You Can’t See Through a 7-Up Bottle

A Little Ditch Water Gives You Fiber

Have you ever wondered why 7-Up bottles are green? Well, I have. It is one of the many mysteries of life I contemplate. What time is it at the North Pole is another mystery. Yet another mystery concerns physics. If water swirls counter clockwise in the northern hemisphere and clockwise in the southern hemisphere, then what happens when you flush your toilet on the equator? These are the types of things I ponder.

I have a pragmatic answer for the 7-Up bottle mystery however. 7-Up bottles are green because the soda is clear and its inventor, Charles Leiper Grigg, did not want his product confused with plain water. Therefore it is Grigg’s fault my oldest sister, Frances, beat me up when I was seven.

It was a hot summer’s day and we were out of school. Back in those caveman days, there was only one car per family and my Dad used ours to go to work. That was when my sister came up with a business proposal for me. She would give me some money and I would walk to the store, one mile away, and buy her a 7-Up. In my seven year old mind, this proposal seemed equitable, so I accepted it.

I made the trek to the store and purchased the ice cold drink from the owner, Mr. Denham. Mr. Denham, assuming the ice cold drink was actually for me and not for my cruel sister, performed an act of kindness which ultimately was my undoing; he opened the bottle with the opener hanging there (there were no twist off caps in the stone age).

The journey home began with me and an open bottle of ice cold 7-Up but it did not end that way. Did I mention it was a hot summer’s day? I had gone but a short distance before the first inevitable sip occurred. Many more followed and by the time I was in sight of home, the bottle was empty. Panicked and fearing the wrath of my 13 year old sister, I did what seemed normal; I filled the bottle with ditch water.

I knew my sister would be able to tell the difference but the ruse of the ditch water would give me just enough time to escape. I set the formerly ice cold drink on the kitchen table and called my sister to come get it. As she came into the room, I slowly backed out so as to arouse no suspicion. When my sister took a big swig and swallowed some small leaves and twigs, I went into a full sprint.

Although Frances was bigger and faster than I, she could not catch me because I was more elusive. Just about the time she would get within arm’s length, I would dive under a picnic table. This chase went on long enough to acquire spectators. My older brother, Bill, and my middle sister, Julie, were cheering us on from the porch.

The race took a fateful turn when I ran back into the house. After knocking over some chairs and sliding some tables, my sister caught me and beat me up. When the chaos entered the house, it caught the attention of my Mom. She had a unique way of dealing with things. Being the mother of five, if something went wrong, she would line up the four oldest and give us all a whipping. In this way she punished the culprit(s) in an optimum amount of time. My little sister, the accident, was a baby and obviously not the one who caused the trouble. So I came out of the affair with a beating from my sister and a spanking from my Mom.

Having me go for the 7-Up without getting one myself was unfair. If you are unfair to people, you might just be picking twigs from your teeth.

Randy Russ

http://www.randyruss.com/

Teenage Mutant Knucklehead

A Curable Disease

Until you have dealt with a fifteen year old, you are not really a parent. Those of you who have had to deal with a fifteen year old at home will agree with me. Those of you with kids younger than fifteen, just wait. I too, was a non-believer until I had a conversation with the great American philosopher, Red the Electrician.

Years ago, working for a very small engineering firm, I had a lot of bright ideas. I was the youngest employee and did not hesitate to share my parenting ideas with my older co-workers. They listened while smiling politely with that smile you give to someone who is giving you advice on a subject about which he knows nothing. Finally, one of my co-workers suggested I ask Red the Electrician about his philosophy on parenting.

Red the Electrician was a quiet man in his sixties and came by the office to occasionally perform routine electrical maintenance work. One day, I found myself alone with Red so I asked him about his philosophy on parenthood. Red had never spoken more than three consecutive words to me before that day. He was on a ladder working on a light fixture when he began to speak and never looked down from his work. “The only rule you need to know about parenting is this. You take your child and love it, cherish it and nurture it for fifteen years……. Then you take it out back and shoot it!” Thinking it to be a joke, I laughed out loud. Red looked down from his work for the first time and looked me in the eye. He wasn’t smiling. I tried to avoid Red after that.

