History of the World-Hail Caesar!

 NOTE:  I'll continue to post this disclaimer, even though it's been like forever since I posted anything pertaining to the history of the world.  Still...this, and the ones which preceded it, are merely what I can remember from Our Lady of Barnum Avenue and history class at Stratford High School.  I'll research some specifics, mostly dates and the most obscure of names (not for this one, though.  Because screw it), and I'll try to place historical events in their proper historical context.  Meaning, I won't have the Aztecs land on the moon.  Or...did they?  Trust me, some of this is true; however, don't use any of this nonsense to prepare for the History Advanced Placement Examination.  If you do, the only college you'll get into is Klown Kollege and you'll probably be confused for Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Joe Biden, or Sheila Jackson Lee.  Basically, I'm going without a net.  So, without further adieu (French word)... 

Hail Caesar!

    Sometime in the first century B.C., Julius Caesar had thrown his hat and olive wreath in the ring (using the slogan MRGA, "Make Rome Great Again") as undisputed leader of the Roman Republic.

NOTE:  As I believe I've mentioned before, I will continue to use the "B.C./A.D." convention instead of that goofy-ass, politically-correct "B.C.E./C.E." one.  Because...it...means...the...same...damn...thing.  Fight me.

    I don't know the exact year, mind you, but guarantee it was before 44 B.C., the year when Ole Julius was ventilated by a group of Roman Senators who were pretty hacked off that he had acted as a dictator.

"Uh, oh."

    Of course, what they didn't know was that their action would ultimately lead to Caesar's adopted nephew, Roddy McDowall Octavian, declaring himself "Princeps" which basically means "emperor."

"Yeah, way to go, Brutus.  Dumbass."

    Anyway, once Julius crossed over the Rubicon River with his legions, a state of civil war existed in the Republic.

Wrong Republic

    So, the esteemed fathers of the Roman Senate called the most famous general in all the land to stop the troublemaker, Pompey the Great (who was actually known as "Pompey the Limp" by Mrs. Pompey).

"Trust me, this likeness doesn't do me justice.  I look positively stoned."

     Caesar and Pompey fought like cats and dogs as Rome erupted into civil war.  After the fiercely fought battle of...Pharsalus...in Greece? (remember, I'm not looking anything up), Pompey fled to Egypt where he hoped to find friends in his struggles against his rival.  Well, that, and take a tour of the pyramids, which were wicked old even then.

    You know, like Keith Richards.

    Well, when Pompey walked ashore, he was promptly beheaded by Egyptians who mistakenly thought he was an American.  They also hoped to curry favor with the presumptive new leader of Rome.

"Here you are, Dominus, the head of your rival, Pompey."
"Hey, Lou, he doesn't look too happy."
"Maybe if I close my eyes, he'll go away."

    Observation:  Backstabbing and beheadings had been going on in that region of the world for thousands of years, apparently.

    Well, wouldn't you know it, instead of high-fiving, back slaps, and passing out "All-You-Can-Boink" tickets to the next Roman orgy, Caesar executed every Egyptian responsible for murdering Pompey.

    As he explained it, (and I paraphrase), "What do you think gives you creatures the right to execute a Roman citizen?  Only another Roman can do that."

    Okay, this is the part where I apply the lessons of history to today...wouldn't it be something if an American president said the same thing to someone who murders an American citizen?

    After all was said and done, Caesar, having won the war, returned to Rome where he...well you know what happened.

    And it wasn't inventing Caesar Salad, that's for sure.

Public Service Announcement

    

"I want what I want and I want it now!"

    As some of you know, I work part-time at an Ace Hardware near my home (which goes without saying-it would be kinda silly to work a part-time job at an Ace Hardware in another state).

    NOTE:  Those of you on Blogger probably don’t know this.  I’m talking to you lot on Facebook, who may or not even read this.  Most do not.

    Anyway….

    We are also a U-Haul contract station.  Meaning, we rent trucks to the general public.  We don’t offer trailers because that would pretty much be a pain in the neck.  Our inventory is relatively limited and is not nearly as extensive as you’d find at an actual U-Haul location.  We’re just a hardware store, after all.

    Last Saturday, a gentleman came in expecting to rent a ten-foot truck.  Even though it didn’t have a ramp, he still wanted it because it is cheaper to rent than bigger vehicles (makes sense).  Well, since the two 10-footers we had were already spoken for, a reservation was made in his name for a fifteen-foot one the day prior.

