GRIZZLY HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Grizzly Happy New Year

 ‘Happy New Year,’ is often heard during the month of January, in the US, though I have no idea what the rest of the world does to celebrate. I would have to do some research on the subject which I look forward to as much as I would having a rash on my naughty parts.

The 1^st of January has been celebrated with festivals and rituals dating all the way back to the Babylonians of ancient Mesopotamia over 4,000 years ago. Prior to that the Mesopotamians were just standing around on the 1^st trying to figure out what to do for fun. They marked the occasion with a massive religious festival called Akitu. Statues of the gods were paraded through the city streets and rituals were enacted to symbolize their victory over the forces of chaos. Through these rituals the Babylonians believed the world was symbolically cleansed and recreated by the gods in preparation for the new year and the return of spring. But after several years with only sparse attendance, a committee was formed to find a way to enhance the holiday. The chairman Dieabetes, put his nephew Hermanski, in charge of the refreshments. After the members had a sufficiency of ‘magic’ mushrooms, and hashish brownies, they got busy - discussing ideas for a new theme for next year’s celebration.

Intestinum of Rectum, while toking on some cannabis, spoke next. “Hey man … wouldn’t it be a trip if in addition to parades, we celebrated the mythical victory of the Babylonian sky God Marduk over the evil sea goddess Tiamat, who was like the embodiment of primordial chaos and stuff --”

Asparagus jumped in, “Like she could appear as a sea serpent or dragon, firing laser beams from her eyes.”

“What if,” said Sativa, “Tiamat gives birth to the first generation of deities with her husband, Apsu, but her children aspire to usurp the throne, and have Apsu rubbed out. Tiamat is totally bummed; she brings forth multitudes of monsters as offspring. She is then slain by Enki’s son, the storm-God Marduk --”

Spicoli took over, “But not before she had brought forth the monsters of the Mesopotamian pantheon, including the first dragons, whose bodies she filled with poison instead of blood. Marduk then integrates elements of her body into the heavens and the earth.”

Chairman Dieabetes, staggered to his feet and said, “I can dig it, but we don’t have the time or budget to pull that off. What we need here is a simple, cheap, crowd pleaser.” Intestinum raised his hand.

“What if we ritually humiliate our King.”

“Hmm, I’m listening,” replied Dieabetes.

“In front of everyone, we bring the king before a huge statue of the god, Marduk, strip him naked, and whip his royal highness with some olive branches, then pull him around by his … ah … ears until he cries.”

“Dude! How many brownies did you have?”

“Seriously, we tell the king, if he sheds royal tears, it means Marduk is pleased and will extend the king’s rule.”

“You really think the king will go for this?”

Hermanski offered, “Better give him a few of these brownies first.”

 

It was the Roman Emperor Julius Caesar in 46 BC, who decided to name the month of January after Janus, the god of things that swing, or his secretary, Janice who really knew how to swing; not sure which. Not long after Julius Caesar was murdered. Apparently, Romans are very touchy about their calendars.

New Year’s Eve in Brazil has a tradition that if you wear brightly colored underwear, you will get lucky. If you wear red this is meant to bring you love, and yellow is to bring you money. Brown probably means you’re way behind in your laundry.

In the good ole United States, it is traditional to spend the evening with loved ones, or ones you plan to love, and ones who are unlovely but tend to get better looking after a night of drinking. There is music and dancing, toasting, with a bunch of hugging and kissing and a whole lot of drinking. That is usually followed by another round of hugging and kissing, and so on until you greet the ‘New Day’ passed out on the bathroom floor, waking with a splitting headache and a wicked hangover. This is not to say that everyone gets wasted on New Year’s Eve, it is just that I don’t hang out with any of those people.

On this New Year’s Eve there will be toasts that drink to one’s health, others will toast to wealth. There will be those who drink to happiness, and others who drink to success. As for me, I’ll be on my houseboat with my dog Ginger, drinking to excess.

Happy New Year, and remember to arrive alive, DON’T DRINK AND DRIVE!

 

Signed; Grizzly ‘Sober as a Judge’ Gus

 

Dear Grizzly: Evelyn ‘Envious of Everyone Everywhere

My mother is always saying we should count our blessings. 