When my son turned fifteen, I remembered Red and understood a little of his philosophy. Something strange happens to the human brain when it becomes fifteen years of age. I do not understand it, but a normally functioning brain suddenly mutates into a knucklehead brain on its fifteenth birthday. The best way I can explain this phenomena is by example.

My teenage son was allowed to drive our truck to another mutant knucklehead’s house to spend the night. The negotiations went well. He was to go to his friend’s house and nowhere else. All was well until the phone rang shattering the peacefulness at 11:00 PM. A neighbor on the next block, who lived in the opposite direction from the mutant friend, called and said, “Mr. Russ, your truck is in the ditch in front of my house. I thought you would like to know.”

Prior to the phone call, my son, with his mutant brain, decided to walk home and get our other car. He and his fellow mutant stealthily walked home, quietly pushed the car down our driveway in order to drive to a third mutant’s house. The third mutant had a truck and the plan was to pull my truck out of the ditch before I would find out. In his way of thinking it was no harm; no foul.

Meanwhile, back inside the house, worried my son may need medical attention; I opened the door to get my car. Surprise, surprise, surprise, there were exactly zero vehicles at my house. Clearly, this is mutant knucklehead behavior.

There are many other examples of teenage mutant knucklehead behavior such as the time he and some of his mutant friends sunk my boat in Bayou Manchac. In lieu of notifying anyone about the status of the boat, he decided it was much more important to take his girlfriend home. We passed each other on the road and he smiled and waved at me; what a nice boy. There were no cell phones in those days and he called thirty minutes after his curfew wondering if he could stay out later. When I questioned him about the missing boat he told me he only sank half of it. Right; the half with the motor!

The teenage mutant disease is most difficult but, blessedly, temporary. The mutant mind returns to normal functioning once the teen years are over. We can all be greatly encouraged by the words of another great American philosopher, Will Rogers. Will Rogers recognized the mutant knucklehead when he said, “When I was fifteen years old, I knew my father was the most ignorant man in the world. When I turned twenty, I was surprised at what the old man had learned in five short years.”

If you have a mutant knucklehead in your home, just hang in there.

Randy Russ
http://www.randyruss.com/

Toilet Paper Does Not Grow In The Bathroom

Unless You Have Puppy Dog Eyes

Shortly after my son, Scott, started living on his own, I knew my work was done. I knew it when he spoke the ten little magic words,”Toilet paper doesn’t just grow in the bathroom, you know.” These ten magic words were uttered after his mother asked him why he was using a generic brand of toilet paper instead of the name brand to which his derriere had become accustomed when I was buying the stuff.

When he lived at home, I tried, unsuccessfully, to make him fiscally responsible. Scott was always a generous person. He would give my money to anyone. I even gave him seminars on monetary responsibility, an activity which was destined to fail. I had only logic on my side while he had an ultimate weapon; he had two sad puppy dog eyes and his mom on his side.

Whenever I thought I was making progress with him, he would roll those sad eyes in his mother’s direction and money would flow his way. Seeing how well this worked for Scott, I tried it once myself. If you can’t beat them, join them. I needed a new set of golf clubs. This was a need and not a want because a new set of clubs would surely lower my golf score. I saw how well Scott’s technique worked for him, so I tried it myself. When I rolled my sad eye look at his mom, she made an appointment for me with an optometrist.

Once, I tried to outsmart him by giving him money to buy his own clothes. Each month I gave him a sum of money with which to buy clothes. Bear in mind, Scott had never spent a dime of his own money on clothing. He knew there was a law somewhere which said I had to feed and clothe him. Month after month, he spent the money on fun and never on clothes. I was confident the day would come when his underwear would get so ragged, the boy would be embarrassed enough to buy some new drawers. That day finally arrived and I was confident he would do the responsible thing. Instead, he rolled his sad puppy dog eyes and his mother bought him a new wardrobe.

My work is done now since he is out on his own. He asks his mom for chicken recipes and reminds her he only buys legs and thighs. My work is done now; he asks for work clothes for Christmas. He shops at the marts, K and Wal. My work is finally done.

Shortly after my work on Scott was complete, my daughter, Rachael, walked into the room, rolled her big beautiful eyes and declared how nice it would be if I gave her twenty dollars to go to the mall.