    The understanding (according to him) was that, if one of the people with the smaller vehicles cancelled, he would be bumped down accordingly.  He just wanted to make sure he had a vehicle (it being Saturday, the trucks go like hotcakes.  If hotcakes had four wheels and ran on gas).

    The 15-footer accomplished that.

    Well, don’t you know, he was very aggravated when I told him no ten-foot truck was open for rental.  He proceeded to bitch, moan, and whine about how he was promised a vehicle (never mind he had one in his name already.  A slightly bigger one, mind you, but a vehicle all the same).

    Incidentally, no, he was NOT promised.  I informed him that we do not do Indian deals like that.

"Well, that's offensive."

    Whoa, whoa, whoa!  What makes you think I meant American Indian?

"Well, that's racist, too!"

    While I looked to see what I could do to help him, he refused to shut the eff up.  He went on and on about how poor his experience was and how we would register his complaint with “Big U-Haul.”  Every time I told him there was nothing available, he told me he was promised the smaller truck if it was available (according to my screen, it was not).

    We went round and round on this.

    Exasperated, I finally told him, “How many times do you need me to tell you the same thing, sir?”

    Once again, he whined how dissatisfied he was and how, when he was in management, this would never have happened.

    When I gently told him this was customer service, he yapped that he was in customer service.

    I began to answer him with, “Well, then…” but I stopped because I would have told him, “you would know we hate people like you.”

    I’m glad I didn’t give in, because that wouldn’t have helped the situation.

    Bottom line, after what seemed like endless grousing, he took his key and stormed out to the parking lot.

    Another customer I didn’t give a shit about.

    Okay, where does the “public service announcement” come in, you may be asking?

    Well, if the guy wasn’t being such an entitled douche, I would have given him the larger, fifteen-foot vehicle for the price of the ten-foot one.

    I’m all for expressing your displeasure when things aren’t going your way.  But, for God’s sake, do it once, shut up, and let me see if I can help you.  Quite often, I can.

    Don't take it out on the poor schmuck behind the counter.

    However, if you cause me angina, I will look at you and say, “There’s nothing I can do.”

    Remember this the next time you don’t get an expected result.

    Who knows?  You may be offered a good deal.

    Or get a fifteen-foot truck for the price of a ten.

   

Chocolate Bunny Heads

Error:  Did a little research (it hurt)...apparently, Orthodox Easter isn't until May 5th.  Oops.  Something to do with the moon.  And the Julian Calendar.  Which I thought told me when to serve french fries.  Silly me.  Those are julienne fries.  So, the "Easter candy on sale joke" really wouldn't apply.  My bad.  Carry on.

"So, next time, do a little research, A-Hole.  But, I will be buying me some Cadbury eggs tomorrow and sticking them in the freezer for a few weeks.  Thanks for the suggestion."

    Even though the countdown to Easter commences following Ash Wednesday, it really begins when chocolate Cupids are exchanged for chocolate rabbits.

    The most sacred of Christian holidays, it's a mystery how it came to be associated with bunnies, ducks, and chicks.  I was always amazed at how happy those little animals seemed, considering that giving them to my brothers and I was tantamount to a barnyard death sentence.

"Okay, so how is it that we're associated with Easter eggs?"
"Don't you remember that one night we all got blasted and snuck into Farmer McGregor's chicken coop?"
"Ohhhhhhhhh....."

     Equally mystifying is trying to figure out exactly when Easter falls, besides on a Sunday.  Thanksgiving is easy, Christmas is simple, Columbus Day is Canadian Thanksgiving, and everyone knows New Years Eve is, well, the night before New Years Day.  But Easter...?  Well, it ain’t as simple as that.

    Based on the last full moon during leap year when the vernal equinox is on a Wednesday and the moon is in its summer house and Jupiter aligns with Mars, I always knew exactly when Easter was: either March or April.

"Come on, now, someone's being lazy." 
"Yeah, didn't you use that 'Jupiter aligns with Mars'
joke once already?"

    Of course, this just applies to Christians other than the Eastern Orthodox, Russian Orthodox, or Romanian Orthodox Episcopate (whatever they are).  These know-it-alls use the Julian Calendar so, by their reckoning, Easter is a week later.  I think. Meh.  They're just showoffs with funny hats anyway.

"Plus, all the Easter candy is on clearance. 
Didn't think about that, did you, funny man?"

    In any event, it's a glorious time of year, which started off with the traditional coloring of the Easter Eggs.

