive, and resourceful.

Parents of today are taking the easy way out of traveling when they say, “Put in another video.” Those parents are actually sending a message to their children that it’s better to interact with Disney instead of with the people and world around them. Well, I say instead of letting Little Johnny watch “The Lion King,” let him count the buzzards that are circling that dead cow out in the middle of the pasture between Amarillo and Dumas. Let him experience the “Circle of Life” up close and personal – and in extreme high definition.

So the next time you go on a trip, whether it be to Branson, Missouri or the K-Mart down the street, I dare you – I triple-dog dare you – to leave the DVDs and the video games at home and come up with something to do on your own. Flex those little grey cells up there in that noggin of yours. When you do, that’s when the true adventures will really begin.

Time out for a little fun

It's been a while since I shared some of the nonsense.... er, humor, from my friend, Tracy Farr. Enjoy....

When life is getting you down, just fiddle

There comes a time in a man’s life when he wakes up one morning, feels his bones creak as he gets out of bed, and realizes his tree-climbing days are just about over. He feels old, he feels tired, he looks like he hasn’t slept in days, and the monotony of every day life is an anchor that keeps dragging him further and further down into the abyss.

It’s at that moment that a man decides his life would look a whole lot better from the saddle of a brand new Harley Davidson Fat Boy – a black one, with straight pipes kicking out un-godly decibels of thunder, with the optional Biker Babe attached and holding on for dear life.

Yes indeed! Sometimes you need a bit of spice in your life to make it through the day. But I say a Bike and a Babe might not be the most prudent way to go about it. In my opinion, if a man really wants to add some flavor to his meal, what he truly needs is a fiddle – a down-to-earth, honest to goodness, low-tech, cat scratching, fingernails-on-chalkboard, wife yelling “Get that thing out of my house before I lose my ever-loving mind” fiddle.

Poppycock you say? Nonsense you say? You think I’m full of hot air, gibberish, gabble rubbish, and baloney? Maybe so, but I bet you good money that if you were to give a man the choice between a Harley/Biker Babe and a fiddle, he’d choose the Harley/Biker Babe every time – but only because that’s what society demands of him. Deep in his heart he yearns to play fiddle. Just ask him. He’ll lie to you, of course, but you and I know the truth.

(WORDS OF ADVICE: If you decide after reading this essay that you indeed need a fiddle, keep in mind that your local music store will try to sell you a violin instead. Don’t let them. Stand your ground. Tell them you weren’t born yesterday. You want a fiddle, and you won’t leave until they sell you one. Now, back to our story.)

Like I was saying, when a man has sunk so low as to think a Harley and a Biker Babe will make life worth living again, that’s the time he desperately needs a fiddle – even though he’ll resist with all the man-ness he can muster. And why does he need it? Because learning to play one makes you realize that your life isn’t as bad as it could be.

You know that boss you can’t stand? You’ll be hugging his neck after five minutes of trying to hold a fiddle. You know all that paperwork that’s been piling up on your desk? You’ll be eager to tackle it after a day of trying to correctly hold a bow. You know that guy in the next cubicle who plays his Rap Music so loud it can be heard even through his headphones? You’ll be begging him to turn up the music after a week of listening to yourself scratch out a melody on the fiddle.

There are not many things worse than listening to a beginner fiddle player. Someone learning to play bagpipes comes to mind, as well as stepping in cat vomit in the middle of the night, Macaroni and Cheese Pizza, and Oprah. But after that, I’m hard pressed to think of anything else.

Playing the fiddle is one of those things that takes time to learn. Some people develop the skill quickly, while others keep scratching until the day they die and their relatives are happy to put them in their grave – along with the fiddle.

But when it’s all said and done, and you’ve accomplished what you’ve set out to do, you’ll feel as if you could leap tall buildings in a single bound; you’ll feel more powerful than a locomotive; you’ll feel as if you can run faster than a speeding bullet. And when you finally have this unimaginable feeling of invincibility, that’s the time you head over to your friendly neighborhood Harley shop, pick out a sweet ride, and take your pick of Biker Babes.

