Category Humor

Speaking Coronese

Michael 2 Comments
It’s been six months in the US since the Corona Virus began making inroads into daily news reports. In early February, unless you were living in the Pacific Northwest, it was more a curiosity than a lifestyle. Some people weren’t certain of the difference between “corona” and “CoViD” and the really clever people were blaming the new virus on Mexican beer. By early March the news outlets were scrambling to count victims, interview experts, and pretend they knew what they meant when they spouted out the words of a language they hadn’t quite fully learned. Many sounded like parade commentators when they are reading the words on the teleprompter for the first time. By early April the cadence of the reports was smoother and the language of the virus, Coronese, was fast becoming the second language everybody wanted to speak. Today we toss around words and phrases like positivity, epidemiology, herd immunity, contact tracing, and the ever popular self-isolation and social distancing like we grew up with them. This is the language of the virus. The formal language if you will. But there’s another language of the virus the goes beyond the jargon. The language of the street (or social media depending where you spend your time), the slang, the language we speak when we take off our hat and coat and sit with friends. Friends we might still want to think hard about and consider if they are worth violating social distance guidelines for and end up self isolating with.
 
20200810_100908Every language devolves into its guttural form and Coronese is no different. Some words are lend words from legitimate language. We now “zoom” whenever we hold a video chat sessions and “mask up” regardless of what body part we are covering with whatever we are covering it with for protection from whatever. Some words are bastardized versions of the technical jargon or legitimate language. Such as “the ‘rona” when referring to anything virus related, “iso-” anything when done alone, or “blursday” for any unspecified or forgotten day of the week.
 
My favorite words of Coronese are the covomanteaus, itself a portmanteau of CoviD and portmanteau. In my mind, warped as it tends to be sometimes, I’ve not yet decided if CoViD itself is an acronym (thus CoViD) or a portmanteau (as the more popular and in my opinion lazier, covid) of Corona Virus Disease. These covomanteaus include covidiot (anyone ignoring specific virus protection recommendations or clueless of the disease in general), covideo (chatting by video or the video chat session itself), quaranteam (your colleagues also working from home performing as a single work unit), and quarantini (although there are actually specific recipes for a “quarantini” it can pretty much be any cocktail made with any ingredients readily available generally using whatever vodka remains after making your own hand sanitizer).
 
Still with all the technical jargon, legitimate language, and coronaslang,  Coronese is missing some important words and giving it due consideration, I’ve decided I am just the one to start filling those holes, or virogaps as any knowledge gap regarding the ‘rona will now be known. So far I’ve come up with covomanteau and virogap but I’ll be working on it day and night. I may put together a quaranteam and we can work together after a short ronamute to our homeworkstations and have a comprehensive ronapedia distributed before we covexit this virocrisis. Until then, keep washing your hands and remember to mask up!
 
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To Tell the Truth

Michael 2 Comments
From the title of this post you might think I’m taking another shot at advertisers, or politicians, or horror or all horrors, political ads, but no, not at all. Today’s potshots are aimed at us and starting with me. (That would be the collective us not necessary an us that could contain you because you might indeed be the only truthful person in earth. Hey, it has to be somebody!)
 
Once a time up the worse you could do was lie, cheat, or steal. Or perhaps lie, cheat, and steal. A subtle but important difference. But today if it wasn’t for cheating many of the recent sports championship teams members wouldn’t be sporting their championship rings, thievery accounts for 4 of the top 5 reported crimes in the United States (per the FBI the top five in 2020 are larceny, burglary, motor vehicle theft  aggravated assault, robbery) and lies are getting so popular politicians may revert to the truth telling just to differentiate themselves from the common crowd (okay, so I had to get at least one political dig in). And yes, you are in that ground too. You might be so good at social lying that you even fool yourself. Pull up a chair and listen to my tale. (Or read it if that’s easier for you.)
 
It dawned on me that not only do we spend a good chunk of each day lying to each other, each other of us actually expects it because we, in the words of a certain fictionalized Navy JAG officer, can’t handle the truth. Apparently I am one of the very few persons in the television watching world who did not sign up for a free 30 day trial of Disney+ this month, almost all specifically to be able to watch Hamilton. In order to correct the “obvious” oversight on my part my sister asked me if I wanted to pop over and watch it with them before their trial expired. (It just now dawned on me that signing up for a free trial with the foreknowledge that you are so signing up only to watch a specific movie free and then cancelling before getting charge for month #2 could be either or both cheating and stealing but that is (those are?) post(s) for a different day.) “No thank you,” I answered, “I really don’t have any great desire to see it.” You would have thought I said I didn’t want to go to Heaven when I die (or before if that could be arranged). I supposed I could have said, perhaps should have said, “I’d love to!” but I wouldn’t so I didn’t. It’s the truth. I really don’t have a burning desire to see Hamilton. Sorry. Actually no, not sorry.
 