    Beginning with stern admonitions from my father to make sure we didn’t get dye all over the $20 table he bought at Railroad Salvage, our dipping of hen fruit in colored vinegar water rituals started out serenely enough.  Until they degenerated into sloppy free-for-alls where we got more dye on each other than on the hard-boiled eggs.

Because nothing says "Easter" quite like lukewarm water, vinegar, and Rit.  Amen.

    Satisfied with our work (and out of dye), we then proceeded to seed our garishly colored prizes throughout the house in preparation for a family hunt the next day.  Nothing was off-limits as we deposited eggs in the most obscure places, all the while listening to our father proclaim that he would make the finest egg salad in all the land.

    Unfortunately, nobody kept track of how many eggs were hidden or where they were laid.  This resulted in an incomplete tally, but we didn’t mind.  We had loads of other goodies with which to stuff ourselves.

"Okay, that should do it.  How many we got?  24, 23?  Whatever.  By the way, I also make killer deviled eggs."

    

    No worries.  Until the dog found an especially pungent bearded egg behind the stereo on Labor Day.   

    Colorful eggs scattered throughout our home, our excitement reached a fever pitch as we knew that, come the dawn, we’d tumble down the stairs to see what the Easter Bunny had brought.  A sort of discount reenactment of the Christmas frenzy, Easter morn was a candy gorge-fest which propelled us into a sugar buzz not seen since December 25th.

"Oh, yeah?  Well, let's see you schlepp your freak rabbit ass all over the world dropping presents to millions of kids  
Even the Muslim ones!!

    

    Our baskets overflowed with all manner of sweets.  Sure, there were the proverbial candy Easter eggs and jelly beans, but my favorite had to be the chocolate bunnies.

We would also accept, "Chocolate Footballs" at Christmas.

    What kid doesn’t delight in first lopping off the hapless candy rabbit’s ears-“Look, Mom, a squirrel!”?  This confectionary mutilation was then joyfully followed by the rabbit’s ritual decapitation, leaving only a headless lump.  Indeed, what a sad end for a creature whose only crime was being in CVS only a few days before.

"You sadistic bastard!"

    I remember being disappointed that my bunnies were hollow.  I would have much preferred they’d be solid, although I probably would have broken my teeth gnawing on a fifteen pound hunk of chocolate.

On the other hand, eating a solid hunk of chocolate
probably wouldn't have been a good idea.

    Licking our lips as we finished savaging our Brer Rabbits or Lucky Ducks, we then turned our attention to the little chocolate-covered rabbit/duck/chick marshmallows and the yellow sugar balls known as Peeps.

    As we sadly hit the bottom of our baskets, we knew exactly what to do with the black licorice jelly beans and candy-coated almonds:  fling them at our little brother.

Excuse me, jelly beans of color.
Incidentally, what kind of freak bird lays these?

    Our mouths ringed in melted chocolate, our teeth encrusted with Peeps detritus, and our vision blurred, we blearily glanced at the clock above the television.  Wow, not even eight o’clock.

    Or, in other words, as our mother cheerfully announced from the kitchen, “Okay, kids, breakfast!”

    Yippee!  I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs!

    After the obligatory hour at Church (because that's really the point), we headed back home to finish off any candy we had so carelessly missed earlier that morning.

    Mom, meanwhile, began intense preparations for the Easter “feast.”

    For some reason, ham was always the meat of choice to celebrate Easter.  Unlike the pterodactyl-sized turkey we devoured at Christmas, it seemed appropriate to give equa   Our mouths ringed in melted chocolate, our teeth encrusted with Peeps detritus, and our vision blurred, we blearily glanced at the clock above the television.  Wow, not even eight o’clock.

    Or, in other words, as our mother cheerfully announced from the kitchen, “Okay, kids, breakfast!”

    Yippee!  I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs!

    After the obligatory hour at Church (because that's really the point), we headed back home to finish off any candy we had so carelessly missed earlier that morning. l time to eating another barnyard animal.

    I thought it had more to do with the fact that my mother didn’t have to defrost a ham for three days, pull its gizzards out, stuff any available cavity she found with Wonder Bread, and cooking it before the sun came up.

Plus, I think ham was a perfect "FU!" to
the Finegolds down the street.

    Eventually, Easter Sunday drew to a close.  As we sat transfixed by the litter of candy corpses and the sight of Pharaoh drowning in the Red Sea on TV, a thought struck us like a lightning bolt from the blue:

    No more chocolate bunnies for another year.     