And what about the little woman at home? No need to worry. You’re invincible! Besides, she’s been debating on whether to kick you out of the house or shoot you ever since the day you brought home that fiddle. She’ll be happy to see you go. She might even pack you a lunch.

~~~~~~~~~~
Tracy Farr lives in East Texas with his wife, three children and some goats. To read more of his stories, visit his website at http://www.tracyfarr.net.

Monday Morning Fun

It's been a while sine my friend Tracy Farr appeared on the blog. He has been busy trying to keep up with his goats..

‘The Great Goat Escape’ – a present-day adventure

There was a time when I had no goats. There was a time when I was a boring and pathetic excuse for a man. But now that I have goats, I live a life few dare to even dream of. So come with me now as I open up my journal and share one of my greatest goat adventures of all time: “The Great Goat Escape.”

3:30 – Left work early to make sure the goats were still in their pen. And were they? Of course not! And I could NOT figure out how they got out. Is it possible somebody LET them out, just to see me jump through hoops? Ah, I can think of a couple of people who’d stoop so low, but I don’t want to accuse anyone. Not me.

3:45 – Goats rounded up and back in pen. I think I’ll pretend to go inside, but instead, I’ll watch them from behind the bushes.

4:00 – Shhhh! Be still! I'm behind the bushes spying on my goats. I've got to figure out how they keep getting out! The key is to be sneakier than them. OH NO...I think they saw me!

4:10 – Okay, I’m in the house now looking through the back window. I’m munching away on a bag of chips, spying, and they’re just sitting…doing nothing. They probably “feel my presence” and are just waiting for me to give up. But I won’t. And I REFUSE to go to the kitchen and get a drink, 'cause that's when they'll escape – when my back's turned. I'm no idiot! And if I have to pee…well, I’ll just hold it until my bladder bursts ‘cause I’m NOT going to let these stinkin’ goats get the best of me – again.

4:27 – Okay, those chips were really salty and I could use an ice-cold drink. The goats are just sitting now; it looks like they’re dozing. So, I think if I run real fast, I might be able to pour me something and be back without…wait, it looks like they’re … no, they’re still sitting. Okay, here I go. One, two….

4:32 – Alright, I’m back. I even had time to… Hey, I wonder what that goat is looking at? She’s looking straight up into the sky as if she’s looking for a helicopter to come and break her out. Oh wait, she’s just scratching her back.

4:36 – Something’s happening. They’re moving around, rubbing against the fence. This looks like it might be it. “The Great Goat Escape.” No, wait, they’re down again. False alarm.

THEORY – There are some dead tree limbs in their pen. I leave them there because I’m too lazy to pick them up. I just wonder…is it possible they are using the limbs to pole vault over the top of the fence? It sure would explain a lot. I think this weekend I’ll get rid of those limbs.

4:51 – Okay, they’re both up and stretching.

4:52 – Now they’re back down and sitting.

4:53 – They’re both up again, pawing at the ground.

4:54 – Back down again.

THEORY REVISION – The pole vault idea was pretty dumb. I mean, they’d have to run pretty fast to get up and over, and those short stubby legs just can’t have enough strength to do the job. So, how ARE they doing it?

4:58 – Okay, they’re up again, moving toward the fence and now they’re…I can’t believe what I’m seeing! The mama goat is in a sitting position, with her front hooves together. She’s giving the other one an UPSIE! The little one’s up, now on her mother’s shoulder, and now she’s balancing on the edge of the fence like a tightrope walker. She’s reaching down a hoof, the mother has it…and now they’re BOTH over! If I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it. What an amazing feat (or hoof)!

Impossible you say? Well, of course. I just made the whole thing up because I was getting bored.

5:03 – Goats still resting on the ground.

6:26 – Holy Smokes! It’s dark outside! I must have fallen asleep. Oh well, the goats are still in their pen, and they never get out after dark. But just in case, I’m going to place three “obstacles” in front of places that look like easy escape routes. I’ll put the lawnmower in front of one; stick a huge dead tree limb in front of the second one; and the barbecue pit in front of the third. Hopefully, they’ll realize that if they escape tomorrow, I might just have to use the barbecue pit to take care of the problem once and for all.

I’ll be sure to keep you informed.

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Tracy Farr lives in East Texas with his wife and children and a number of goats. You can find more of his humor at his Web site He is also a regular columnist for WinnsboroToday.com, the online community magazine where I am Managing Editor.

Having Some Fun

Since I didn't have a clue what to write about today, I thought you all might enjoy a little fun from my friend, Tracy Farr...

This is part of his blog today titled: What the World Needs Now is More Hoopla

