Is it just me or does it seem to anyone else that Breast Cancer Awareness Month never actually ends? This year in particular it’s been a non-stop Pink Sea of Awareness Benefits, 5Ks, dance marathons and pulled pork festivals devoted to this all-consuming monster, and that was all before October when the shitstorm really hit. Now we’re in serious trouble as the Pink Monsoon rains down unceasingly, overwhelming one and all. We are not even spared the horrible sight of Bunyanesque football players cavorting about in pink socks. It’s a travesty and it only threatens to get worse.
Are there no other diseases which need attention? What about all the poor people afflicted with Yaws or Blue Skin Disorder or Kuru or Idiopathic Pulmonary Haemosiderosis….anybody looking out for them? Not so much. I think we need a break.
“Oh Bill, how can you be so cruel and unfeeling?” you might ask. Well, it’s not that I’m unsympathetic to Cancer victims, of which I am one, remember. Not to mention my mother had breast cancer and Siobhan’s mother died of it. My own maternal grandfather, for whom I am named, died of lung cancer at a young age. Cancer is the Ultimate Thief, we loath and despise it, but the Pink Resistance has turned almost cartoonish. It has become more ubiquitous than barbecue joints or Tea Party toga hops. It is speeding down the long and winding road from Overkill to Ennui. Enough, already! Let’s move on to something else. How about in November we Wear Blue For Kuru? Sign me up immediately!
We’re Off To The Williston Zoo/To See The Elephants And Big Kangaroo
Okay, maybe just the elephants. After reading the Williston article in a recent column, Siobhan pointed out that I had neglected to mention the famous (albeit forgettable, apparently) Williston elephant retirement facility, Two Tails Ranch. When it comes to retirement, I guess elephants are like everybody else—they want to just kick back, put their feet up on the front porch and snork down a couple dozen banana margaritas. Only problem is, it’s difficult for an elephant to find a proper front porch. Elephants are kinda hard on the furniture. With that in mind, a couple of characters named Svertesky and Zerbini decided to construct such a facility just outside little Williston, Florida in 1984. The ranch is the only privately owned elephant operation of its kind. We’re not entirely sure what happened to Svertesky, who passed from this orb at a mere 40 years of age only ten years after the place was founded, and we certainly don’t want to cast aspersions on the poor pachyderms, but you’ve gotta wonder. As for Patricia Zerbini, she tells us that the Williston climate is just peachy for elephants, being almost identical to that of their native countries. Who knew? Does this mean that once the word gets out, the giant beasts will be hitchhiking from all over the globe to retire in Levy County? Hey, say what you will about the redneck contingent hereabouts, at last glance we still had no elephant poachers.
If you go to Two Tails Ranch, you can secure a private guided tour of the place, and we’ll bet it’s cheaper than Disney World. You even get to “interact” with the elephants, they promise. The only interacting I want to do with elephants is in the peanut-feeding area. In their happy literature, the Two Tails people have pictures of visitors picking up the feet of elephants but this is definitely not for me Ever happened to notice the size of elephant feet? They are big as manhole covers and could squash a Volkswagen like a bug. I am also not eager to spend much time in the seating area of elephants. What if you’re hanging around back there and the elephant decides to sit down? Oh oh. Anything which is sat upon by an elephant soon resembles a large dime, wider but just as thin. Then, of course, there are always those people who think riding on an elephant might be a good idea. I don’t think so. Unless you happen to be Sabu, the Elephant Boy, you don’t belong up there. It’s just not comfortable. I guess if you happen to live in the desert, you might have to ride a camel every so often (even more uncomfortable by the looks of things), but why would you ever ride an elephant? They have actual cars in Asian and African countries, right? Or bicycles, at least. There’s no need to be gallivanting around on elephants. What if you fall off? It’s a long way to the ground. Then the elephant becomes a little embarrassed and steps on you. It’s a no-win situation.
Nonetheless, all things considered, I think it’s great that we have elephants in Williston, not to mention Zebras, Arican Spurthighed Tortoises (which sound a little dangerous to me), Parrots, Emus and Katherine the Ostrich. Did you know that ostriches can run almost 45 miles an hour? I’m not riding any of them, either.