Vacation was over; it was time to go back to work.

Randy Russ
http://www.randyruss.com/

Skinny Al

Grin and Bear It

At one point in my life, my roof was leaking and my driveway was a quagmire, but I did not get depressed. If Skinny Al could survive everything he endured in Navy boot camp, I can bear whatever comes my way now.

Skinny Al was an inner-city kid from New York who had never been in water deeper than a bath tub. Needless to say, he could not swim. It remains a mystery to me why anyone who could not swim would join the Navy; one of the first things you did in Navy boot camp was take a swimming test. To start training, you had to jump from a high diving board, tread water for five minutes and swim to the far end of the pool. Boot camp did not begin until you could accomplish this.

The Navy was an equal opportunity employer. With no regard to swimming capabilities, everyone jumped or was shoved into the pool. When it became Skinny Al’s turn to jump off the diving board, he froze at the end.

The Drill Instructor (DI) below took this as a rather personal insult. After all, the mere fact you could not swim and would drown without assistance from a total stranger was no reason not to jump. Just because this stranger had been yelling and threatening you since you arrived at boot camp was not proper justification for a lack of trust.

The DI’s first response was to shout curse words at Al. This went on for about five minutes, greatly increasing my vocabulary, but Al, still terror stricken, did not respond. This really agitated the DI. He began climbing the ladder to the diving board, cursing at Al the whole time. When the DI reached the top, Al still would not take the plunge. The DI started shaking the diving board. Skinny Al responded by laying flat on his stomach while clutching the board with his arms and legs.

The DI, beet red with anger, rushed to the end of the board and began prying Skinny Al’s arms and legs. You would not expect a little guy to have such a grip. Skinny Al seemed to have become part of the diving board.

Finally, with one last mighty tug, the DI slipped and fell over the side, grabbing Skinny Al’s head as he went. At this point, it seemed as if everything went into slow motion. They stayed there, the DI dangling from Skinny Al’s head, for what appeared to be an eternity, but was in reality, only a few seconds. Skinny Al, fearing decapitation, released his death grip, plunging both of them spread-eagled into the water.

The DI swam to the side leaving Skinny Al floundering and on the verge of drowning. The DI extended a six foot pole to Al who frantically grabbed it. The DI then did what seemed perfectly natural to him; he let go. A six foot pole in twelve feet of water is not much help to a drowning man. The DI toyed with Al a little longer before finally diving in and saving him. He then made all of us do push-ups because Skinny Al made him get wet.

Skinny Al survived this with a smile on his face. I never saw Al depressed at any point during the remainder of boot camp. Al always had a big infectious smile on his face. You could not come away from a conversation with Al without feeling better.

When life gets me down, I remember Skinny Al. Now if I can just remember where I put his phone number.

Randy Russ
http://www.randyruss.com/

Dinosaurs and Derrieres

A Nesting Woman Will Always Win


The very first piece of furniture my wife and I owned was a sofa. Eighteen years later, we still had it. I really loved that old sofa; it was very comfortable and had molded itself to fit my bodily contours. That was no small feat.

My dog also loved that sofa. Her greatest joy in life was to wait patiently by the back door and when it was opened a crack, run full speed into the living room plunging her one foot tall, forty pound frame happily into the corner of the sofa.

With all of that love and happiness, you would think the old sofa had a revered place in the Russ household. That would be a logical conclusion, but it would be wrong. You see, my wife hated it.

I made a valiant attempt to save the old sofa. I bribed my kids into voting to keep it. Evidently, my vote and the votes of the kids as well as the dog comprise only forty-nine percent of the total votes cast.

Failing at the ballot box, I next tried psychology. I watched Oprah once. I gave each of us a sheet of paper and suggested my wife write the single-most reason why she hated the old sofa and I would write the number one reason why I loved it. My wife wrote she hated the sofa because it was eight feet long and looked like a big brown dinosaur.

Now I had her exactly where I wanted her. She hated the sofa for the same reason I loved it. I loved that sofa because it was eight feet long. I could stretch out on it and the dog could comfortably fit in the corner. There was plenty of room for everyone.