 

DEAR GRIZZLY: Recently my husband left me for another woman, I don't make enough as a waitress, so I had to move in with mother, who looks after my daughter when I'm working and going to school at night. I drive an old beat-up car and I don't have the time, money, or energy to hang out with my friends on the weekends. My mother is always saying we should count our blessings. Right now, I'm feeling very unblessed and with the holidays coming up, I'm not feeling very thankful either. Have you ever been in my situation?                                

 -- Evelyn ‘Envious of Everyone Everywhere.’

 

DEAR ENVIOUS EVELYN: You asked if I have ever been in your situation. No, can’t say I’ve been married to a man who left me for a woman, and leaving me with a daughter I gave birth to. That would sure be one for my bucket list, now wouldn’t it! If you are asking if I have ever felt sorry for myself … yes … every time I look in the mirror. Once when I did not have any money for shoes, I was feeling sorry for myself, until I met a man at Walmart, in a wheelchair with no feet. I said, “Hey buddy, you got any shoes you ain’t needing anymore.” I learned a lesson that day, ‘…Watch what you say to old dudes in wheelchairs, they will think you’re being a wise guy and chase you out into the parking lot.

You have a mother, who took you in and is supporting you while you work and finish your education and looks after the most precious thing anyone could ever have, a child. You want something to be thankful for this season? Be glad I don't know where you live and come over there and kick your ungrateful butt. Now go tell your mother how much you appreciate her and give your kid a hug.

Signed: Grizzly ‘very grateful’ Gus

 

Dear Grizzly, is written by Gustaf Alford Grizzard, and was created a ways back. If you want nice and sweet advice for your problems - write Dear Abby. If you want someone to tell you like it is, contact ‘Dear Grizzly’ at.www.mdavidlutz.com; email: grizzlyggus@outlook.com; http://Facebook.com/grizzlyggus;

DISCLAIMER: The opinions and comments expressed by Grizzly Gus, are not necessarily those of management. As far as management is concerned, if the State Board of Mental Health saw fit to release him, then let them be responsible. Do not write to Dear Grizzly if you are experiencing really serious problems but seek professional help. Grizzly Gus holds no certifications or training. He is not even qualified to ‘speak’ to anyone, much less give advice: even his poetic license was revoked.

 

 

TIS THE SEASON

 

Here at the Prickly Heat Senior Citizen Trailer Park and Public Boat Launch – overlooking Lake Flaccid, somewhere near Lutz Lake, at the base of Viagra Falls, just outside of Gomer, Florida, is where I live with my pit bulldog, Ginger. The other resident octogenarians have nick-named me Santa Claus. Aside from the snowy beard of white, now stained by chain-smoking and an occasional snack of cheesy nachos with salsa, like ole Sant Nick I too keep a list of all those who are naughty and nice, and I definitely plan to visit all the naughty gals twice. Hey, why is it when Santa Claus ‘♫…knows when you are sleeping ♫ knows when you are awake ♫ knows when you’ve been bad or good ♫ … they write songs about him - when I do it, I get a restraining order!

While I may no longer be lively and quick – the ladies love me because I’ve got a big . . . dingy; that can take six comfortably out to my houseboat. I keep it anchored on the lake.

I am looking forward to a joyous and restful Christmas having just endured the onslaught of relatives residing in my residence and a Black Friday that had me risking life and limb at the shopping mall. My granddaughter made it abundantly clear that her life would end at the tender year of seven, if she did not get an Oopsie Doopsie Queasy Bake Oven for Christmas. I certainly did not want that on my conscience. I enjoy shopping about as much as I relish a visit to the proctologist; both are huge pain in the posterior. Speaking of which, I traveled thousands of miles to pay a visit to my elderly Aunt Louise, who can’t even remember what she had for breakfast let alone remember me. After many hours behind the wheel, sucking back one Red Bull after another, aside from the brief blackouts, I had ample opportunity to think about the true meaning of the holidays. It is all about relationships. For each person they can mean something different, such as an old spinster with her cat, a redneck and his truck, a gangster and a gun, a hillbilly with his cousin, a nerd and his computer, or a hermit with . . . himself. Specifically, I am referring to those relationships we have with our family. It is not the food, or the gifts, but the connection to others which means the most. The more I thought about it, I realized I'd missed the rest stop and had to pull over and hike into the woods to take a wiz. Afterwards, I came to the conclusion we do most everything either for or because of other people. So, as you are dashing through the stores to get a deal on a two hundred inch flat-screen TV or roasting a beast for the family feast, remember in the end, it is the memories that will remain along with all the bills to be paid. Happiest of holidays to you and yours.