In the interest of being politically political for politics’ sake, I denounce my association with the Democratic Party, I shun any connection to the Republican Party, and I will not sit and be pandered to by the TEA Party, the Green Party, the Red & Blue Party, or the Tupperware Party.

Instead, I shall endeavor to style my own political party, herewith referred to as the Hoopla Under Farr Party (HUF), and turn it into a new grass-roots movement fashioned upon beliefs, values and principles that I hold near and dear to my heart.

Those beliefs, values and principles include the following:
1. If snow is falling anywhere within a county, parish or territory, officials in said county, parish or territory are legally bound to declare a Snow Day.

America did not ascend to its supremacy among countries by being dogmatic and narrow-minded. It got there through thinking outside of the box, through imaginativeness, through finding unique solutions to problems that didn’t even require answering, and more importantly, through spontaneity.

If America is to remain the greatest country on the planet, it behooves us to teach our children, through example, that being spontaneous is okay; that the world will not end if we do something out of the ordinary; and to embrace the unexpected is to embrace the future survival of our species.

Declaring a Snow Day is spontaneous. Staying at work or school when snow is falling is narrow-mindedness. Therefore, the HUF party advocates the immediate impeachment of all elected officials who do not declare a Snow Day upon the first drop of the fluffy white stuff.

To read the rest click HERE and go to his blog. If you take a few minutes to laugh, it is good for the soul, and your blood pressure.

Blogger Award

Helen Ginger gave me the “Lesa’s (Bald Faced Liar) “Creative Writer” Blogger Award. Helen has the wonderful blog Straight From Hell, and is also a partner in editing at The Blood Red Pencil blog, and it was quite an honor to receive the award from her.

It was great fun to read about how the award was given to Helen and her six outrageos lies about experiences in her life. Of the things she mentioned, readers had to guess which were lies and which might be the truth. Did she lie six times and tell the truth once, or lie once and tell the truth six times?

So, following in that sense of good fun, I hereby list some things you might not know about me. Truth or fiction? You be the judge.

1. I was a roller-skating car hop like the ones on "Happy Days."
2. I've broken almost every bone in my body.
3. I once went backpacking in the Rockies.
4. I was a trail rider at a riding stable.
5. I was an executive director for a film project.
6. I was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.

I will post the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth on my blog, Thursday.

The rules for this award are fairly simple. Recipients must -
1. Thank the person who gave this to you. ( so I officially thank Helen)
2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog.
3. Link to the person who nominated you.
4. Tell us up to six outrageous lies about yourself, and at least one outrageous truth. (or the other way around)
5. Allow your readers to guess which one or more are true.
6. Nominate seven "Creative Writers" who might have fun coming up with outrageous lies. (or as many as you would like)
7. Post links to the blogs you nominate.
8. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know you nominated them.

I gleefully pass the award on to:

Beth Groundwater
Katie Hines
Anita Davidson
Chris Redding
Tracy Farr --- (couldn't do something this much fun and leave him out.)

I hope this does not put an undue burden on the authors and is fun for everyone.

Six more weeks of winter?

Today is the day -- Groundhog Day -- not as auspicious a holiday as some others, but one we can have fun with. And my friend, Tracy Farr, is having lots of fun on his blog today. Hope you can hop over there to read his whole piece.

If the groundhog was here in East Texas today, he would not see his shadow, as it is overcast this morning and supposed to be that way all day. Problem is Punxsutawney Phil is in Pennsylvania and I think the sun is shining there. That means he will see his shadow and we will have six more weeks of winter. Bah Humbug>

I am ready for spring. I am ready for the outdoor work to begin. I am so ready, I am planting onions and potatoes today and spitting in Punxsutawney Phil's eye.

More Fun From Tracy Farr

What would I do without my friend Tracy when I am stuck for a blog topic. Plus, he can be a lot funnier than I am....


And now it’s time for my annual post-Turkey Day apology

Dear Mother-in-law:

I’m so sorry I ruined your Thanksgiving dinner this year. I thought you knew that I hate being put on the spot, trying to express what I’m thankful for in front of a room full of other people. But please believe me when I say I had absolutely no intention of saying, “I’m thankful for not living any closer to my in-laws.” You’ve got to believe me that it was just nerves.

I know this might be hard to imagine, but between the time I knew it was my turn, and the moment I opened my mouth to speak, the following thoughts flashed through my itty-bitty brain:

I could say, “I’m really thankful for my goats not escaping this week, and so are you, because if they had, we would have brought something else instead of the chicken casserole.”

No, wait a minute, I can’t mention “goats” and “casserole” in the same sentence. We’re just about to eat, and if I do, some of them won’t. Okay, how about this:

“I’m thankful that the turkey did not become our national emblem like Benjamin Franklin wanted. Can you imagine heating up leftover bald eagle for supper tomorrow? It’d probably be a little tough, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it tasted just like chicken.”

Okay, maybe not that either. Let’s try to stay away from mentioning food.

“I’m thankful that our little town voted ‘No’ against the local sale of beer and wine, because that means if I want a brewsky, I have to drive to the next little town, but before I get there, I always forget why I was going there in the first place, so I just fill up my car with gas, keep heading west and hope I remember what I went out to get by the time I get to where I was supposed to be going in the first place.

But I never do, so I stop off at the Bass Pro Shop to look for fishing lures, because I’ve realized that I’ve become an old man who doesn’t own a stinking-huge tackle box full of lures, and just the thought of that actually made me cry the other day. So I need to start doing something about it before I’m dead and gone, because if I don’t, it’ll be too late, and then I won’t care.”

Well, that’s a bit long isn’t it? Besides, I can’t admit that I don’t own a tackle box. What would the father-in-law say? What would the brother-in-law say? They would look down upon me with more scorn than they already do, even with it being Thanksgiving. Nope, no mention of tackle boxes today. So how about coming up with something short and sweet like:

“I’m thankful for Thanksgiving!”

You’ve got to be kidding! Everybody else will be spilling their guts about how thankful they are for family, and health, and good times, and friends – and you’re going to be thankful for Thanksgiving? How pathetic.

I know, I’ll say something completely “off the wall.” They’ll know I’m joking, it’ll break the ice a little bit, and everything will be peachy-keen! But what? But what? Oh, but what?

So, all those ideas went through my brain right before I opened my mouth to say, “I’m thankful for not living any closer to my in-laws.” And when I saw all those jaws drop open in shock, and then didn’t hear one bit of laughter, and then felt this sharp pain in my side from the fork your daughter was stabbing me with, I thought: “Oops!”

Dear Mother-in-law: I’m thankful that you’re such an understanding mother-in-law and that over the years you’ve always forgiven the foolish things that I have said and done. If you’ll forgive me just one more time, I promise I’ll never come to your house again, I’ll never invite you over to mine, and I will never talk bad about you in front of the children. So, how about it? Do we have a deal?

(CLARIFICATION: The above essay is a work of fiction. I have an absolutely wonderful mother-in-law who will not be offended in the least that I’ve made her the butt of my joke in a story that hopefully she’ll NEVER know about or read – which would be something I could truly be thankful for.)

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Tracy Farr is a teacher living in East Texas who drives a school bus for the fun of it. In his spare time he plays the banjo, but never on Thursdays. You can read more of his stories at www.stinkycreektexas.com.

The Road to Peace is Paved With Banjos

Here is another offering from my friend, Tracy Farr. This was first published in WinnsboroToday.com over a year ago, but is funny enough to get a new audience. Enjoy....


A while back, Hillary Clinton suggested that every baby born in America be given a $5,000 savings bond to be used when they turn 18. That's hogwash. I'll tell you exactly what every baby needs to make it through life -- a blanket to keep them warm, a pacifier to make them think before they speak, and diapers so they won't step in their own poop. But most importantly, so they grow up never taking themselves too seriously, every baby born on this beautiful planet needs a banjo.

And if everybody knew how to play a banjo, peace would spread across the world like cheese on nachos.

Banjos are the perfect thing to keep people well grounded. Have you ever seen a banjo player in a psychiatrist's office? I say not! Have you ever seen an angry banjo player? Heaven forbid! Have you ever heard of a banjo player going to rehab, getting out, shaving their head, and then going back to rehab? I shudder at the thought!

Why would a banjo player use drugs in the first place? They're happy enough as it is.
You can't sing sad songs when you're playing a banjo. It's impossible. I've tried. Sad songs sung to a banjo come out quirky and quirky songs make people smile.

If you play guitar, you have to dig deep into your soul and pull out heart-ripping angst-filled songs that make people believe you are a profound thinker. Either that or you have to turn up the volume on your amp and sing songs about drugs, cars, women, and booze in a voice so bad that nobody can tell you're singing about drugs, cars, women and booze.