Yes, yes, you’re going to say but those lies we tell in those times aren’t lies, they are niceties, polite nothings, harmless fibs. When did it become necessary to lie to be polite. When you are standing in line at the 12 items or less express lane with your melting half gallon of rocky road ice cream waiting for the clerk to bag the last of the 6 bags of groceries for the guy in front of you and your answer to her “I’m sorry you had to wait,” is “that’s okay, I don’t mind,” that’s a lie! You know you want to say “if you’re so sorry take this portable puddle of chocolate back to the ice cream freezer and bring back back a container I don’t have to eat with a straw! And while I’m waiting I’m going to tell your boss that you lack the counting skills to figure out when you’re being played for a fool!” But no, you want to be nice, it’s more polite that way, so you lie. 
 
You explained 3 times to the auto mechanic that “it goes ‘ker-plunk’ when I turn the steering wheel to the left,” but when he comes back from the test drive he says “I didn’t hear a ‘clunk’ when I stepped on the brakes. When was the last time you heard that?” So you try again, “no, I didn’t say it goes ‘clunk” when I step on the brakes, it’s making a ‘ker-plunk’ing when I turn the steering wheel left.” That sets the tone for a day spent in the service lounge with the 128 cup coffee urn that was fresh three days ago, the magazines with scantily clad muscle cars and girls with big air filters on the covers that were fresh 3 years ago, and the TV in the corner than is permanently tuned to “The Real Housewives of Possum County.” Four hours and 27 cups of coffee later the service manager sticks his head in to tell you you’re all done and he’s sorry it took a little longer than they thought but they had to go to their warehouse to get the part. “It’s okay,” you sort of mumble while mentally visualizing the most recent statement “total outstanding” boxes for your credit cards. Well it’s not okay. You just lied! Four hours earlier you wanted to say “maybe I should try a repair shop that knows the difference between a ker-plunk in the stering wheel and a clunk in the brakes” but then all you said was “uh huh’ and now you lied that it was okay because it’s the polite thing to do.
 
And now we have even more opportunities to politely lie in our daily lives. You know, “of course I’m still washing my hands,” “I love that the whole family Zooms every Friday for Happy Hour!” and “oh yes I wear my mask every time I go out and I’m happy to do it and protect my fellow world citizens!” Yeah, right. You’re probably washing your hands but Happy Birthday, twice, has morphed into the opening line of White Curtain which causing you to pause 9 seconds in to ponder the second line, consider it for another 4, and then dry your hands and walk. What you really want to say is ‘who are all these people, I’d kill myself if I had to do this in person every week.” Finally, you do wear you mask everywhere you go (don’t you?) but be honest, you really want to say “I wear my mask but I’d rather not but because it’s the right thing to do I will so you better too! or “freaking pansies won’t let me in to buy my freaking beer without a freaking mask on but this is freaking America and I have to right to pursue beer so give me a freaking mask.”
 
So, there you go. Tell me you haven’t done the same especially now, during these trying times. But don’t worry – “it’s going to be okay.”
 
 
truthhed
 
 
 
 

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!

Michael 6 Comments
My exile from WordPress Comment Land (Wopecommelandia) continues. There’s been so much on so many blogs so worthy of comments but all I can do is “like.” I thought about writing a post of all the comments I have written that were suck into Wopecommelandia’s atmosphere but couldn’t come up with an effective way of keeping context. So instead I decided to comment on life. Or death.