The Kids Are Alright
Grandma Ellison had a farm, E-I-E-I-O. With a woof-woof here and a neigh-neigh there, E-I-E-I-O. And then she inherited a herd of goats from Pete The Fence Man. Couple days ago, a funny thing happened to me on the way to the mailbox. As I was approaching Goat Central, a mother-in-waiting (but not for long) was noisily dispatching one of her progeny from her hindquarters area. I went to advise Siobhan that the miracle of birth was occurring. When we returned, there were two of the little critters on the ground, no bigger than dust mops and almost as cute. She immediately called Pete to come get the mother and children before some unknown tragedy struck. Pete, who has had bad luck keeping baby goats alive, demurred. “I think they are better off at your place,” he said. “I have a billy goat over here who likes to butt the babies. Sometimes they get stuck up in his horns.” Oh. “Never mind,” said Siobhan, incorporating her best Roseanne Rosannadanna voice. The goat herd is now at eight. When the next mama delivers, it could reach twelve, double the original group. And with each additional player, yet more potential for disaster.
Yesterday afternoon at feeding time, Siobhan was showing veterinarian visitor Janine the goats. A shrill cry pierced the crisp afternoon air: “BILL! THE BABIES ARE GONE!”
“I just saw them an hour ago. They’re under a tree somewhere.”
“No, I don’t think so—the mother is over here with the other goats.”
“She just tucked them under a tree while they slept. She’s over visiting with her friends.”
Janine had to help, of course. “Maybe a big bird got them. Maybe an owl.”
“It’s daytime, Janine. The owls are abed.”
“What about coyotes?” wondered Siobhan.
“We don’t have any coyotes. The cattle guys got rid of the coyotes.”
I walked around for a couple of minutes and found the two babies sleeping at the base of a large tree where their mother had left them. “This is what she does. Same modus operandi. Next time you can’t find them, look under the trees.”
The goat situation secure, Siobhan was off to wondering about a newly-arrived stray black cat she’d been feeding. “I haven’t seen the kitty all day. Do you think she wandered off?”
“Is Ted Cruz the next President?” I asked her. “She was starving and you’ve been feeding her for days, right?" Would you leave?”
“I guess not.” Neither would the black cat, who returned the same evening. Inquiring minds are wondering what the next crew of arrivals will be. Siobhan has always been a pig fancier but I think I’m exercising my Veto Power on that one. I wouldn’t really mind a quiet old dog so Lila could jump all over someone other than our unfortunate visitors and delivery men, who must now either wear snake boots or pay her off with costly treats. I guess I’ll be putting in my request for an antelope. We’ve already got a mess of deer living in the 350 acres across the power line which abuts our property and the deer think nothing of cavalierly leaping the paddock fences to chow down on our tasty grasses. If we add an antelope or two, well, everybody wants to live where the deer and the antelope play, where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day. Excuse me, young man—which way to the antelope store?
Getting One’s Goat
Those Merry Men Of Mirth
Well, head Fool Ted Cruz and his happy band of elves has finally been dispatched and Washington has returned to normal. Funny old Ted thinks he’ll be President some day but that’s because he doesn’t realize the United States contains other provinces than Texas, places containing sane people immune to his silly rhetoric. Cruz keeps telling everybody what “the American People want,” as if he had the vaguest notion. Couple years from now when the primaries begin, he’ll find out one surprising fact: what the American people don’t want is him.
We’ve got a Ted Cruz in our very own backyard. He is the appropriately-named Ted Yoho, who takes anti-intellectualism to a new plateau. He was voted into office with massive Tea Party support, aided by unknowing voters who thought Cliff Stearns’ 600 years in office might be a century too much. Ol’ Cliff, though, was mostly against Planned Parenthood, as opposed to Yoho, who is against…well…everything. Someone suggested the other day that Ted had not gained enough experience in his previous practice of veterinary medicine to realize that it was one’s arm and not his head that was inserted up a horse’s nether regions.
We saw a picture of a Tea Party rally the other day which featured some bohunk carrying a sigh which read: OBAMA—HALF-BREED MUSLIN! Now who would have though the most powerful man in the world was made of fabric?
Take Me Out To The Ball Game
When you buy your tickets on the street before a sporting event, as I do, you never know who’ll be sitting around you. Almost always, it’s someone engaging and by the end of the game you are virtually old pals. At worst, it’s a lathered up drunk who will run out of gas by halftime. There are few conflicts in the stands among like-minded fans of the home team and even folks in visitors colors are generally treated gently. But every now and then….
