USA 2 Turkey 1

We were three of 55,407 soccer fans who decided to converge on Lincoln Financial Field in Philly-- known to the locals as The Linc-- too see USA take on Turkey as part of the World Cup "Send-Off" series.

Turkey didn't make it into the World Cup so they were playing for pride and pride was oozing out of their pores. It took us well into the first half before we realized that the chants of "Turk--ee--ya" was just the three-syllable Turkish pronunciation of Turkey or, as they spell it, "Turkiye." Next Thanksgiving, I'm definitely serving turk--ee-ya for dinner instead of turkey.

The Turks must be so tired of Americans making turkey jokes. Whenever the announcer said, "Turkey substitution" it took everything I had not to yell "chicken" or "tofu."



I couldn't figure out why there were a group of Algerians at the game. Perhaps they were cheering on their Muslim brothers. As we were waiting for the elevator, we saw three Muslim men with their prayer mats laid out, trying to determine the direction of Mecca so they could pray. They stopped two USA fans for help. The one man said, "Well, I was in the army, so I was taught to judge direction by the sun."

Yes, the hatred of Muslims in the country is so pervasive that a former US soldier uses his military training to help a couple of Muslim guys find the direction of Mecca at a soccer game. In Bill Maher's world, this soldier would have dangled the shoeless men over the ledge just for fun.

Of course, my husband's GPS determined that the men were actually looking to the Northwest. But by the time he had determined that they were given bad information, they had already begun their prayers. Oh, well.



In the first half, USA played like dog manure. My brother and I were particularly disgusted with the play of #2. Apparently, so were the other American fans, because, when it was revealed at the start of the second half that he would be leaving the game, everybody cheered.

The second half, USA was a different team. Chants of Turk-ee-ah were quickly drowned out by U-S-A.



Prior to the game, my husband was enjoying a cold over-priced beer while my brother chowed down on an Italian sausage sandwich. They both watched in horror as, somehow, my brother wound up spitting part of his sandwich into the partially consumed brewski. Brother said, "Did that just go in there?" (Husband confirmed that it had indeed. A bank shot!) Then they laughed and laughed. Then my brother bought him another over-priced beer.



I've seen a lot of soccer in my life but this was my first international game. Now, I'm determined to go to World Cup in 2014. It's in Brazil. Hubby just asked, "Can we drive to Brazil?" I think he consumed too many over-priced beers.

Nobody's Business But The Turks

In a few hours, we're heading to Lincoln Financial Field in Philly (aka The Linc) to see USA take on Turkey in their last game before the World Cup.

We decided to sit in the Turkish fan section because we thought it would be more interesting. But, now my husband has been singing They Might Be Giant's "Instanbul" since he woke up this morning.

Hawk Country

Today, hubby and I ran the track at Haddon Township High School otherwise known as Hawk Country.


As we passed the grandstand, we saw an actual hawk.


I guess they weren't lying. It really is Hawk Country.

Remind me never to run in Bear Country... or Cougar Country... or Gator Country.

Although, if I did see an actual bear, at least I would already be running.

Spicy Nose

A short film by my friend and fellow comic, Adam Gropman.

My Husband's Toe Has A Hitler Moustache

A few months ago, hubby opened the sofa bed on his toe resulting in a hideous black mark. In a few more months, it'll look like his toe is wearing a bad toupee.

Additionally, he has a burn mark on his left foot from a grease splatter and a matching burn mark on his right foot from boiling water. So, along with the Hitler moustache, he's also been rocking the stigmata look.

It's a good thing he doesn't like to wear mandals.

From RINO To DINO

Arlen Specter gone!

Na na na na
Na na na na
Hey hey hey
Goodbye!

Typo...

...or truth in advertising?

It says, "MLT Cereal Poop Series." I'm guessing it's supposed to say "Pop" series.



I hope it's supposed to say "Pop" series.

Why Did The Rooster Cross The Road?

There were roosters at the lake today. One of them took a fancy to my husband. For a second, I feared he would follow us into our station wagon.

Nobody else at the lake seemed to care that two beautiful roosters were wandering around right near the parking lot. Jeez, there's jaded and then there's jaded.

I'm glad we're the type of people who still get excited when we see roosters at a place where roosters shouldn't be.

You're probably not happy that we're also the type of people who take pictures of said roosters then force them on others who we assume will share our enthusiasm.

But, ain't he purty?!

Supreme Court Slugger

Under the title "Courtroom Nominee Comes To The Plate" The Wall Street Journal ran a photograph of Supreme Court Nominee, Elena Kagan, playing softball.

According to the Politico some folks are accusing the WSJ of implying Kagan is GAY.

A spokeswoman for the Wall Street Journal said today its cover art was not intended as innuendo about Supreme Court nominee Elena Kagan's sexual orientation after the paper's front-page use of an image of Kagan playing softball provoked a mixture of irritation and amusement from gay and lesbian advocates.