The paper here ran this headline Tuesday.
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Death of Woman Whose Body was Found Stuffed Into Refrigerator Ruled Homicide
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It did what headlines are supposed to do and piqued my interest. Sometime in the early 1980s the New York Post ran a headline that has become legendary among tabloid headlines. “Headless Body in Topless Bar” made it clear that was no accident. I shouldn’t have had to read the local article to be as convinced this was not an accident either but I pushed on. The first sentence certainly convinced me. The woman “whose body was found partially dismembered inside an abandoned refrigerator left in the hallway of an apartment building in May, has been ruled a homicide.” I wonder if it was the partial dismemberment that convinced them. And it only took 2 months.
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Maybe those headlines stirred something in my memory. I did a little digging and found it!
Man’s Death During Sex Ruled ‘Workplace Accident’
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The article sourcing a BBC report of a Times of London story about a French railway technician for TSO Rail while in Meung-sur-Loire France died of cardiac arrest while having sex with a woman he had just met. The company’s lawyers argued it was not liable because the accident occurred not while he was engaged in a work related activity. The court ruled that French workers on business trips are “entitled to their employer’s protection for the duration of their mission … whether or not the accident takes place as part of a professional activity or as an act of normal life” and sex is an act of normal life.  So the widow (yes, he was married), gets 80% of his salary until he would have retired and then an unspecified portion of his pension. Better than alimony.
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Since deaths, and now death headlines, come in three, this is a good place to stop. Feel free to comment. If you can. Darn Wopecommelandia!
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The truth, the whole truth, and anything but the truth

Michael 1 Comment
Even in the midst of world wide crises, nation wide closures, and seeming interstate competition of who can develop the most animosity among neighboring states by being either ridiculously lenient or unnecessarily harsh with their approach to virus control, US Presidential elections go on and with them the quadrennial exercise in truth stretching, whopper telling, and general misrepresentation we call political ads.
 
My memory goes back only as far as the 1964 election (I was here for the ’56 and ’60 go ’rounds but I was more interested in the Ringling Brothers’ version of three ring circuses those years) but I can tell you without a doubt, to my knowledge the only occupant of the Oval Office to get there without casting aspersions on his opponent’s reputed good name was Gerald Ford.
 
I suspect it will be nastier than usual this year what with so many people having nothing better to do than to get on social media and join in with the professional besmirching. Truth goes out the window when people spend over 2 billion dollars (yes, that is a “b”) to get a temporary job than pays a mere $400,000 a year. (To give you a little perspective, that is less the minimum salary for all the major American sports leagues and well less than half the minimum NBA salary. As the old saying goes, but they had a better year.) 
 
You would think with that kind of money floating around people would be able to find something their candidate did right to qualify him or her for the position rather than using it to dig up what the opposition did wrong. Or often, to fabricate something that looks like wrong doing. As I wrote 4 years ago, there is actually a regulation that forbids any media outlet from vetting, editing, or refusing a Presidential political ad regardless of content. Truth. The Campaign Reform Act of 2002 takes pains to not mandate the veracity or any requirement to confirm the veracity of any claim made in a campaign ad. With the party conventions about a month away and the election another 3 months after that, the airways, social outlets, mailboxes, and road sides will soon be overflowing with effluent.
 
This is where I usually wrappings up with some pithy saying or on rare occasions actual insight. Sorry, but for this mess I got nothing. I’ll borrow a line from old TV. While you’re out on the mean and nasty streets of American politics in a Presidential election year, remember, be careful out there.
 
truth

Middle Seat Hump Syndrome

Michael 9 Comments
You need to be of a certain age to remember summer vacations in the family car with enough family that it filled all the seats, three across, and the middle seat made the leg room in coach on Delta look generous for there, right where your feet wanted to be, was “the hump,” the growth in the floorboard that rose nearly to seat level, to allow whatever it was that transferred the up and downs of the engine to the round and round of the rear wheels to make it’s way from the motor to the where the rubber met the road. I am of that age and had been on those vacations and I got that middle seat.
 
It wasn’t always like that. For a while there were just two of us in the back and we would each get out own window seats with plenty of room between for the picnic basket and cooler that were only opened at planned stops along the way. Then the third one came along. At first it wasn’t such a big deal. She started out in the baby seat in the middle of the front seat (yes, that’s where we put them when we used them back then). After she outgrew that space she shifted to the back but because those short, stubby legs didn’t even make it off the seat, the hump was not impediment to her comfort. Eventually though, she grew and with that, so did the complaining. “I don’t want to sit on the hump!” And the word came from the front, “take turns.” From then on, whenever the car stopped, the back seat crowd reshuffled and everyone got a turn being uncomfortable where we decidedly didn’t to be.
 
That’s a little like what’s going on in the world now. Each time it appears to be stopping, or at least slowing enough to risk opening the door and get off this crazy ride, the virus comes back and we have to reshuffle. Do we limit contact, should we close down again, does this mask make my nose look big? Regardless of the answer, some bodies are going to end up decidedly where they don’t want to be doing what they’d rather not be doing or not doing what they’d rather do. Think of the world as an early ’64 Chevrolet and were all taking turns sitting on the hump.
 