 Signed: Grizzly ‘Ho Ho Ho’ Gus

 

Contact ‘Dear Grizzly’ at www.mdavidlutz.com or email: grizzlyggus@outlook.com

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Synergy, Davy, and Me

 

I didn’t have a brother, but I had a ‘Davy.’ He was my cousin; we were five years old. To make reading this story educational, I will give you a workable explanation of the management term, Synergy. ‘… The interaction of two or more agents or forces so that their combined effect is greater than the sum of their individual effects.’

Let’s see now if synergy was in effect with Davy and me … shall we? Davy was a typical little boy, and I gave the appearance of a normally developing adolescent male child. Therefore, if Davy was a handful and I was a handful – together we were impossible. I cannot recall which one of us asserted that the ability to fly like Superman was merely a matter of obtaining bath towels for capes, secured by clothespins. We sought a towering pinnacle to facilitate our take-off. Graciously, I allowed Davy to jump off the garage roof first. Even back then, I was always putting others ahead of myself. Besides, someone had to stay on the ground to run the Radar and Snack Bar. I felt such admiration, with just a twinge of envy, seeing Davy soar off the roof, until he hit the ground like a sack of soiled diapers. We planned to try again as soon as his body cast came off. We reviewed the video tapes and determined which parts of the plan needed some tweaking. OSHA would not send out a consultant to audit our processes but one of the inspectors did return our call.

“You two boys better behave yourselves and restrict your play to environmentally safe toys recommended for children in your age group, or I’m telling on you!” While taking his recommendation under advisement, we busied ourselves by urinating into my dad’s empty beer bottles in the kitchen. We would recap them, then returning the bottles to the fridge in hopes someone would chug down one of our craft brewskies. During the production and bottling phase, Davy announced that based on lessons learned from his test flight, the pilot should have a parachute. Clearly, the money we paid for the consultant, formerly from the FAA, had proven beneficial. We appropriated one of the bed sheets off his grandma’s clothesline., Davy moved away, before the next test. Our family also left the inner-city to settle in an all-white-mid-western-suburb. I would be leaving as the undefeated, undisputed ‘Peeing for Distance Champion of the World.’ It was a hollow victory, since it was my only victory among all the events of our decathlon. There was also: Spitting-for-Distance; Throwing-the-Cat-for-Distance, which had to be canceled because after the first toss we couldn’t find the cat anymore; Throwing-Rocks-at-Passing-Cars, was more about timing until the guy would get out of his car, then it became a sprinting competition. In the sub-categories there was: Belching-on-Demand; Whistling-the-Loudest, and Making-Fart Noises -With-Your-Hand-Under-Your-Armpit event. We were going to add, Throwing-My-Sister-for-Distance, but she got upset and withdrew from the competition early, blubbering something about having to find her cat. We were getting out of the neighborhood just in time. The pressure to join a gang was intense. The two major gangs were the ‘Bloods’ and the ‘Crips.’ While the Bloods had a great volleyball team, the Crips had better benefits. I wasn’t a member as you had to be six (five and a half with parents’ consent). The only gang that would have me was the ‘Rugrats.’ I did have one run-in while I was gang-banging. I was held-up at knifepoint in a vacant lot for my milk money. Even at the time, I didn’t believe my assailant was going to stab me. However, you never know what a seven-year-old, hopped-up on Kool-Aid crystals would do for that kind of money. A quarter back then would be equivalent to at least a thousand dollars now! Life in the suburbs was very boring. This was a rural community, cows outnumbered people. In my sub-division, there were many manicured lawns and not much else. Without Davy, I had to work twice as hard to get into half as much trouble – a good example of the lack of synergy. Whether you are building a space shuttle or just peeing in beer bottles, you can do more with less if you have synergy.

 

Signed: Grizzly ‘always doing his best to do less’ Gus 

 

‘Time’ … for a Story

 

 

Clocks have been around since the beginning of time. In 1671, people had to carry around huge clocks if they wanted to know what time it was. At some point, it became grandpa’s job to carry the clock when everyone went out; that is how the Grandfather Clock got its name. The family told ole gramps that if he forgot to wind the clock when it stopped--his heart would also stop. (He was a tad senile). The family wasn’t trying to be cruel; it was just that with so few entertainment options available, messing with old folks was like watching our modern-day sitcoms.

