Saturday, November 19, 2022



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 

Friday, November 11, 2022

 


‘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


Tuesday, November 1, 2022

 

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.

Thursday, October 20, 2022

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.

 

Wednesday, October 5, 2022

ASK GRIZZLY - Dining Alone When You Are Single

 

ASK GRIZZLY GUS

A COMMONSENSE ADVICE COLUMN


‘The Art of Dining Alone'


Dining alone, seems to be especially challenging for me being single, unless it’s a place that serves the food on a tray or has a drive-thru. My idea of ‘getting dressed for dinner,’ means putting on underwear before I sit down to the kitchen table. Fed-up with
Soup-for-One, and Hungry-Man dinners that never fills up this ‘hungry man,’ I decided it was time I enjoyed a finer bill of fare in a more formal dining atmosphere, even if it means … going it alone. 
          Looking for a classy place, I was pleased to see the restaurant I chose had a dress code. The sign read, ‘No shirt, No Shoes, No Service.’ I assumed it specialized in southern cuisine because it also stated, ‘No teeth - No problem.’
           The hostess greeted me, “How many in your party?”
          “Just one,” I mumble.
         “Will that be sulking or non-sulking?” Have you ever noticed when you are by yourself you don’t get the cozy booth in the corner, but the one right in the middle of the room, under the spotlight with a neon light overhead flashing - Loser, Loser, Loser. This place was fancy because they had cloth napkins that were so stiff, I had to blow my nose into my ball cap. They were sure serious about the silverware because they had extra knives, forks, and spoons, all lined up next to my plate, which was a good thing. Since I was a bit out of practice and kept dropping them under the table. Everyone there was with ‘someone’ and they were all talking about me. After I rearranged my silverware, read the menu, cleaned my ears with a fork, clipped my fingernails, and stared blankly off into space … forever, my waitress finally appeared.
         “Hello, my name is Susie. I'll be the only woman talking to you this evening, but there's no way in hell we’ll be going home together ... ever … so you can stop looking at me like I just hopped off the dessert cart.”
          “You'll have to excuse me,” I apologized, “I've never done this before.”
         Susie laughed, “You can stop gripping the table; your knuckles are turning white. Don't worry I’m a professional server; I've never lost a customer yet. However, once you leave the premises, you’re on your own. Did you know you’re safer eating here then you would be driving down the expressway at seventy miles per hour, trying to steer with your knees while eating a Big Mac in one hand, holding a bag of super-sized fries in the other, and cradling an ice-cold cup of Coke in your crotch? Judging by your girth, Chuckles, I'd say you've done that more than once. Am I right?” I nodded. “Since there is no chance anyone will be joining you this evening, I'll quickly remove the rest of these place settings, so you won't get your hopes up. Please place the napkin in your lap and remain seated until your plate comes to a full stop. Thank you for dining with us tonight. Why don’t you sink your teeth into a hot-buttered-bun, while you wait endlessly for your food."
          Just when I was about to slip into a self-induced coma, the food arrived: Porterhouse steak, baked potato with butter, chives, and loaded with everything they could sweep up off the kitchen floor; a house salad, and steamed broccoli, which must have been added for decoration. It certainly was a nice change from Beanie Weenies, but as I sat there counting each bite, I couldn't help thinking that it would have tasted better if there had been someone sitting across the table. I continue to dine alone when the occasion demands, but now I bring my own set of crayons so I can color the placemat while I'm waiting. One day I hope to have my own showing.

Signed, Grizzly 'out-to-lunch' 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.





Saturday, September 24, 2022

Dear Gus, I'm Lonely and Frustrated

 

Dear Grizzly: Dennis is the menace when it comes to marriage

I could do without the sex if I had his affection.



DEAR GRIZZLY:
I am a 68-year-old widow, and I care very much for a 68-year-old divorced gentleman. We don’t want to get married because it would upset our families, and there also are financial considerations against it. 

Dennis and I both feel a strong sexual need, but his religious beliefs say it is morally wrong to have sex outside of marriage. I could do without the sex if I had his affection. However, he is incapable of showing affection without it leading to sex, so he wants us just to be good friends. I need to be held and loved. Is there any answer?

-- LONELY AND FRUSTRATED

DEAR HORNY AND FRUSTRATED: That you and Dennis could find love and romance in the autumn of your life is so [sniff] beautiful, though the image of you two senior citizen geezers bumping uglies in a wrinkle-fest totally creeps me out. When I was younger, I thought sex after sixty was like time-travel… sure, in theory it is possible, but no one really expects it to happen. Now that I too am in my sixties, even thinking about it gives me a headache… time-travel, that is. Sex after sixty just makes me sweaty and dizzy. Technically, sex outside of marriage is morally wrong but at your age that becomes as serious as littering or going over the speed limit. If I were Dennis, I wouldn’t be turning down and geriatric goings on; no telling how long you’re going to live, but that’s me.

 Maybe Dennis has deep psychological issues you are not aware of. Do you really want to marry this duffer and then find out he wants you to come to bed with rubber gloves, a flashlight, and a can of Crisco? What if he wants you to rub baby power on his little touchy, dress him in diapers for adults, then spank him because he’s been a naughty boy? Oh, so that is also just me?

 By the way, who cares what your family thinks. Trust me, all they are worried about is when you drop dead, all the money would end up going to Mr. Wrinkle Muffin. If you’ve found someone at sixty-eight that is willing to see you naked, that’s what I call true love!

 Signed: Grizzly ‘good time; 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://fb.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.

 

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 stor...