"It clearly is an allusion to her being gay. It's just too easy a punch line," said Cathy Renna, a former spokesperson for the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation who is now a consultant. "The question from a journalistic perspective is whether it’s a descriptive representation of who she might be as a judge. Have you ever seen a picture of Clarence Thomas bowling?"

Of course you've never seen a picture of Clarence Thomas bowling because that would prove he's white. Because, as we know, only tacky, dumb, white people bowl. Just like only lesbians play softball.

Here's an old picture of me playing softball. Does this mean I'm gay?

The Cat In The... WTF?

I saw this book at our local church thrift shop. I suppose I could have purchased the book instead of taking a picture but then I would have just wound up donating it back to another thrift shop. Instead, we gave them $1.00 for 65 cents worth of merchandise and said, "Keep the change." Oh yeah, the thrift shop Gods were smiling upon us.

This wretched paperback is "a novelization with color photographs based on the motion picture."

Is it really necessary to write a novelization of a Doctor Seuss movie? You know, I hear the movie is based on an actual book... It's called The Cat In The Hat!

The title of the movie isn't "The Cat In The Hat Based On The Novel Push By Sapphire." It's The Cat In The Hat!



If your pre-teen is too old for Dr. Seuss books but just the right age for crappy Mike Myers movies then do his brain a favor and buy him Fahrenheit 451, Animal Farm or National Velvet. Anything, anything but this piece of trash.

What's next? The Novelization With Color Pictures Of Harry Potter And the Sorcerer's Stone Based On The Motion Picture?

Pondiferous

This is the lake where I run every day and by "run" I mean plod and by "every day"" I mean three times per week.

It's a pretty little spot about a 15 minute walk from our humble abode but I usually drive because I'm lazy. The course around the water is 9/10 of a mile but I lie and tell myself it's a one mile loop. What's the sense of being lazy if you're not also going to be delusional?



The lake is home to ducks, turtles, muskrats and tattooed men who like to fish.

A few weeks ago, my husband and I were taking special non-workout trips to the lake just to see the male ducks fight during mating season. It was like watching "Jersey Shore" with feathers.

More than once I screamed, "Dude, that was awesome!" as one male grabbed the neck of another male who was trying to steal his girl.



Of course, now that the baby ducks have arrived, the fight has been taken right out of the baby dads. But some of the babies don't look at all like their fathers. I think mom has some 'splainin' to do.



One of the moms is taking care of 15 babies which seems like a high number even for a duck. I can't decide if I want to call her Michelle Duckar or Ducky Duggar. Other possibilities are Kate Gooselin or Octoduck. Yes, these are corny but ducks love corn.



A lung infection kept me out of my running shoes today so I decided just to walk around a bit and try out the camera on my new phone. Next time I'll try to get some good shots of the turtles. Who doesn't love turtles?!

The Doofus Humans

Last night, my brother and sister-in-law's cat, Pele (named for the soccer player not the Hawaiian goddess of fire) fell off a balcony. A few hours ago, Pele sent me an email explaining what happened.

Hello:

You know me as Pele, the handsome gray feline that lives with two humans, Gasa and Jim. I want to tell you about my adventure on the evening of 4 May.

Much like any other nice day, when the female human comes home she opens the door to the balcony so that my PITA brother (Banks, who is gray and white) and I can take in a little fresh air and watch the sparrows build nests in the building air vents. Everything was routine. We came in to eat dinner and hang out with the humans. Except, when it got dark the two doofus humans forgot that the screen door to the balcony wasn't closed.

Instead of my usual practice of heading to the bedroom to lounge on the bed for my evening nap, I snuck out onto the balcony. Lord knows what possessed me...a desire to catch whatever was flitting about in the night air, a curiosity about what was on the other side of the fence (who knew I'd fit through the slats), a scientific experiment about a cat's righting ability during a fall, a sense of adventure...but I flew through the night air without benefit of a parachute. There I went, five stories down. Lucky for me and my pinpoint precision, I landed on a bush and not the concrete privacy panels that are located in front of the first floor apartments.

Here's the real rub, the doofus humans didn't even realize I was gone. Finally, at about 9:30 at night, wondering where I was, having checked in cabinets and closets, under the bed and on dining room chairs and out in the hallway, they decided to search the area below. The male human spotted me, the female human pulled me out from under the bush. Sure glad it was nice weather as I was out there a while.

The humans carried me upstairs. I decided to be stoic, and besides I was starving, so I had a snack of crunchies and a drink of water. I didn't want to show them my limp, but it was hard to hide. Next a series of calls to find the closest emergency vet. Have I told you how much I hate the cat carrier and a ride in the car. Thank goodness it was only a mile to the vet's ER. Ugh, this place had dogs waiting in the ER. So they checked me out. Probing and xraying...I was exhausted. So much so that I was falling asleep in the carrier. Who ever thought THAT could happen?