In the old days you had a lot of old people hanging around, as nursing homes were not well established, and only legally registered Eskimos were allowed to leave their elderly on an ice flow to be eaten by polar bears. After Spain sold Florida to the U.S., back in 1819, families flocked there for vacations. The primary reason for Florida’s phenomenal growth in its elderly population was because when Gramps and Granny were in Stuckey’s trying to decide whether to buy a ten-pound pecan nut roll, Mom and Dad, threw the young’uns in the station wagon and made for the Georgia border like a scalded dog.

Eventually someone decided that watches needed to have a computer inside. I will never forget the first time I saw a digital watch at a store. It retailed for $350.00. That was equal to a year of my wages, probably. I spent my paycheck so fast I had no real way of knowing. It did not matter I had to have this watch. Every day I would stop at the store and look at it, leaving my finger and lip prints on the display case. The same technology that put a man on the moon was in this watch. That meant the same technology had been obsolete at NASA and Casio for years. The watch was chrome and oh so shinny. It had a black face and, on the side, [are you ready for this] a button, not a stem, a button. No more winding, those days were gone, we were talking high tech, cutting-edge stuff here. Wearing it would surely bring me all the happiness and fulfillment I so desperately craved. At least, that is what it said in the brochure.

Scrimping and saving, it took a long time but eventually I had saved enough to get the watch out of lay-away. I couldn’t have been more excited if I had grown a second appendage! Rushing home, I got out the owner’s manual - the size of a major city’s phone book and started reading. Two days later I was ready to set the watch. First, I had to press the button with one hand, twist a knob with the other and find something small enough to stick in a tiny hole in the back all at the same time. After forty attempts the time was set.

Speaking of time, by the time I had gotten the money to get the watch out of layaway there had been a few advancements in digital timepieces. Now watches were also: stop-watches; alarm clocks; count-down timers; measured your pulse; glowed in the dark; took your temperature; received satellite signals from outer space; played music from three radio stations; and automatically adjusted the time to the atomic clock at Los Alamos within a half second every 1,000 years. My watch …when I pressed the button, the time glowed in red.

Signed: Grizzly 'out of time' Gus

 

ASK GRIZZLY GUS

A COMMONSENSE ADVICE COLUMN

 

                                 ‘How to Prepare Thanksgiving Dinner’

The very first and most important tip for preparing Thanksgiving Dinner is - to avoid having to cook dinner for a bunch of free-loading friends and relatives in the first place. Give them directions to the nearest ‘Golden Corral.’ I hear they have a tuna casserole to die for - some may already have. If you must give your loved ones the bird, you need to decide on a fresh or frozen fowl. A fresh turkey should be kept in the backyard because you don’t want turkey droppings all over the house when having company. Unless you plan on cutting off that sucker’s head yourself, you need to find a pilgrim somewhere. Vegetarians say it is hypocritical to eat something you’re not willing to kill. Vegetarians should shut up and realize no one likes them. While I would be willing to kill them – I would have serious qualms about eating them: so, for now, they are safe. One more comment for Vegetarians – not eating meat is NOT an accomplishment. (Note: If I have offended any Vegetarians out there, please let me know, since that IS an accomplishment for me).

Best to go with the frozen fowl, you don’t need some turkey running around like a chicken-with-its-head-cut-off. Also, you don’t want the kids thinking it was the family pet and you become Jack Nicholson, in ‘The Shining,’ chasing after it with an ax. The poor little tykes would be in therapy until their forties.

According to the USDA, ‘it is safe to cook a turkey in a frozen state. That is fine for everyone living in Alaska, but what about the rest of us? USDA suggests two ways to thaw a turkey; keep it in the refrigerator for a month or soak it in the bathtub, which would be okay since I wasn’t figuring on bathing before Thanksgiving anyhow. There are other ways to thaw a turkey USDA never mentioned and would probably never recommend. You can use a hairdryer for six hours or a blow torch for six minutes. My preference is to curl up in bed under an electric blanket with my little Butterball. It would seem like old times with my frigid ex-wife. Not only will it be thawed by morning, but I can tell my guests I prepared an intimate dinner for them. Figure on a half-pound of turkey per person, unless it is one of my relatives; then figure on a pound of turkey, a pound of mashed potatoes, a pound of stuffing, a pound of yams, and a quart of gravy - each time they each pass through the buffet line. My kinfolks are so fat – a family portrait has to be taken by satellite. They claim they’re watching their weight. How hard can that be when their stomachs stick out three feet in front of them? What I’d like to see them do is watch their feet!