I was sitting on the forty-yard-line, somewhere in the neighborhood of row 60 at the Florida-Arkansas game two weeks ago. Down in row 57, a couple of young guys, mid-twenties, decided they would stand up the whole game. Annoying, but not illegal, and I took it with a grain of salt. Someone else, however, complained. A little-bitty campus cop came up and told the offenders they had to sit down. The latter pointed out to the cop that all the people in the lower rows were standing and this was true. People on the lowest levels and in back of the team bench must stand up to see over the players, thus the people behind them must also stand. Usually, there are about 25 rows of standees, then the grandstand rises sharply enough for the rest of the crowd to sit. The little cop was having none of this explanation. He told the two scoundrels that they had to sit down or leave. The pair were defiant and refused to sit. Hewing to Clint Eastwood’s advice that “a man has to know his limitations,” the cop went back for reinforcements. At which time the complainers and the complainees engaged in a brief spate of pushing and shoving. The cop returned—still by himself—and grabbed the larger of the two miscreants, who began fighting with the tiny officer. VERY. BIG. MISTAKE.
Before Billy Batson could shout “SHAZAM!” a very large fan, say in the neighborhood of 6-4, 260 pounds, launched himself through the air and landed directly on the troublemaker, immediately grabbing a fistful of hair on the back of the guy’s head while with his other hand clasping the fellow’s shirt into an untidy ball and shoving him into the back of a cement exit. Ouch and double ouch! Off-duty cop? Ex military policeman? Plain old tough guy? Didn’t matter much, turn out the lights—the party’s over. Two other campus cops came bouncing up the stairs, handcuffed the unfortunate copfighter and took him to the pokey. About an hour later, the guy’s wife, possessed of ample expletives, came back and cussed out the crowd. A good time was had by all. Everybody likes these audience-participation shows. It reminded me of the good old days at Boston Garden when Rowdy Roddy Rotgut would get thrown out of the ring and Hatpin Mary would sneak up and jab him with her weapon. I can’t promise you this much fun every time you come to a game but you never know. At a game awhile back, an evangelist laid hands on me to prevent me from incurring disease and prayed loudly for my salvation. All things considered, I’d rather be at a copfight.
That’s all, folks….
Are there no other diseases which need attention? What about all the poor people afflicted with Yaws or Blue Skin Disorder or Kuru or Idiopathic Pulmonary Haemosiderosis….anybody looking out for them? Not so much. I think we need a break.
“Oh Bill, how can you be so cruel and unfeeling?” you might ask. Well, it’s not that I’m unsympathetic to Cancer victims, of which I am one, remember. Not to mention my mother had breast cancer and Siobhan’s mother died of it. My own maternal grandfather, for whom I am named, died of lung cancer at a young age. Cancer is the Ultimate Thief, we loath and despise it, but the Pink Resistance has turned almost cartoonish. It has become more ubiquitous than barbecue joints or Tea Party toga hops. It is speeding down the long and winding road from Overkill to Ennui. Enough, already! Let’s move on to something else. How about in November we Wear Blue For Kuru? Sign me up immediately!
We’re Off To The Williston Zoo/To See The Elephants And Big Kangaroo
Okay, maybe just the elephants. After reading the Williston article in a recent column, Siobhan pointed out that I had neglected to mention the famous (albeit forgettable, apparently) Williston elephant retirement facility, Two Tails Ranch. When it comes to retirement, I guess elephants are like everybody else—they want to just kick back, put their feet up on the front porch and snork down a couple dozen banana margaritas. Only problem is, it’s difficult for an elephant to find a proper front porch. Elephants are kinda hard on the furniture. With that in mind, a couple of characters named Svertesky and Zerbini decided to construct such a facility just outside little Williston, Florida in 1984. The ranch is the only privately owned elephant operation of its kind. We’re not entirely sure what happened to Svertesky, who passed from this orb at a mere 40 years of age only ten years after the place was founded, and we certainly don’t want to cast aspersions on the poor pachyderms, but you’ve gotta wonder. As for Patricia Zerbini, she tells us that the Williston climate is just peachy for elephants, being almost identical to that of their native countries. Who knew? Does this mean that once the word gets out, the giant beasts will be hitchhiking from all over the globe to retire in Levy County? Hey, say what you will about the redneck contingent hereabouts, at last glance we still had no elephant poachers.