I’m going to spoil the ending for you. It all works out. Nobody was permanently damaged from sitting with a leg there and the other one there. We climbed out of the backseat a little stiff and a little sore but we made. We’ll make it through this also. Maybe a little worse for the wear after this ride that you are certain we got lost on because no way it should be taking this long, but eventually we are going to climb back out into the world.
 
Middle seat hump syndrome was never that horrible and may have been the inspiration for some future engineer to design SUVs with higher cabins that clear all those mechanical doodads or to shift the driving wheels to the front and obviate the need for a hump running down the middle if the cars interior. Along those same lines it could be someday we might even get to go out and not have to check that we have our masks with us. We just have to wait for the right expert to come up with the right solution. They are out there. There will find it.
 
In the meanwhile,  Happy Motoring!
 
 
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A Sporting Proposition

Michael 10 Comments
I was all set to go off and a rant about something or other and then I heard this topic on the radio yesterday and I said, “Yes, yes, I agree 100%. I must tell the world!” What could that be that instilled so much passion on a Sunday afternoon? Golf. More specifically, my intense dislike for golf.
 
I’m sorry, but yes, I hate golf. I think I’ve played one complete round of golf in my life. My long life. I’m sure I played one round only because I rarely give up on anything. I may not like it but if I signed up for it, I’ll give it my best try. I tried. It didn’t. 
 
Especially now with opportunities to do almost nothing, golf courses are apparently doing a booming business. I just don’t get the point. It seems so random to me but if a billion and a half people want to wander around in the hot sun wearing carrying 3,090 pounds of equipment on their backs and none of it can be used to bake a good cookie, well I say to each his own. But not my own.
 
But here’s the thing I get even less, professional golf. They claim it’s a sport but come on now. Where are the fans, real fans, with hats and jerseys and tailgating in the country club parking lot before the tournament? “Tournament” is pushing it. When was the last time there was an office pool with golfer brackets? And a real sport would have walk up music blaring from the PA system when a golfer approaches the tee. Those few fans you do see following along don’t seem terribly fanatic. No wild cheers when a particularly well hit ball goes where its supposed to go (assuming you can actually see where the ball goes), no boos for the referee when a ball is called out of bounds, no jeers for the golfer who plunks a shot into a water or sand hazard. While I’m on the topic of crowd noises, what’s with the TV announcers and all that whispering? They’re hanging out a mile away from the action inside an air conditioned control room yet they speak barely loud enough for the sound engineer to recognize human speech while they do all they can not to distract the professional. Really? 
 
So, no, I don’t like golf. Sorry if I’ve offended you. I understand how polarizing this topic may be but I feel it’s important to be able to exercise my freedom of speech. But I refuse to exercise it on the links.
 
NoGolf
 

Not There Yet

Michael 1 Comment
“I may not be there yet but I’m closer than I was yesterday.” I don’t know who said that. I don’t know if anybody actually said it or if it has come to us like “Play it again, Sam,” a famous quote that was never said in the first place. But if nobody else ever said it I just did and I am closer, as we all are.
 
I’m closer to moving. Recent posts have alluded to the upheaval I’ve been going through. No offense to anybody out there whose lives have been interrupted at the hands of a pandemic virus, racial inequities, civil unrest, or a variety of other happening and pending disasters, but I haven’t personally been thus up heaved. My tribulations are from not quite having a home while my life and possessions are split between two residences. Yeah I know, first world problem. Sorry.
 
But … just because I’ve been a nervous and physical wreck doing a semi do it yourself move doesn’t mean I’ve been ignoring the pandemonia happening around me. Naturally I have a few words to say about it. First and foremost,  somebody better write to the dictionary people and suggest they pay more respect to pandemonium’s plurality. Most do not even bother to include it. In their defense it isn’t the norm for more than one pandemonium to occur concurrently but here we are. And if it seems I am making light of the crises (another plural we need to resurrect), it is because the world is treating them lightly.
 
For example, let’s consider the continuing saga of COVID, or As the Virus Turns. And turning it is – turning the world on its head. For anybody who thinks the worst is over, I’m talking to you Florida, record numbers of new cases are being reported, I’m talking to you Florida! And others. Around the world record numbers of new cases are breaking out, in fact, this weekend was the largest increase in cases worldwide. Really.
 
As if rampant disease and death isn’t enough we have protests (peaceful), riots (not so peaceful), weird apologies (Columbus Ohio wants to change its name to Flavortown?), and still no stable supply of soap on store shelves (what would Granny Clampett make of that? Lye soap naturally!).
 