On the other hand, banjo players don't dig deep into their souls because they are mostly singing about frogs, fat men, singing truck drivers, or banana splits. Also, banjo players don't have amps and the only drugs that enter their bodies are those that help fight off indigestion after a night of eating too much greasy food.

Speaking of food -- the only downfall to playing a banjo is you might be a bit overweight. Banjo players don't have time to count calories or measure portions. They eat what they like, when they like, and as much as they like. And if they die tomorrow from clogged arteries, at least they died happy with the knowledge that their last meal consisted of a dozen hotlinks smothered in chili and not baked chicken breast on top of a small portion of fat free wheat rice.

If I were in charge of this country, I would make the following suggestions:
• I believe the 2nd Amendment to the U.S. Constitution should be re-written to say "every American has the right to bear a banjo." If we give our kids banjos instead of guns, nobody would be crazy enough to rob a liquor store. What would they say? Stick 'em up? Give me all your money or I'll play Dueling Banjos? That wouldn't get them anywhere. The manager would probably say, "Let's get after it. I've been dying to play that song all night!"

• Instead of bombs, I think we should be dropping banjos to all our enemies. If they knew how to play the banjo, they would no longer be our enemies -- they'd be our banjo-playing buddies and we'd all get together on Saturday nights and have a hoedown in the desert.

• I believe every American president should be required to learn how to play the banjo. If our presidents knew how to play the banjo, we'd believe every word they say because banjo-playing presidents would never lie to us.Yes, they may tell a tall tale or two, but that would just endear them to us even more.

Yes, friends and neighbors, a banjo in every household is the key to happiness. Imagine no more prima donnas; imagine no more divas; imagine all our politicians too busy changing strings to accept money from special interest groups; imagine all the people living a life in peace; imagine that if John Lennon had played the banjo he'd probably still be alive today.

You may think that I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you'll play the banjo, and the world will live as one.

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Tracy Farr is a teacher living in East Texas and drives a school bus for the fun of it. In his spare time he plays the banjo, but never on Thursdays. You can read more of his stories at www.stinkycreektexas.com.

Lessons From A School Bus Driver

More fun from Tracy Farr.....

Learning your lessons the bus driver way

It takes a special kind of person to drive a school bus. Not just any Joe or Jane can do it, and most of us wouldn’t even try.

But those who feel the calling – those who dare to get behind the big wheel and travel the back roads with a busload of young people who believe a school bus is just recess on wheels – well, those people end up learning a lot of life lessons, and are reminded of them each and every day.

1. The first thing a school bus driver learns is that to be early is to be on time, and to be on time is to be late – but that only applies for cranking up the school bus. On the route, everything changes: to be early is to be yelled at because the kids aren’t ready, and to be late is okay, but not too late, because then the riders start to freak out and wonder if they’ve missed the bus.

Time is both a friend and an enemy. You can’t get more, but you’ll never have less than what’s given to you. It’s best to use it wisely.

2. The next thing a school bus driver learns is not to judge a person by the house they come out of. Some kids live in big houses with landscaped yards and nicely-trimmed hedges. Some kids live in small houses with yards that haven’t been mowed in months, with washing machines and toilets peeking out from behind the weeds.

Nice “things” don’t guarantee nice people. Sometimes the most polite and helpful riders come from the “wrong side of the tracks.”

3. A school bus driver learns that sometimes passing the buck is not an option. Yes, a driver’s job includes keeping an eye on the road, insuring the riders get to where they’re going safely. But it is also the driver’s job to keep an eye on Little Johnny who looks like he wants to take out his Elmer’s Glue and squeeze a glob of it into Little Susie’s hair before he gets home.

“It’s not my job” is a phrase spoken by people who don’t care. “Sit down, turn around, and put that stuff back in your backpack before I turn this bus around and take you back to your momma” is a phrase that has “love” glued all over it.

4. A school bus driver can learn a lot from squirrels. Most squirrels have one goal – to dart across the road in front of a school bus without getting flattened like a pancake. But some of those little buggers stop in the middle of the road and get all wishy-washy about which way to run. It’s funny to watch from the driver’s seat, but I’m sure those little squirrels are scared out of their ever-loving minds.