If you go to Two Tails Ranch, you can secure a private guided tour of the place, and we’ll bet it’s cheaper than Disney World. You even get to “interact” with the elephants, they promise. The only interacting I want to do with elephants is in the peanut-feeding area. In their happy literature, the Two Tails people have pictures of visitors picking up the feet of elephants but this is definitely not for me Ever happened to notice the size of elephant feet? They are big as manhole covers and could squash a Volkswagen like a bug. I am also not eager to spend much time in the seating area of elephants. What if you’re hanging around back there and the elephant decides to sit down? Oh oh. Anything which is sat upon by an elephant soon resembles a large dime, wider but just as thin. Then, of course, there are always those people who think riding on an elephant might be a good idea. I don’t think so. Unless you happen to be Sabu, the Elephant Boy, you don’t belong up there. It’s just not comfortable. I guess if you happen to live in the desert, you might have to ride a camel every so often (even more uncomfortable by the looks of things), but why would you ever ride an elephant? They have actual cars in Asian and African countries, right? Or bicycles, at least. There’s no need to be gallivanting around on elephants. What if you fall off? It’s a long way to the ground. Then the elephant becomes a little embarrassed and steps on you. It’s a no-win situation.
Nonetheless, all things considered, I think it’s great that we have elephants in Williston, not to mention Zebras, Arican Spurthighed Tortoises (which sound a little dangerous to me), Parrots, Emus and Katherine the Ostrich. Did you know that ostriches can run almost 45 miles an hour? I’m not riding any of them, either.
The Kids Are Alright
Grandma Ellison had a farm, E-I-E-I-O. With a woof-woof here and a neigh-neigh there, E-I-E-I-O. And then she inherited a herd of goats from Pete The Fence Man. Couple days ago, a funny thing happened to me on the way to the mailbox. As I was approaching Goat Central, a mother-in-waiting (but not for long) was noisily dispatching one of her progeny from her hindquarters area. I went to advise Siobhan that the miracle of birth was occurring. When we returned, there were two of the little critters on the ground, no bigger than dust mops and almost as cute. She immediately called Pete to come get the mother and children before some unknown tragedy struck. Pete, who has had bad luck keeping baby goats alive, demurred. “I think they are better off at your place,” he said. “I have a billy goat over here who likes to butt the babies. Sometimes they get stuck up in his horns.” Oh. “Never mind,” said Siobhan, incorporating her best Roseanne Rosannadanna voice. The goat herd is now at eight. When the next mama delivers, it could reach twelve, double the original group. And with each additional player, yet more potential for disaster.
Yesterday afternoon at feeding time, Siobhan was showing veterinarian visitor Janine the goats. A shrill cry pierced the crisp afternoon air: “BILL! THE BABIES ARE GONE!”
“I just saw them an hour ago. They’re under a tree somewhere.”
“No, I don’t think so—the mother is over here with the other goats.”
“She just tucked them under a tree while they slept. She’s over visiting with her friends.”
Janine had to help, of course. “Maybe a big bird got them. Maybe an owl.”
“It’s daytime, Janine. The owls are abed.”
“What about coyotes?” wondered Siobhan.
“We don’t have any coyotes. The cattle guys got rid of the coyotes.”
I walked around for a couple of minutes and found the two babies sleeping at the base of a large tree where their mother had left them. “This is what she does. Same modus operandi. Next time you can’t find them, look under the trees.”
The goat situation secure, Siobhan was off to wondering about a newly-arrived stray black cat she’d been feeding. “I haven’t seen the kitty all day. Do you think she wandered off?”
“Is Ted Cruz the next President?” I asked her. “She was starving and you’ve been feeding her for days, right?" Would you leave?”
