Why Jumping is Overrated

So…okay, this is rather a brutal thing to say, but you know this professor: I can’t help myself.

See, sometimes it’s best to be brutal: You get out what you need to say and you don’t have long thinks about it and end up changing your mind.

Have you ever been in a situation where you were quite happy and quite frustrated at once? A situation where you were relieved but pretty badly annoyed?

Let me explain.

You see, I had been searching all over for this gym bag. It was a red, Under Armour gym bag, to be precise.

Aha. This be the brute.

Then, wonders of wonders, I found it! (It was in the last store I checked, too. How’s that for a dadblamery?)

Thus, this professor was extremely overjoyed, having found the bag.

BUT.

And this is a big but.

The bag was wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy way way way way at the top of a shelf, far out of my reach.

So it was a sticky wicket.

Now, there was a fellow about who worked there, but he was far off, leaning on a table, staring this professor’s way.

Yes, he was taunting me.

“You can’t get the bag,” he seemed to be saying.

“That might be,” I seemed to be saying back, “but watch how I end up getting it.”

I’ll be honest right away.

The jumping didn’t work.

Gosh. I hope I didn’t look like that.

Up to this point in my life, I must admit I thought I was a rather good jumper. You know how it is. You fancy you can do something well, you even take pride in thinking that you can, but the fact is you’ve just never really tried.

So now we all know I can’t jump.

DADBLAMEIT. You know what…? Forget I even mentioned that…

After my jumping attempts failed (just because my ankle was rather sore that day) I moved on to a better solution: a hockey stick.

You see, one glance in the fellow’s direction proved that he was still leaning on the table. But there was a smug look on his face after the attempted jumps. (Dadblame that sore ankle, right?)

But once I returned with the hockey stick…

Ah, he stood up then…

…and watched the professor fetch his bag.

Moral: You don’t need to jump when you have a hockey stick.

Important Things

So, yes, it’s Christmas this week.

Like in two days.

Maybe it was nine. I really can’t recall. (Don’t laugh. When you get my age, this sort of thing starts to happen. That’s what I’ve been told, though. How age affects the mind is still a mystery. But it does.)

Now, here’s the thing:

I’ve decided to announce a few things of importance.

First off, the Patriots won the AFC East. Again.

Steelers deflate balls, too.

Second, it’s the season of the Krampus.

This excites me lots and lots.

They say the best way to get the Krampus to pay a visit is to insult his brother, Santa Claus.

This doesn’t work.

I’ve tried.

Thirdly, and lastly…

…well, I did have something, but I forget what it was.

I’m old, remember.

Oh I remember!

Merry Christmas, everyone! Make sure to eat a few cookies for me.

Each.

Apples Are Bad for You…BUT Good for Dentists

Apples are hard to bite into.

This is a fact, see.

And today, ladies and you other things, I bring you a truth:

Apples are a conspiracy theory.

How, you ask?

Simple.

Apples are grown from the earth.

That makes them natural, you say.

Natural is healthy.

Wrong.

Uranium is natural, too.

These bacteria like it, apparently. Why does everything have to contradict me?

Dang it. This cartoon is obviously a fake.

Pay it no mind.

Anyways and a bit…

…where wuth I?

Oh yes.

Apples are part of a conspiracy theory.

A conspiracy theory that revolves around dentists.

Blackheart

You see, Doctors and Dentists got together to fool the public.

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” they say.

It might be true. But an apple a day, keeps the dentist close.

See, Dentists like to make money.

And they make lots of money when teeth get busted.

Teeth get busted on apples.

‘Cause apples are so hard.

But no one would eat apples, mind. (This was millions of years ago, mind. When man had strong teeth. And tiny brain.)

So, Doctors convinced everyone that apples were good for the health. (Maybe a lie, maybe not.)

People started eating and eating and eating apples.

Teeth got weaker over generations.

Dentists cashed in.

That, ladies and gentleman, is the conspiracy theory behind apples.

Eat them not.

The only scary part is this: What did the Doctors get out of the deal?

We’ve yet to find out.

Professorish Theory: Apples are part of a conspiracy designed by Doctors and Dentists to earn more profits.

Check this out: This fellow wants to start lions eating apples next.

After all, the more profit the more profit.

Oh, and…

My new spirit animal:

Mistake-d

So, the professor was in a bookstore.

And I was wearing jeans, a sports coat, and red shoes. (That’s important.)

Also, my eyes were shielded from the blinding book lights, by great sunglasses. #cool

All in all, I was in spy-mode.

Now, the funny thing was this: A chap came half walking, half sprinting towards me. His goal: the restroom. And he was wearing jeans and red shoes, too! (Boogie-wu.)

Amazing. I didn’t dwell on it, though.

See, I was looking about. From book to book.

Picking one up, then throwing it away just as quickly as I had picked it up–if it didn’t suit my fancy, which many didn’t.

I was getting into the process, too, when I was approached by a disgruntled older man.

“What’s the idea?!” he hollered in my face, swinging a book back and forth.

“Excuse me a few hundred times?” How dare he?

“You think slop like this is acceptable?!”

And he threw a book down on the table:

“Ohhhh…” I said.

“Yeah!” he stormed. “Exactly. How dare you! Jane Austen wasn’t respected in her day, and she sure is [bleep] respected now, is she? How dare you!”

I was quite shocked, I must admit.

A male Jane Austen fan? Wonder of wonders!!

“Look here,” I said, “I’m surprised you like JA. But you’ll be pleased to learn this fact: I didn’t write that book.”

And I nodded a few times.

His face grew redder.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“You mean because you read Jane Austen? No need to feel that way.”

“Let me make myself clear–“

“Please,” I interrupted, “’cause you’re sorta cloudy at the minute.”

Glare.

“How dare you carry this book in your store! It’s idiot small business owners, like yourself, who let this kinda thing happen!”

“I’m the owner?”

That caught him for a second. He paused, even.

“The woman at the front said I’d find you back here… You and your horribly, ugly red shoes. That’s what she said.”

I just stared at him; he stared at me, still glowering.

Owner? Wow. I could play with this.

But then, the chap who came sprinting to the restrooms earlier came out of the restroom. I looked at his red shoes, then understood.

“He’s the chap you want,” I said.

And I made my getaway.

Moral: Don’t wear red shoes when the owner of a bookstore is wearing red shoes.

Lesson: Not learned

Oranges are orange; Yellows are…

Okay.

So, there’s this problem, see.

And I can’t understand it for the life of me, double-see.

You must help me out, PF.

Here it is.

I present to you the color orange:

And, here’s an orange:

Further, I present the color yellow:

And that, my fellows, right up there, is a yellow, right? No!

See, it’s a lemon not a yellow.

Where’s the sense in that, I ask?

Where?!

It leaves me bewildered and confused, in truth.

What will aliens think when they get to earth and learn of such things?

Dadblameit.