I decided it was time to deploy my big weapon in this battle. I reached deep into my bag of tricks and pulled out the weapon of logic. I was going to utterly destroy my wife’s argument with this awesome weapon.

I confidently got out my calculator and noted you could fit two additional people on an eight foot sofa. Also, you could re-upholster the old sofa for half the cost of a new one. It made economic sense to keep the old sofa. You could get more derriere for the dollar with an eight foot sofa. Surely no normal human being could deny such cold calculating logic. I was feeling pretty smug with the knowledge I had saved the old sofa.

The day they delivered the new sofa, I was sulking in my recliner. Life was now horrible. My dog became a nervous wreck. She ran into the house, full speed as usual, and jumped where the old sofa used to be. Unfortunately for the harried dog, the new sofa was there now. Somewhere, about mid-flight, my wife saw the dog and…the English language contains no word which can accurately describe the sound which came out of my wife.

The poor dog, sensing she had made a serious faux pas, cowered and did the one thing all dogs do in that situation. She lost control of her bladder.

As for me, I am afraid of that sofa. I just sit in the recliner and tell the kids and the dog to fend for themselves.

Shortly after the great sofa war, my wife told me something very disturbing. As I was sitting in my refuge, my recliner, she looked at me and said, “Honey, that old recliner is so big, it looks like a dinosaur and besides, it does not match our new sofa.

Randy Russ
http://www.randyruss,com/

Listen To The Dead Woodpecker

Things You Can Learn From A Dead Bird

What is the biggest difference between men and women? The death of the poor woodpecker gave me the answer. Women have a far-sighted view of life and men are near-sighted.

It was a dismal winter’s day as the four of us drove along. The trees were bare and the sky was gray. There was no color in sight except for the splash of bright red in the middle of the road which was the woodpecker standing there.

It was such a striking animal all eyes in the car focused on it in order to drink in the beauty. All eyes, that is, except for the driver, my wife. I am still not sure at what she was looking, but as we rapidly approached the woodpecker in the middle of the road, it became apparent she was looking elsewhere. It also became apparent the bird was suicidal when it refused to move.

I would have warned my wife about the approaching collision, but my ears were still burning from the time I tried to warn her about the pot hole which had jolted us earlier.

Thump… thump, the poor bird bounced twice under the car. “What was that,” my wife asked. The three of us answered in unison, “A woodpecker!” But now it was just a dead bird.

The death of that poor bird made me realize women have a far-sighted view of live and men are near-sighted. This woman, who cannot see a bird directly in front of her and who is on a first name basis with everyone at Al’s Alignment, can spot a kid on a bike at 3000 yards. “Watch out for that kid on the bike with the blue tennis shoes riding his bike in the back yard.”

“I will watch out for him when he gets in the same area code as us.” My wife is not unique among women in her view of the world. If two women meet and one of them has a bad haircut, the other woman will say her hair looks good. “Why, Alice, that new haircut looks so good on you. You are lucky, that haircut would look bad on me, but it looks great on you.” This is a far-sighted view of life. A woman will look into the future and realize she wants to remain friends, so she will not do anything which might jeopardize the friendship.

If two men meet and one of them has a bad haircut, the response is quite different. A man will look at his friend, laugh hysterically and say, “Bill, what happened, you get a little too close to the weed-eater this week-end?” It does not stop there, a man will summon all nearby men so they can all enjoy the new haircut.

A man will look into the future, just like a woman, and want to remain friends. Since men have a near-sighted view of life, they cannot look past the bad haircut.

The world is certainly more interesting with men and women viewing life from different perspectives. How do I know this? A little bird told me; a dead little red headed woodpecker bird.

Randy Russ
http://www.randyruss.com/

The Big Hormone

Woes of a Father of Fifteen Year Old Girl

That day had been just like any other day. I went to work and then went home. Shortly after entering my house, I noticed the large array of flowers sitting prominently on the bar and became confused because I knew I had not sent them. I was so panicked; I could not even remember the date as I quickly went down the checklist of things I may have forgotten. Let’s see, birthday?....No. Anniversary?....No. Mother’s Day?...No.