I was free and clear of contusions and seem to have no broken bones. There is one the vet was having the surgeons look at this AM but she thought it wasn't new. (I kept trying to tell her it is an old sports injury.) My jaw is in tact so I can eat if I can figure out how to bend down to the bowl with this goofy purple wrap on. I almost declawed myself on one claw on my right paw and the jury is still out on whether it has to come out.

The vet, who just arrived in town from Manhattan and is accustomed to seeing animals that have fallen, said that falls below seven to nine stories usually don't end well because we don't have enough time to right ourselves. So I count my self as extraordinarily skilled, or lucky, and figure I used up one of my lives.



Back to the goofy purple wrap on my right paw. I keep shaking but it won't come off. Now I'm licking around the edges. The vet wanted me to use newspaper for a litter box for a while. Forget IT!! I'm on meds for a while too. A pain killer and some antibiotics. Too bad the pain killer was only prescribed for 24 hours. The vet said it might make me sleep more than usual, but that's hard to believe since I sleep so much anyway. My brother, the gray and white puss, keeps trying to groom me. Ick! And the humans feel pretty damn bad. The worst part is that we aren't allowed on the balcony anymore.

So I'm writing to tell you I should come through this and would appreciate accolades for landing well. Photos enclosed to garner appropriate sympathy.

Pele

I still can't figure out how he managed to type with only one good paw.

"The Teen Went Down"

Philadelphians are known for being the sports fans who threw snowballs at Santa Clause. We live in a city where a criminal court was set-up in the basement of Vets Stadium during Eagles' games. Why is anybody surprised that one of our men in blue would use a taser on a teen?



According to ESPN, the tased teen called his father prior to the incident to see if it was a good idea to run on to the field. The father said no. The kid did it anyway.

I think one of the Ten Commandments is "Honor Thy Mother And Father Or Be Tased By A Fat Cop At Citizens Bank Park."

I Have "Good Hair"

Less than 24 hours after posting on both Facebook and Twitter "I just watched Chris Rock's documentary "Good Hair." I will never ever EVER complain about my white girl hair ever EVER again" I am regretting my declaration.

I've spent the last 40 years bitching about my hair. I can't change overnight just because I watched some movie. It's not like "Good Hair" was directed by Al Gore.



At least my current hair dilemma can be solved with a $15 haircut and a $5 bottle of dye. African-American females spend thousands on weaves or put chemicals on their hair which can melt a can of soda.

I'm surprised you don't see more black women wearing hats. If I had to do to my hair what they have to do to their hair, I would cover my head everyday, not just at church on Sundays. Heck, I'd wear a pith helmet to the supermarket before I'd sit in a chair for six hours having some chick's hair from India sewn into my skull.

It makes you wonder why they put themselves through such hell.

When I was a kid in the '70's, Afros were popular for both men and women. What happened? How did the natural look go from being a symbol of black pride to an embarrassing feature a large portion of the black population will go to great lengths (literally and figuratively) to cover-up?

Is Leo Sayers to blame?



Perhaps Al Sharpton is right. It is the white man's fault.

Offstage Nonsense

"Do you hear drums?" I asked my husband from a napping haze. "No," he said sleepily while rolling over. A few second later he changed his answer to yes followed by a groan. Then he added, "Why would somebody be playing drums in a hotel room?"

About 20 minutes later, the bugle player in the room next door made that question seem like a stupid one.

If a hotel is going to host a drum and bugle convention they better hire an extra person to field all the complaint calls. Or they should just let the guests who aren't planning to drum or bugle stay for free.

A Great Pyrenees dog show was also taking place at the hotel so I was sort of surprised we didn't hear more howling. Whenever I played trumpet as a kid, my dog would wail like I was driving a firetruck around the living room.

Apparently, Great Pyrenees are either extremely laid back or completely deaf.



These freakishly large white dogs are incredibly beautiful animals but the idea of taking care of them makes me ill. You'd probably need a Hefty cinch sack just to pick up their poop. I will never care for an animal whose feces is bigger than mine. The same goes for children... which works out well since most children are bigger than my feces.

I need a much smaller dog with a reasonable digestive system. For many years, my fantasy dog has been a Corgie because they look like they were put together from parts of other dogs. There is simply no way those ears and those legs should be on the same creature.



But then we ran into a woman in the hallway who was walking two Swedish Vallhunds. They're like Corgies after the mad scientist perfected his experiment.



The fact that people refer to them as the Little Cattle Dog of the Vikings only makes them more appealing. You know I would be using that phrase constantly. "Would some little cattle dog of the vikings like to go for a w-a-l-k?"