Having a goal, or direction, is the key to success. Being all “willy-nilly” is the surest way of getting squashed.

5. A school bus driver learns that it’s best not to drink a lot of coffee before heading off on a route. Some of those roads are long and bumpy, and when the bladder calls, it does not want to be denied. But a driver can’t just stop the bus and “take care of business” with kids on board, and not very many families will open up their homes to let a crazy bus driver use “the facilities.”

It’s best to “take care of business” before the business takes care of you.

6. And finally, one of the most important things a bus driver learns is patience. Patience for kids who remember they left their backpack in the house and they’ll “be right back.” Patience for getting behind a tractor that can only go 10 mph. Patience for kids who fall asleep and miss their stop. Patience for Little Emily who is singing “Jingle Bells” over and over again, and she only knows the first verse.

If you search for the word “patience” in the dictionary, it will refer you to “school bus driver.”

I’ve been driving a school bus for almost 20 years. Some days are good; some days not so much. But every day is a learning experience. As a matter of fact, just the other day I learned that a cow can be vengeful, sarcastic and down-right rude when it has to get up from its dry, comfortable resting place on the road, just because a school bus comes along.

But that’s another story.

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Tracy Farr is a teacher living in East Texas and drives a school bus for the fun of it. In his spare time he plays the banjo, but never on Thursdays. You can read more of his stories at www.stinkycreektexas.com.

If A French Woman can do it, why not I?

Here is some more fun from my friend Tracy Farr. Enjoy.......


I have finally come to a decision – I’ve decided to suck it up, bite the bullet and lose a bit of weight before some fisherman spots me and tries to harpoon me for Sunday brunch.

I may only lose an ounce or two in my quest for thinness (I tend to set my goals low when it comes to extra-curricular physical exertion), but by golly, I’m going to do it this time; not like last time when I got it in my mind to be healthy and thin, and then got it right out of my mind when I found a gallon of Cookies & Cream ice cream in the freezer. And you know there’s no way I can let a gallon of ice cream stay unopened for something as silly as wanting to look more like Jack LaLanne instead of Moby Dick.

What is it that has inspired me to change my ways and tonnage? The answer is French Women.

According to what I read in an article about the book “French Women Don’t Get Fat: The Secret of Eating for Pleasure” by Mireille Guiliano, French women never set foot inside gyms or fitness centers and they are still skinny. No treadmills, no stationary bikes, no weights, and no puking up their guts after trying to run a mile like they could when they were younger but were horribly mistaken and will never do it again (not saying that happened to me, but just saying).

Did you hear me? French Women -- no gym, they eat what they want and they’re still skinny! And that’s coming from Mireille Guiliano, a French woman, and you’d think she’d know.

Of course French Women do other things to remain so slender, like walking a lot and eating in moderation, but I just skipped over that section of the article. The important detail is they DON’T work out at a gym.

Gyms are sad, smelly places where young people with a lot of energy go to sweat, because they look good while sweating; whereas old people just look like sad, sweaty old people trying to ward off the Grim Reaper for a couple more years without blowing a knee or a hip.

Of course, I have no idea if a gym is sad or smelly because I’ve never stepped inside of one; but if I did, the “behind my back” conversation would probably go something like this:

“Poor guy. Practically looks dead already. Hey, we better keep an eye on him while he’s walking that treadmill. I bet his heart is ready to go at any moment. And wouldn’t that ruin a good day of healthy sweating for the rest of us?”

The first person who thought of opening up a commercial fitness center was a genius; right up there with Einstein, Bill Gates, and Richard James, the inventor of the Slinky. All the exercise genius had to do was find a building, buy some equipment, invite people to come and pay money to sweat, and convince his wife he wasn’t crazy (the hardest part). And if that isn’t genius, I don’t know what is.

But back to French Women – French Women don’t sweat. Well, what I mean is they don’t sweat off the pounds by going to the gym, and since they don’t shave their legs and underarms either (just like me), I might as well give this “not going to the gym to lose weight” thing a try.

So here’s my plan: Starting Monday, I’m going to walk briskly to the couch, sit down, put my feet up and hold them there until I’ve finished the newspaper. Then I’ll stand up, walk briskly to the icebox, do five reps of scooping Cookies & Cream into a bowl (maybe seven reps if I feel energetic), walk briskly back to the couch, sit down, put my feet up again, and hold them there for as long as I can get away with it, then relax.

