Tuesday, June 25, 2013


Before I start telling you about the latest of my thoughts that have been making my imagination run amok, I want you to understand that I'm not judging or making fun of anyone.  Just one of those things that kind of stuck in my head and won't go away until I write it down.  In other words, just one of those things that makes you go "Hmmmm."   Well, me anyway.

While standing in the checkout line at a large discount retailer, I did what I always do.  I was people-watching.  I'm not exactly nosy; I just like to watch people do what they do when they don't think anyone is watching.  Usually there is lots of scratching, picking, and 'rearranging' going on, but this day was a little slow on the observational front.  So I turned my attention to the customer in front of me.  She was probably in her late 30s or early 40s, well-dressed, and hair impeccably coiffed (that's an uptown word if I ever heard one), so in all honesty, not exceptionally interesting as far as people-watching goes.  Well, not until I leaned over to get a pack of gum...that's when I saw them.  The toebrows, that is.  Now, I expect guys to have hairy, maybe weird-looking feet, but the toebrows seemed a little out of character for this lady.

Hmmmm.  Of course my imagination ran with this like Michael Jackson with his hair on fire.  In my mind, I could just see the toebrows waving in the breeze.  No, better yet, braided...or for a Caribbean flavor...dreadlocks.  Ya mon!  Then thoughts of Groucho Marx and little glasses on toes filled my head, and I had to look at something, anything else as I attempted in vain to avoid the giggles, turning red-faced and teary-eyed.

Now, you have to understand something.  I'm not laughing at anyone; everyone is entitled to wear their toe hair as they please.  I'm simply laughing at the absurdities one's imagination presents when allowed to roam around untethered occasionally.  Just sayin...maybe a little mousse or gel to give your toebrows a little style.  Maybe little tiny barrettes or bows or hair color or maybe even toe hair perms.  This could open up a whole new aspect of cosmetology...toebrow stylists.

Bottom line...whatever it is that you've got going on (or don't have), flaunt it!  Fly that flag high!  That goes for toebrows too.   Just sayin...

Saturday, June 15, 2013

How to Get From Here to There

I've been thinking.  Get that look off your face...this won't require a helmet or flak jacket.  At least I don't think so.  So, here's the thing.  I was headed to the airport the other day, so I dug out my GPS (just to make sure I didn't get lost), punched in the address, and took off.  A pleasant, female voice with a British accent instructed me to turn "left" here, then "right" there, and I managed to make it to my destination without any difficulty or delay.  This is the part where I started to think.  It seemed a little "wrong" somehow that this nice British lady was advising me on travel in Arkansas...I somehow doubt that that perfectly proper English accent has ever visited the Arkansas countryside, let alone driven a big, honkin' SUV on the right side of the road while spitting sunflower seed hulls out of the window.  Just saying.

So, on the way home I tested out the other voices available on the menu, immediately discarding the possibility of using the male voices...I mean, after all, what woman really wants another man telling her how to drive?  Yeah, that's what I thought too. The only remaining option was a female voice with an American accent that was so monotonous that she could probably put me to sleep in less time that it took to switch back to the British lady. 

So, I thought a little more.  What did I really want from my GPS?  All things considered, its just a little machine that you lick and stick on the windshield, and off you go, right?  Right.  But again, that little wiggly worm of a thought kept bugging me...and then it hit me.  What I really want is someone who sounds like me, talks like me, thinks like me to tell me how to get from here to there or anywhere in between.  Think about it.  You turn on your GPS, enter the address, hit "Go," and a voice akin to that of Jeff Foxworthy or maybe Trace Adkins or Blake Shelton fills the vehicle with directional advice, Southern-style. 

Think about it...not only that sweet Southern accent that is music to my ears, but also directions given the way we Southerners give 'em.  In case you were born north of the Mason-Dixon line and don't have any idea whatsoever as to what I'm talking about, let me explain.  We don't say, "Go five miles east on Hwy. 22, then turn left on Hwy. 109; drive 2.7 miles, and your destination will be on the right."  That's just not the way we talk. 