“I guess not.” Neither would the black cat, who returned the same evening. Inquiring minds are wondering what the next crew of arrivals will be. Siobhan has always been a pig fancier but I think I’m exercising my Veto Power on that one. I wouldn’t really mind a quiet old dog so Lila could jump all over someone other than our unfortunate visitors and delivery men, who must now either wear snake boots or pay her off with costly treats. I guess I’ll be putting in my request for an antelope. We’ve already got a mess of deer living in the 350 acres across the power line which abuts our property and the deer think nothing of cavalierly leaping the paddock fences to chow down on our tasty grasses. If we add an antelope or two, well, everybody wants to live where the deer and the antelope play, where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day. Excuse me, young man—which way to the antelope store?
Getting One’s Goat
Those Merry Men Of Mirth
Well, head Fool Ted Cruz and his happy band of elves has finally been dispatched and Washington has returned to normal. Funny old Ted thinks he’ll be President some day but that’s because he doesn’t realize the United States contains other provinces than Texas, places containing sane people immune to his silly rhetoric. Cruz keeps telling everybody what “the American People want,” as if he had the vaguest notion. Couple years from now when the primaries begin, he’ll find out one surprising fact: what the American people don’t want is him.
We’ve got a Ted Cruz in our very own backyard. He is the appropriately-named Ted Yoho, who takes anti-intellectualism to a new plateau. He was voted into office with massive Tea Party support, aided by unknowing voters who thought Cliff Stearns’ 600 years in office might be a century too much. Ol’ Cliff, though, was mostly against Planned Parenthood, as opposed to Yoho, who is against…well…everything. Someone suggested the other day that Ted had not gained enough experience in his previous practice of veterinary medicine to realize that it was one’s arm and not his head that was inserted up a horse’s nether regions.
We saw a picture of a Tea Party rally the other day which featured some bohunk carrying a sigh which read: OBAMA—HALF-BREED MUSLIN! Now who would have though the most powerful man in the world was made of fabric?
Take Me Out To The Ball Game
When you buy your tickets on the street before a sporting event, as I do, you never know who’ll be sitting around you. Almost always, it’s someone engaging and by the end of the game you are virtually old pals. At worst, it’s a lathered up drunk who will run out of gas by halftime. There are few conflicts in the stands among like-minded fans of the home team and even folks in visitors colors are generally treated gently. But every now and then….
I was sitting on the forty-yard-line, somewhere in the neighborhood of row 60 at the Florida-Arkansas game two weeks ago. Down in row 57, a couple of young guys, mid-twenties, decided they would stand up the whole game. Annoying, but not illegal, and I took it with a grain of salt. Someone else, however, complained. A little-bitty campus cop came up and told the offenders they had to sit down. The latter pointed out to the cop that all the people in the lower rows were standing and this was true. People on the lowest levels and in back of the team bench must stand up to see over the players, thus the people behind them must also stand. Usually, there are about 25 rows of standees, then the grandstand rises sharply enough for the rest of the crowd to sit. The little cop was having none of this explanation. He told the two scoundrels that they had to sit down or leave. The pair were defiant and refused to sit. Hewing to Clint Eastwood’s advice that “a man has to know his limitations,” the cop went back for reinforcements. At which time the complainers and the complainees engaged in a brief spate of pushing and shoving. The cop returned—still by himself—and grabbed the larger of the two miscreants, who began fighting with the tiny officer. VERY. BIG. MISTAKE.
Before Billy Batson could shout “SHAZAM!” a very large fan, say in the neighborhood of 6-4, 260 pounds, launched himself through the air and landed directly on the troublemaker, immediately grabbing a fistful of hair on the back of the guy’s head while with his other hand clasping the fellow’s shirt into an untidy ball and shoving him into the back of a cement exit. Ouch and double ouch! Off-duty cop? Ex military policeman? Plain old tough guy? Didn’t matter much, turn out the lights—the party’s over. Two other campus cops came bouncing up the stairs, handcuffed the unfortunate copfighter and took him to the pokey. About an hour later, the guy’s wife, possessed of ample expletives, came back and cussed out the crowd. A good time was had by all. Everybody likes these audience-participation shows. It reminded me of the good old days at Boston Garden when Rowdy Roddy Rotgut would get thrown out of the ring and Hatpin Mary would sneak up and jab him with her weapon. I can’t promise you this much fun every time you come to a game but you never know. At a game awhile back, an evangelist laid hands on me to prevent me from incurring disease and prayed loudly for my salvation. All things considered, I’d rather be at a copfight.
That’s all, folks….