    Whew.  Thank goodness for Halloween.

 

"Hey, look on the bright side.  In a couple days, you can have a ham sandwich."

    Okay, I may have gone a bit too far.

"That you did, boyo.  That you did."

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today's Bit o' Blasphemy

"Separate checks?"
"Seriously?  Look, Matthew, I know you're a tax collector,
but do you have to squeeze every shekel until it screams?"

Happy Presidents Day!

 WARNING: The following contains some truths, half-truths, and outlandish points of conjecture.  Students are therefore urged to not quote any of the below for scholarly research.  Unless you do not live in the United States.  Then, who cares?  Like anyone is gonna know the difference.

This is also kinda long.

    Until fairly recently, there was no such thing as “Presidents” Day.  Rather, we celebrated “Lincoln’s Birthday” on February 12th and “Washington’s Birthday” on February 22nd.  What’s more, these days were one shot deals, instead of the three day weekends we now observe.

    NOTE:  I just checked..."fairly recently" goes back to the 70s.  Geez-a-lou.

 

    I remember feeling gypped whenever they fell on the weekend.  So, we were all gladdened when the feds decided to ignore history and insisted that George and Abe were born on Mondays.  Screw ‘em, I guess they figured.  They’re dead anyway.

"What!?  Son of a...!"

    Like I said, though, we now have Presidents Day instead of two separate holidays.  Created to make room for the Martin Luther King, Jr. Birthday holiday (no sense giving mailmen too many days off), Presidents Day was meant to commemorate both our 1st and our 16th presidents.  And sales on cars, sheets, and living room furniture.

    So as not to offend either the Washington or Lincoln camps (boy, don’t get those two together in the same room!), Presidents Day was set in the middle of their birthdays.  Or the third Monday in February.  Or whichever made for the better three-day weekend.

"So, now I gotta share my holiday with that 'Father of Our Country' effin' showoff?  That sucks, dude."

    Like Thanksgiving, this made it pretty easy to plan for, as a quick inspection of a calendar would quickly identify when it was.  This is in stark contrast to Easter.  Besides knowing that it’s on a Sunday, I have no idea from year to year when it will happen.  Something to do with the lunar cycle and first day of spring.  During leap year.  When the moon is in its seventh house.  And the Pope consults his Magic 8-Ball.

 

"Or when Jupiter aligns with Mars."

  Oh.  That's pretty simple then.

    As time wore on, Presidents Day transformed into a day to celebrate all of our nation’s chief executives.

    As Presidents Day caught on, my family tried to come up with a dignified way to recognize the men who guided our nation’s ship of state.

    Even the sucky ones.

"I feel attacked."

    I have to admit, it was pretty difficult  getting all jazzed up for a holiday sandwiched between the saccharine-sweet Valentines and the inebriated bacchanalian excesses of St. Patrick’s Day.

"Kiss me, I'm Irish.  And a little nauseous."

       We finally decided on a “Dress as Your Favorite President Day.”  That way, we could  honor the leaders of our country.  And, even though my powdered wig and breeches drew a lot of stares at Home Depot, I felt it was the noble thing to do. 

    To avoid possible litigation, we then decided to pick a president who was not so well-known.  I mean, how likely would it be that a descendant of Martin Van Buren would call us before Judge Judy for saying their great-great-great-great-grandfather’s head looked like a beachball with feathers?  Not terribly likely.

    It really did, though.

"Not gonna lie, more than a little hurtful."

    To be sure, there are plenty of obscure stiffs from which to choose, guys who could be genuine stumpers in Trivial Pursuit.  In fact, were it not for their bosses catching cold at inauguration, having one heck of a tummyache, being assassinated, dropping dead from a stroke, or resigning, we probably would never have heard of Tyler, Fillmore, Andrew Johnson, Coolidge, or Ford.

    Bad enough we had Jimmy Carter.

    New for 2024!  Joe Biden!

"Total fake news hatchet job because I for one merit the honor of being designated the worst president in American history, if not the most orange, because I can guarantee you that Sleepy Joe wouldn't even know what we're talking about here or even be awake to hear the nomination, that I can promise!"

"And, by 'worst,' I mean 'best!"

    

"Is it time for Dr. Jill to tuck me in?"

    Hoping to stand out with my unknown president, I chose a man who was legendary in the Republican Party.  A man who put the needs of his fellow citizens before his own.  A man whose hard work paid off handsomely.  A man who had the fortune of being Vice-President when James Garfield was assassinated in 1881:  Chester Alan Arthur, 21st President of the United States.