So, my SoCo (Southern Comfort-nice name, don't you think?) GPS smooth country voice would give those same directions like this:  "Well now, y'all head on down the highway towards the east like you goin' to the Co-op, but don't turn there.  Go on past a ways until ya see the Outpost...if ya hungry, stop in there and git ya self a burger and visit awhile; the food's some kind of good, and the help is friendly.  If ya not hungry, turn left on the road just before ya git to the Outpost.  Head on out there a ways; go on past the big church on the right; keep on goin' and y'all gonna go over a couple of big hills.  After that, the road is pretty flat but purty curvy, so watch for those big ole 18-wheelers.  Keep goin' 'til ya pass the chicken houses on the right, then look for the big ole oak tree on the right...turn right on the second road past the oak tree, and you'll be there!"

I admit that some of you people who are always in a hurry might go a little crazy listening to this type of directional advice and develop a sudden case of road rage or perhaps a strong desire to hurl your SoCo GPS out the window.  However, for those of us who have been listening since birth to directions be given this way, we know exactly what that GPS voice is telling us to do because we now have a mental image of what this trip looks like. 

Furthermore, I assert that the SoCo GPS would be a good choice for women.  Why is that, you ask.  Well, let me tell you, even though I may offend some of you.  I have observed the fact that women overall have difficulty judging distance.  Now don't get all huffy and write nasty comments to me.  Think about's really not any woman's fault.  After all, as most of you are probably aware, men have been telling women since the beginning of time that this "--------------------------------" is six inches.  So telling us to turn right in 100 feet is rather meaningless, especially if there are multiple places in close approximation in which to turn.  See my point?

The SoCo GPS will probably be carried in stock by the Co-op or farm supply stores.  I can even see myself camping out early on Black Friday in front of the Co-op or the local farm supply store to get one of those babies for myself. to get me one of these!  I'm thinking that I would probably be the coolest redneck around, being told how to get anywhere by say, Toby Keith.

I definitely see a market for this innovative and greatly needed product, even if some folks might place the SoCo GPS in the same category as Billy the Singing Bass.  Not that I would ever admit to having one of those.

Saturday, June 1, 2013

Running for What?

I wonder a lot about joggers when I encounter them as I'm driving down the road in my comfortable vehicle.  Why do they do it?  I mean, have you ever looked at the face of someone jogging down the road?  They look like they're in pain.  Not mere discomfort, mind you, but excruciating, puke your guts out, "please kill me now" pain.  Why do anything that makes you look like that?   "Oh, I do it for the exercise," they say.  "Wanna stay healthy,"  they say.  "Gotta stay in shape," they say.  Uh-huh.  Ok...lets get this straight.  So, to stay healthy you jog next to a 6-lane highway, sucking in exhaust fumes that make you hack like a 2-pack-a-day smoker.  Fumes that contain carbon monoxide which prevents oxygen molecules from hopping on the hemoglobin receptors of your red blood cells, decreasing the amount of oxygen transported to your vital organs, like say, your brain. Wait...I think I can actually hear the screams of tiny dying brain cells. 

And then there is the game of full-body trauma roulette.  You know, the kind that occurs when you get run over at 45+ miles per hour because the driver is texting and decided in the deep, dark recesses of his mind that his commute might go smoother if he drove on the sidewalk.  Thump, thump.  Tire tracks & road rash, for a start. I understand tattoos and dermabrasion are popular procedures, but I highly suggest getting them done in a different location.

Another thing...where are they running to?  At least I can understand cross-country runners.  They are nowhere, but heading to somewhere.  Or maybe they're just running from Bigfoot or mountain lions or bears or whatever.  Joggers...they just run...kinda in a circle.  Oh, stay healthy or in shape.  Yeah...whatever.

Yup, sounds like healthy to me.  Think I'll take jogging up, oh, I don't know, maybe, probably...never.  But put Sasquatch or lions or tigers or bears (oh, my!) into the equation, and I'll be happy to take up running immediately and show you how its done.  That is, if you can catch me!