humor · life

happy father’s day, mom

Technically, I had a father. Sperm donor is more accurate, but that term raises questions and requires explaining, so father it is.

My parents, you see, divorced when I was 13 and I barely noticed. My dad hadn’t figured too prominently in my day-to-day because he had other priorities. Important things like golf, work, business travel, women. The only memorable role he played was in telling me my grandfather had died. I still haven’t forgiven him. It wasn’t my dad’s fault, he didn’t kill him or anything, but the news opened a hole that refuses to close.

I was at the pool, busy surviving a wicked game of Sharks and Minnows, when I was paged to the phone. Well, the timing stunk, but I hauled myself out of the water, anyway, and stomped to the telephone expecting my mother to say come home. Instead it was my dad. Now, this was a clear breach of protocol. He’d no right bossing me around, so I argued to stay.

I lost, but I decided to show him; I’d take my own sweet time. I dawdled and frittered, I muttered about unfairness, I stopped off at the tennis courts to look for balls smacked over the fence, then reluctantly pedaled my bike home — the long way. When I got there my dad was the only one in the house and my senses went on high alert. Something was terribly, horribly wrong.

I don’t imagine it’s easy telling a kid their hero is gone. I’m sure he did the best he could, tried to be compassionate, but my father was a stranger to me in many respects. I wanted my mother. Where was my mother? Panic was rising in my chest and I was having a little trouble containing it. My mom, he said, was with my grandmother. I demanded to be taken to her.

My grandparent’s house was filled with somber faces and hushed voices. Clusters of people were gathered in the livingroom, ladies bustled in the kitchen, food clogged the dining room, and I searched for the only comfort I knew. When I at last clapped eyes on my mother, my heart broke apart. The sorrow and hurt burst like a thunderstorm. I’d lost my grandpa. On Father’s Day.

For me, this is a day laced with loss and absence. So rather than lament, I celebrate my dear old mom. After all, she was both mother and father, as well as my closest friend and a really good audience. She was also comically inept as a disciplinarian. When she tried to issue a command or look menacing, it was nothing short of hilarious. I’d point and laugh and go on my merry way.

So, happy Father’s Day, you big fiercy.

copyright © 2017 the whirly girl

humor · life

economic theory from a swimsuit model

Way back when, before the GOP controlled the world, before money was the end all and be all, people were basically decent. The field of medical research offers dramatic proof in the person of Jonas Salk, the guy who developed the first effective polio vaccine. Such an achievement was, by all standards, mind-blowing. What elevates his accomplishment to noble is the fact he chose not to patent it.

The dude walked away from an estimated $7 billion. When he was asked why he hadn’t patented his discovery, Salk responded with, ‘could you patent the sun?’ That, right there, illustrates the alarming cultural shift toward fiscal Darwinism and survival of the wealthiest. My little theory isn’t limited to pharmaceuticals, it’s in practice everywhere.

Life’s necessities — little things such as an education, doctor visits, childcare, toilet paper, ATM fees — are priced extortionately high. They have us by the short hairs and they know it. So by the time we’re done paying for basic essentials, there’s nothing left for discretionary spending on items like clothes and shoes, manicures. Could that be why retailers — malls, in general —  are having so much difficulty staying open?

The economy isn’t shrinking, income distribution is.

Yes, this is a sweeping generalization, totally simplistic, but considering the crap that gets passed off as fact these days, it’s watertight evidence of a vast right-wing conspiracy. Hell, Trump calls himself a ‘details-oriented person’ and a ‘pretty smart guy.’ Calling myself an economist and a bitchin’ swimsuit model is not just reasonable, it’s dead accurate.

Stop laughing.

copyright © 2017 the whirly girl

humor · life

a great, great post

No, the best post. A tremendous post. The smartest, classiest post ever posted anywhere by any poster.

People always ask how I became such a star, and I am a big, big star, they want to know the secrit to my incredible success. It’s the superlatives. Their fantastic. I use them all the time. There the best words, so much better than other so-called words used for writings. Believe me, no one loves writing more than me. Big fan, tremendous fan of writing.