Now, for my big problem, Moving. Monday (that’s today!) I am out of my current residence mostly because I’ve run out of places to put me. It has been overtaken with boxes! (Remember this 👇)
moving-boxes
But I’m not in my new residence with the requisite pieces to maintain this diversion, specifically internet access, until Wednesday. Therefore, you probably shouldn’t expect anything from me Thursday (like you haven’t been anyway) and if Comcast is as efficient with getting things set up and started on Wednesday like I know they will be, you might be best not expecting anything from me next Monday either. (Sigh) But I closer and closer is as closer does and eventually I’ll get to do it again.
 
Sorry if I was a little ranty today. First world problems get me bitchy.
 
 
 
 
 

Uncontrolled Chaos

Michael 2 Comments
Here’s a news flash. I’m moving. Talk about challenges during a pandemic. Somehow I managed to review, tour, select, and sign for a new apartment without leaving the confines of my confining current compartment. Trust me, if it was up to me I would stay here forever but it’s my roommates, Myself and I, who are jonesing for new Joneses to keep up with.
 
You might remember for older posts that I spent 30 years in a sprawling, way too big on many levels (metaphorically and literally) for one person suburban house with the requisite yard, gardens and outside spaces. Five years ago I “downsized” into my now soon to be abandoned first attempt at retirement living. Not retirement living community, just retirement living.
 
I did pretty well with the first wave of downsizing, paring away about 3/4 of my accumulated possessions. After 5 years I’ve found that I’ve re-accumulated and am on the verge of “upsizing.” But it’s not for the newfound additional space I am pulling the plug on the present penthouse. That’s a tale for another day.
 
Today’s tale starts four weeks before I hit the drop dead date on renewing the current lease. Oh, how was I supposed to know there would be a global pandemic so close to my renewal date? Because I had resolved to drop dead before I would renew I had 4 weeks to find new lodging. Unfortunately that coincided exactly with the eve of the world shutting down. Oy! Or is that Oi? Whichever, it was a challenge. But I met the challenge and 4 weeks later I was not committing to a renewal. 
 
That was 30 days ago and I have 30 days to go. I have discovered that the challenge of finding a place while the world is isolated ain’t nothing compared to packing in isolation. To call this controlled chaos would be generous. Out of control pandemonium is not quite there either but it is closer.
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First, there’s just me here! Me and hundreds of flattened boxes that need reconstructed, rolls of tape in a holder/dispenser designed by a mechanical engineer who was last in his class, pieces of bubble wrap in a variety of shapes and sizes saved from the previous move and various package deliveries over the past 5 years, and felt tip marking pens that keep disappearing. No matter how carefully I wrap and place items into an expertly reconstructed cardboard box there’s always a corner too small for the last item my mind believes should fit there and too large for anything I do find to put there leaving still an empty corner just even smaller than that last item my mind still believes belongs there and nowhere else. In the process of filling that box I’ve reconstructed another box (expertly, of course) with just one item in it, the one my mind is still certain belonged in that empty corner of the first box. It was easier the last time I moved.
 
The last time I moved I was convalescing in a recliner while I wrapped a glass or two and directed the relatives doing the heavy lifting, err packing. The time before that was 30 years previous and there were professionals involved. Hmm, I just realized this might not be the cause of the virus and the Governor’s quarantine order. I might just not be good at packing. Oh my.
 
I’ll try to keep you up to date on my progress. As long as I can keep a computer or tablet out of a reconstructed cardboard box (expertly).
 
moving-boxes
 
 
 
 

Wyizit?

Michael 8 Comments
Last week I was hit with a bad case of the wyizits. It started with a song that got trapped in my head and couldn’t find it’s way out. And all day long I was asking myself, “Why is it that only the annoying songs get stuck in your head?” Seriously, do you ever walk around all day with the comforting sounds of the opening movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata? No, it’s always “Na, Na, Hey, Hey, Kiss Him Goodbye” or if you’re in that classical mood, the 1812 Overture but ending with a hearty “Hi ho Silver!” So I started wondering, quite unconsciously and seemingly unstoppingly, about other wyizits, howcomes, and hoosedsos with an occasional wydont and one random watzitcalled.
 