    Known primarily for his facial hair and uncanny ability to remain innocuous, Arthur had the fortune of being Chief Executive during the Gunfight at the OK Corral when Kurt Russell, starring as Wyatt Earp, defeated the Clanton gang with the help of his brothers, Doc Holliday, and a killer moustache.

"Suck on this facial hair, Martin! 
Oh, wait.  Let me rephrase that."

     Arthur became president the year Alexander Graham Bell perfected the first metal detector.  This was a step up for the beleaguered Bell who previously invented the machine used to try to locate the bullet lodged in Garfield’s (the president, not the cat) body.

"Yes, hi.  I'd like to speak with you about your car warranty."

    President Arthur was especially opposed to the Spoils System.  This was even after he was informed by his cabinet that it had nothing to do with milk being left out overnight.

    A champion of Civil Service reform, because he wanted to avoid “another Civil War” at all costs, Arthur is regarded as the “Father of the Civil Service and the Union-Mandated Ten Minute Coffee Break.”

    Not content with remaining somnambulant on the domestic front, he furthered his nation’s outreach when the United States established formal diplomatic relations with Korea (thus discovering Ping Pong), organized the Alaskan territory (it was a mess), and continued the process by which land was stolen from Native-Americans and millions of buffalo were slaughtered by gangs of drunks celebrating St. Patricks Day.

"That's racist, boyo."

    Shockingly, he was denied nomination of his party for the presidential election of 1884.  Evidently, party bigwigs weren’t terribly impressed with neither his record nor his campaign slogan of “At Least I’m Not Millard Fillmore.”

    Instead, they gave the nomination to someone whose name escapes me, but, honestly, who cares?  Whoever he was, he was defeated by the Democrat candidate for the presidency.

    Yes, Grover Cleveland became the 22nd President of the United States primarily on the strength of HIS slogan:  “I May Be Fat as a House, But I Ain’t Chester Arthur.”

    Hmm, maybe next year I’ll choose Benjamin Harrison.

 

         

Ay, There's the Rub

      

    My wife groaned in pain next to me.
    

    When I asked what was wrong, she said that she must have slept 

wrong the previous night.  Her neck felt as if a thousand pitchforks 

held by a thousand little demons were jamming into it.  Would I 

massage it a little with some Icy-Hot?

    Since we had only been married a week, I, of course, was only too

happy to oblige.  Perhaps, after the passage of a few years, I would 

feign sleep and ignore her request through faux snores.  But, today?  

I would be a model groom.

    Considering I had just woken up myself, I rolled out of bed and 

stumbled into the bathroom adjacent to our bed.  I didn’t bother 

putting on my glasses.  I figured the task at hand didn’t call for long-

distance, or any other kind of, vision.

    I grabbed the small white tube from underneath the sink and 

jumped onto the bed.  She had already sat up, her pajama top pulled 

up.  I had easy access to neck and shoulders.

    Our cat perched on the dresser, intensely curious as to all the 

hubbub about to commence.

    “Okay,” I cautioned as I squirted a small dollop between her 

shoulder blades, “this will be a little chilly at first.  But, then it’ll 

warm up quick enough.”

    As I spread the cream around her shoulders and up her neck, I 

noticed that it didn’t feel right.  It was a little stickier than I thought 

it should be.  It was white, of course, but it didn’t have the 

consistency you’d expect a warming balm to have.

    The cat, even more curious, poked her nose closer to get a better 

look.  All of a sudden, she began to sneeze.  Well, that was odd, I 

thought.  I never heard the cat do that before.

    The ointment also didn’t give off that “Icy-Hot” kind of smell.  In 

fact, it had a minty aroma.  I leaned in and took a small whiff.  Yep, 

peppermint.

    Well, that was as odd as the cat’s sneezing fits.

    Without turning, my wife asked, “Shouldn’t it be getting a little 

warmer?”

    I agreed and she said, “What’s the expiration date on the tube?”

    Since I had bought it only a month ago, I seriously doubted 

that would be the case.  Something else had to be going on wit…

then I looked at the tube laying on the bedsheet.

    

    It said “Sensodyne.”

    As I washed the toothpaste from her shoulders, I told her to look 

on the bright side.

    Laughing, but not annoyed (remember, we were still newlyweds), 

she asked, “What would that be?”

    "Well, if I had grabbed the tube of Preparation H, your neck 

would have ended up the size of a #2 pencil.”