And then I’m going to write my own book. I think I will call it, “Fat Men Who Sit on the Couch and Idolize Skinny French Women for their Workout Regime; A Guide to Better Health and Eating Without Worrying That Your Arteries Are About to Explode.”

Me and French Women – we know how to feel the burn!


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Tracy Farr is a teacher living in East Texas and drives a school bus for the fun of it. In his spare time he plays the banjo, but never on Thursdays. You can read more of his stories at www.stinkycreektexas.com.

Random Things

In honor of Labor Day, which is a holiday for all of us in the U.S., I just want to wish all my compatriots a happy and safe holiday. I was going to write a little reflection in honor of the day, but a friend, Joe Dan Boyd, who is also a journalist, sent me his essay and I couldn't top that. Here is a link if you care to read it.

I also received another funny piece from my humorist friend, Tracy Farr, so here is a link to his latest nonsense on WinnsboroToday.com. He has a new take on reality shows.

Last, but not least, my other regular columnist for WinnsboroToday.com, Slim Randles, has some dating tips on his latest offering. Here is a link to his essay.

Hope you enjoy these essays and columns. I am so thankful that these terrific writers share their talent with me and the folks who read WinnsboroToday.com

Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming....

What? No More Sears Tower?

Here's another bit of nonsense from my friend Tracy Farr, who when he is not writing or playing banjo or watching Oprah, drives a school bus.

I know that talking about the Sears Tower in Chicago has absolutely nothing to do with driving a school bus, but Chicago is in America, Sears is an American company, my bus was built by an American company probably using Sears tools, so indirectly, it all makes sense (and if it actually makes sense to you, can you explain it to me later?)

The Sears Tower, one of the most iconic buildings in America, was recently renamed The Willis Tower. The London-based Willis Insurance Company bought the naming rights for the next 15 years, painted a new sign, and that's that. But I don't like it. Why couldn't they have renamed Oprah instead?

Willis is a money-grubbing insurance company. Sears invented Craftman tools. They probably used some Craftman tools to actually build the tower. That alone should have been enough for the tower to retain its name. But I guess in the end, money always prevails.

"And now ladies and gentlemen, if you look out the left side of the bus, you can see The Tower Formerly Known as Sears! Some people call it The Big Willy, but...Oh, look -- there's Oprah!"

The Sears Tower has 110 floors. Willis will only occupy three of those floors. The American law firm of Schiff Hardin already occupies nine. If possession is nine tenths of the law, why aren't we calling it the Schiff Hardin Tower? And why doesn't Schiff Hardin know about "nine tenths"?

Finally, I believe that if foreign companies can come to our country, buy our stuff, rename it to what they like, then we should be able to do the same. We could see the changing of the guard at Sears Palace. We could sing, "The Sears Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down..." We could even listen to Big Sears as it chimes the hour.

Okay, this is just one bus driver's opinion, but the next time I'm in Chicago, I'm not going to let some stinkin' tour guide suggest I go see some stinkin' Willis Tower. I'm going to the Sears Tower. And that's that!

Read more of Tracy Farr's stories at www.busno6.com or www.stinkycreektexas.com

Let's Sit Around and Do Nothing

Another piece of nonsense... er... great writing ... from my friend Tracy Farr:

People like Oprah are always busy, always doing something, always in the middle of whatever is going on because that's what they do, and to NOT do it would mean the end of civilization as they know it. To them, doing absolutely nothing is a fate worse than death.

Well, I've done absolutely nothing (many times), and I kind of like it.

It's not that hard to do absolutely nothing. You just get out of bed, fix yourself a huge cup of coffee (which sounds like you're doing something, but isn't), then find a comfy place to relax (a couch or wing-back chair would do fine) and concentrate! Yes, to do absolutely nothing requires concentration because what you'll WANT to do is think about what you SHOULD be doing -- and we can't have any of that!

In your mind you've got to forget about mowing the yard. Forget about paying the bills. Forget about calling your parents so they'll know you're still alive. Forget about the economy and Swine Flu. Forget about how good Marylou looks now and how you wish you'd dated HER in high school instead of Imagene. Forget about digital TV and iPhones. Forget about all the things that drive us absolutely bonkers but we put up with them anyway because "that's progress."

Yes, indeed. Doing absolutely nothing is not for wimps. And that's why you'll never see Oprah doing it!
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Stinky Creek Texas -- Where we're experts at doing nothing!