Zapata’s. Really funny word

I was conversing with a good friend in Spanish yesterday. Which is fairly amazing because I don’t speak, read, or write Spanish. Anyway, the word Zapata’s came up.

Reading it on paper brings a smile, doesn’t it?

Yes, it does.

And saying it aloud is joyful.

As in viva Zapata’s!

Go ahead, say Zapata’s out loud and try not to smile. You can’t.

Yes, I know it means shoes.

Uncle. Funny word

Uncle Frank? Great guy, right? Uncle Joe is as good as they come, probably.

Uncle Tom? Ehh, not so much. Too much historical baggage.

But the word uncle by itself? Man, that’s an ugly word.

Uncle.

Sounds like something one might get on one’s large intestine. They would have to operate and remove a foot and a half your digestive tract. And you’d never be able to eat cheeseburgers again.

“I’m sorry, sir. You have a dangerous uncle on your large intestine, and we have to operate. If we don’t, you’ll never be able to ride a bicycle again. And your breath will smell really bad.

We need a better word for everybody’s uncle.

Football’s back, now let me tell you about my novel

How’s that for a segue?

The title of the book is ”Heavenly Hash” and it’s about a guy who runs a candy factory. He has to dispose of a hundred pounds of marijuana-laced chocolate before anyone eats it.

His solution is simple, elegant, and completely wrong.

It’s on Amazon Kindle. It only took a month, and the help of two experts, to get it there. Twenty minutes after it was published, I found a typo. (there are probably others) I’m trying to fix the one I found. Hope it doesn’t take another month.

The typo is on page 96. If you’re reasonably quick, you can buy it before I get it fixed.   

If you don’t have a Kindle, they offer a free app for your computer. Install it and buy my book.

NFL season ticket holders are screwed

Season ticket holders can’t get their money back. What a pity.

But the rest of us don’t have to suffer through the dreadful product The NFL is peddling. Just don’t go. And just don’t watch it on TV.

If you pay for a ticket to a Broadway show and see a summer-stock performance you’d want your money back, right? And you’d tell your friends about the dreadful experience. And they wouldn’t go.

If the ratings were to drop and the advertisers were to drop the games, we’d see those very rich owners put a better product on the field in a New York minute.

I know, you’re gonna go and you’re gonna watch anyway. Another pity.

Hey, NFL, trying real hard doesn’t cut it

The experts on TV always preface their remarks about the poor job the replacement refs are doing by saying: It’s a really difficult job and they’re doing the best they can.

Give us a break.

If you watched tonight’s game you know what I’m complaining about. Professional football players are being refereed by amateurs. I lost count of the missed calls. And they (the missed calls) changed the outcome of the game.

Worse: The league financially penalizes anyone who points that obvious fact out. So basically, the truth is being bought off.

Worser: The league doesn’t have the guts to go back and fix it the next day. What’s so sacrosanct about game-day? Fixing mistakes the next day would be more professional and more honest.

Worserest of all: They’ve lost me as a fan.

Yeah, I know those aren’t real words.

Hello? Is anybody there?

I’ve finally gotten around to putting my novels on the Internet.

Actually trying to put them there.

There are sites that help you, but if you’re not a real computer jockey, as I am not, even that is confounding.

I sent these people my phone number, but don’t expect to get a call.

I’ve communicated with two or three of these experts via my computer screen, but so far it ain’t workin.

The folks are all very nice. They want to be helpful. They just don’t seem to want to talk to anyone. I say anyone rather than me to avoid sounding paranoid. And I say folks to sound friendly, in case they should read this.

Will there come a day when our mouths will be used only for eating, our vocal cords shrivel and grow useless, like our appendix, and we grow a few extra fingers to type even faster?

Will there come a day when a child is born and the doctor says, “Oh, no. He only has five fingers on each hand? He’s a throwback.” Then the mother bursts into tears and the father faints? 

What’s with list makers?

My wife loves lists of things to be done.

The only thing she loves more than lists, is checking things off the list after she’s done them.

This is especially exciting two days before a long vacation. The list is long, sometimes as long as the vacation. The pace is rapid, verging on frantic, and the joy of that little check mark on each item is close to indescribable.

I am occasionally sucked into the vortex. And I try to do my part. Not as joyfully as my wife, mind you, but I’m in there, hackin’.

Fortunately, my part of the list is miniscule compared to hers. And in the end things generally work out for us.

But, man, do I hate lists.