Tuck the turkey’s wing tips under its shoulders for more even cooking. This is referred to as Akimbo - named after the famous Japanese Sumo wrestler who had big breasts and tiny little arms. Cram all the stuffing up the turkey’s butt that has been surgically removed. That reminds me of my recent hemorrhoid operation … I suppose in good taste will have to wait until another time. Add a half-cup of water to the bottom of the pan. Before you place a tent of aluminum foil over the turkey - cover its breasts with an ample amount of butter - gently, slowly, sensually massaging, and caressing until you’re tossed out of the kitchen - so you can watch the football game with the rest of the guys. Warning: Unless you drive a pick-up, own a hound dog, wear sleeveless shirts, and are well liquored up, you have NO BUSINESS trying to deep fry a fifty-pound turkey in a washtub filled with superheated corn oil on your back porch. Roast your turkey in the oven the way our pious pilgrimed forefathers did. When the turkey’s temperature reaches 165 degrees, it is ready. Set it on the table for twenty minutes which should be enough time to allow the juices and the arguments (as to whom will do the carving) to settle. Lastly remember for goodness’ sake, Billy gets a drumstick because he called it the minute, he walked through the door YESTERDAY and has been reminding everyone EVERY FIVE MINUTES afterward! Happy Thanksgiving

 Signed: Grizzly ‘gobble, gobble’ Gus

 Ask Grizzly is written by Gustaf Alford Grizzard and was created a ways back. - write Grizzly if you want advice or are just lonely. Contact www.mdavidlutz.com; Email:grizzlyggus@outlook.com; http://Facebook.com/grizzlyggus

DISCLAIMER: The opinions and comments expressed by Grizzly Gus, are not necessarily those of management. As far as management is concerned, if the State Board of Mental Health saw fit to release him, then let them be responsible. Do not write to Grizzly if you are experiencing really serious problems but seek professional help. Grizzly Gus holds no certifications or training. He is not even qualified to ‘speak’ to anyone, much less give advice: even his poetic license was revoked.

Dear Grizzly: Susan is Suspicious of Her Auto Mechanic

 

Dear Grizzly: Susan is Suspicious of Her Auto Mechanic

How do I know they are not just trying to take advantage of me because I am a single woman?

DEAR GRIZZLY: I took my car to a local garage for a tune-up, and they gave me an estimate for $3,300.00. How do I know they are not just trying to take advantage of me because I am a single woman? I have enclosed the estimate and would be grateful if you could review it and advise me.

 -- Susan Sincerely Suspicious in Spokane Washington

 DEAR SINCERELY SUSPICIOUS SUSAN: Let me start out by saying that your fears of being taken advantage of by an auto mechanic because you are a single woman are completely unfounded. I can assure you, auto mechanics take advantage of anyone regardless of their gender or marital status. When I was young, it was nothing for me to tear down my own engine in my driveway and in a matter of no time, a tow truck would be there to haul it off to the junk yard. As for your estimate, any time it starts with, ‘Once upon a time . . .’ you should be wary. On your estimate I would question such items as: tuning your radio; lubricating your rear end, (though that is a legitimate charge in Bangkok), change the air in your tires with a scent of potpourri; flush your differential, yank your crank … shaft; rotate your headlights; and align your cam-a-fram. For now, you need to get a second opinion and not from the mechanic standing next to the one who gave you this estimate. In the future, for your automotive requirements, I say forget about ‘Mister Right,’ and marry ‘Mister Good-Wrench.’

 Signed: Grizzly ‘greasy’ Gus

 Dear Grizzly, is written by Gustaf Alford Grizzard, and was created a ways back. If you want nice and sweet advice for your problems - write Dear Abby. If you want someone to tell you like it is, contact Grizzly at.www.mdavidlutz.com; email: grizzlyggus@outlook.com; http://Facebook.com/grizzlyggus;

DISCLAIMER: The opinions and comments expressed by Grizzly Gus, are not necessarily those of management. As far as management is concerned, if the State Board of Mental Health saw fit to release him, then let them be responsible. Do not write to Grizzly if you are experiencing really serious problems but seek professional help. Grizzly Gus holds no certifications or training. He is not even qualified to ‘speak’ to anyone, much less give advice: even his poetic license was revoked.