Why is it that people are now walking down the middle of the street eschewing the safety of the sidewalk for the chaos of life among motorized vehicles? Not only are they walking down the middle of the street they are doing it with eyes firmly focused on their hand held cell phones, doubly taking their chances among the cars being driven by likewise distracted phone gawkers. And to make it more challenging, every so often, the street walker (apologies to the professional ranks) just stops in mid stride (if it can be called a stride – perhaps mid-shuffle) until just as unexpectedly begins moving again.
 
There were many others equally well thought, mentally mulled, and eventually determined to be forever unanswered questions of life as we know it. Here is a sampling.
 
QuestionHow come a vegan or vegetarian thinks nothing of announcing “I haven’t eaten a piece of meat for 35 years” but then spends 20 minutes explaining what I’m missing out on when I just happen to mention that I tried kale years ago and just don’t like it?
 
Who said a quarter pound is the right size for a hamburger?
 
 
Why don’t cat owners take their pets out for a walk?
 
What’s it called when you eat breakfast cereal for a midnight snack?
 
Why is it that birds always know when I wash my car? 
 
Why is it that celebrities thinks the ability to memorize the lines of learned person character give them the knowledge of a real learned person without the need for 12 years of education, training, and research?
 
How come none of the people in pictures of Panama are wearing wide brimmed hats? 
 
Why is it that athletes think I care at all about anything they have to say?”
 
How come the printer always run out of ink two-thirds of the way through the One Important Document I have to print this year?
 
Who said pajama bottoms aren’t acceptable business casual attire?
 
How come nobody else recognizes my infallibility?
 
Why is it that in surveys, applications, and other instruments that bother to ask does a third generation Asian, Latin, or Pacific Islander get a box to check but a first generation Italian is “No?”
 
How come a tian and a tangine aren’t the same? Similarly but different, how came a tian and a ratatouille aren’t the same?
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Who said all good things must end?
 
Na na na na. Na na na na. Hey hey hey. Goodbye.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

What’s in a (Nick)Name

Michael 1 Comment
As we move deeper and deeper into our isolation it’s becoming harder and harder to find an article, post, blog, podcast, phone call (!) that doesn’t reference COVID-19. But I think I’ve finally found something I can write about where the virus isn’t right up there in the first paragraph. Ooops.
 
Anyway… how about death? Actually death notices – you know, obits, necrologies, life tributes, obituaries. I’ve noticed something about them, oh yes I have indeed. And not just that there are getting to be a lot of them out there nor that I haven’t shown up in one yet. I’m seeing that a lot of people don’t seem to know their own name. I’m guessing here.
 
Just recently there have been a lot of obituaries in the paper for people with multiple names. I don’t mean the deceased married woman who is listed with both her married and maiden names. I mean people with 2, sometimes 3 given names. I saw one just this morning (real name changed to protect his guardian angel from being teased by the other guardian angels): Joseph “JB” “Joey,” “Scooter” Brown. Ummmm. Really? Are there people reading the obituaries coming across Joey’s name and aren’t sure if they only saw Joseph listed that they could not be sure if that was the same Joey who was their friend? And those who didn’t know him as anything but Scooter, what are the chances they even know Scooter Who?
 
I saw a lot of them over the past few days, and some pretty colorful monikers too. Stucky, Gar Gar, Dickie Lou, Butch, Baby, Babe, Mac (whose last name did not start Mc or Mac), Birdie, and Stitch to name several more than a few.
 
I remember the gang my father hung out with. Nobody had a real name. Actually they all did but they didn’t Anglicize their names so they used nicknames to make calling them easier. Among them were Bunny, Ninny, Patsy, Mare, Jojo, and Tuner. These were all guys by the way. But the obituary didn’t read John “Bunny” Doe. It was just John Doe and everybody knew that was Bunny. No, multiple choice names weren’t necessary and they still got good send offs. Mostly because everybody knew everybody then and the crowd at the funeral home was already spilling out to the parking lot before the obituary was even published. I can’t imagine the funeral director would even put an order through for Ninny to be printed on the prayer cards. Some of the other names might even make a prayer card spontaneously combust! 
 
I can’t imagine my obituary reading anything but the name I have on my driver’s license. And I’m not so sure about this trend of putting pictures in obituaries either. You look at some of them, “John Doe, 93, died in his sleep after a long, long, long illness,” and there’s a picture of some young guy in full hiking regalia climbing out of a canoe. If it gets to where they insist on a picture then I guess if they’re going to use my driver’s license name they might as well use that picture too. And I already have the plaque for the drawer preordered and that has the name from the check I sent them to pay for the engraving. Just fill in the end date. 
 
Hmm, you know, I wonder what’s on Scooter’s headstone.
 
 
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