Face it, I’m a trailblazer, I blaze trails. My way is the best way. Grammer and spelling are dumb waists of time, total losers. All the best experts, totally incredible people, agree and say I have the grammer skill of a fifth grader! Can you believe it? Fifth grade! That’s the grade everyone wants and I’ve got it.

Billions of readers visit my posts. Trillions. The numbers are unpresidented. It’s just a huge swarming crowd of adoring folks every day, they love me. They wership me. I have more readers than any one ever in history. But the stats are fake, so rigged, found out my wires tapped! Pathetic. So sad. I won and they didn’t.

I know how to win because I’m a winner. I’ve made righting great again. You deserve great riting like me. The carnage is going to stop write here and right now. Trust me, there’s carnage.  And it’s going to stop. I’ll be the one stopping it. Me. Not those losers who lost. Bad (or sick) guys!

Therefore, I hear by declare myself the supremest riter of great writing. Thank you!

copyright © 2017 little ittys

humor · life

the diva in your pocket

Speaking of narcissists, if we were all as temperamental and high-strung as the smartphones we ferry around, the world would be unbearable. Nothing would get accomplished. Ever. Our lone activities would be clamoring for attention and throwing tantrums: look at me, look at me, listen, pick me up, talk to me, watch this, yoohoo, ring, ring, look at me, dammit.

I don’t know about you, but I’m fed up with the constant demands.

Just the other day I skipped outside with a book and my cellphone, planning to indulge in a little summer bliss. I planted myself on a sunny bench, cranked up iTunes, leaned back, and tumbled headlong into Spoonbenders. I crave such moments. Gone are the days when I needed excitement and thrills and drama, I’m perfectly content with predictable. It’s comforting.

The weather alone would have been joyous enough; the book was simply icing on the cake. It swept me into another dimension altogether with a terrific soundtrack. I read page after page, enchanted by the story and the characters. The music created a nice atmosphere. Until it stopped abruptly and without warning, mid-note. What the Hell?

I picked up the phone. I looked at the screen. And lost all respect for my device right then and there. Seriously? It can’t cope with a little sunshine? What a flipping prima donna. You know, I’m a pretty sophisticated piece of technology in my own right — we all are — and I don’t shut down when I’m hot. No one does. Drop us like a bad habit, toss us in the tub, and we’ll carry on.

Not the smartphone. Oh, no. It lounges on its pedestal, the center of attention, and basks like royalty. Heck, I’m surprised it isn’t carted around on a pillow and attended by servants. The thing only has to peep or chirp and every head turns. We rush to gaze at it, find out what it wants, feverish to soothe its every whim.

Are you ready for the sick part? I want a gig like that.

copyright © 2017 the whirly girl

humor · life

the new shoehorns

I’m not opposed to wealth. I’m not even opposed to conspicuous consumption. What I am opposed to is tastelessness; it’s an assault on the senses.

McMansions, for instance, are a blight on the landscape — well, what landscape? Those structures are built within centimeters of lot lines. Owners could mow their lawn with cuticle scissors, except they won’t stoop to yard work. So I’ll rephrase: a manicurist could cut the grass with cuticle scissors. The houses, meanwhile, are clustered so tightly together residents leaning out windows could shake hands with the neighbor. On each side.

I thought money was supposed to buy space, acres and acres of privacy behind hedges and gates and sniffy exclusivity. I was mistaken. Wealth is on ostentatious display in alarming and garish ways. I want it to go back to being tucked away in dignified elegance and suitably classy surroundings. But that could be the problem. Tony addresses are highly desirable and space is necessarily limited.

That doesn’t stop pretentious climbers, though, close is good enough for them. They troll around, buy a lovely home on the fringes, bulldoze it, and build a ghastly, towering monstrosity that stands out like a pituitary case. All that’s lacking is neon. It’s shameful.

Instead of looking noble and imposing and grand, they look like misfits or mausoleums. Pretentious misfits, at that. They aren’t homes, they’re freestanding inferiority complexes — monumental Donald Trumps. And we need them like a hole in the head. A return to our senses, that’s what we need.


copyright © 2016 little ittys