My wife was standing there quietly enjoying my dilemma as she let me twist in the wind. As I ran down the dates in my mind and finally came to the conclusion I had not forgotten something important, I became indignant. If I did not send the flowers to my wife, then someone else did. I wanted to know exactly who would be sending flowers to my wife and I wanted to know why. I finally blurted out, “Who sent you these flowers?”

With a mysterious smile on her face, my wife retorted, “No one.”

“What do you mean no one? The flowers are right there in front of me.”

My wife was enjoying this way too much when she replied, “They are not for me.”

Now completely perplexed I said, “But if they are not for you, then whose are they?”

This was the moment for which my wife had been waiting all day. “The boy across the street sent them to Rachael.” I had not even considered the fact someone would send flowers to my little girl. My wife said the look on my face was priceless as it went from relatively smooth to the many wrinkles you see today.

The big hormone from across the street began shuffling its way into my house wearing its baseball cap backward. Knowing where the hormone lived made hormone defense easy. I adjusted all of my floodlights so they lit the hormone’s bedroom window. I planted shrubbery that blocked the hormone’s line of sight. I could aim all of my guns in the same direction, just in case of emergency. All of the defensive maneuvers would inhibit unwanted hormonal activity. I had things under control.

Sensing her Dad was too confident, Rachael broke up with the hormone across the street. This made her a hormone free agent. Hormones began descending upon my house in droves, throwing me into a state of confusion. I planted shrubbery in the living room. I did not know where to aim my guns.

I am now a hormone expert. I will share my knowledge with those of you who have not yet experienced hormone warfare. There are certain characteristics of all hormones. All hormones wear their caps sideways. All hormones wear their father’s pants. All hormones keep their hands in their pockets. The only time they remove their hands from their pockets is when they are about to grope your daughter. If you see a hormone at your house with its hands out, knock it over the head, wrap it in duct tape and put it out front with the rest of the garbage. All hormones are deaf. You can hear their music two minutes before they get to your driveway. This is an early warning system, giving you time to prepare for the battle.

If you all will follow this advice, we can win this hormone war together. I will have to go now; I hear the sounds of Twisted Sister. I need to get my duct tape.

Randy Russ
http://www.randyruss.com/

Permanent Politicians

“One hundred and seventy-three despots would surely be as oppressive as one.”

James Madison

Federalist No. 48, February 1, 1788

During the Constitutional Convention, Mr. James Jackson, Georgia, arguing against the need for a Bill of Rights said, “Do we not return at the expiration of two years into private life? And is not this a security against encroachments?” Jackson felt since public service was only a two year job, it was unnecessary to have a Bill of Rights protecting citizens against government. What is government today becomes citizen tomorrow. I say Jackson had it right. If our elected rulers had to deal in private life, with the laws they impose, the laws would be better. Too many politicians subjugate national good for political expediency. If they were returning to private life soon, they would not be vulnerable to threats of losing their cushy committee seat; they are going to lose it anyway.

 The issue of term limits for our Congressmen has surfaced from time to time but seems to always quietly disappear. Many states have term limits for their politicians. Terms limits for the President of the United States were established by Section 1 of the Twenty Second Amendment to the constitution.

The very people who would be limited by term limits are the ones we have been relying upon to implement the limitations. This seems a blueprint for failure. Several states tried to invoke their Tenth Amendment right and set their own term limits for their Federal representatives. In the1995 case, U.S. Term Limits, Inc. v. Thornton, the United States Supreme Court ruled Arkansas did not have the authority to set qualifications for their Federal representatives different from what was in the Constitution. Justice Clarence Thomas, referring to the Tenth Amendment, wrote the opinion for the minority stating:

“Nothing in the Constitution deprives the people of each State of the power to prescribe eligibility requirements for the candidates who seek to represent them in Congress. The Constitution is simply silent on this question. And where the Constitution is silent, it raises no bar to action by the States or the people.”

If the Constitution is silent on an issue, the United States government has no authority to regulate the states.

Corrupt politicians have one thing in common and it is not party affiliation. The one thing they have in common is seniority. They have been hanging around the halls of Congress for many, many years; too many. The longer a politician resides in Washington, the less responsive he/she is to the citizenry. The founding fathers envisioned a citizen government, not a semi-permanent ruling class.

What are we to do? Our Congress seems unwilling to limit their terms. Our Supreme Court will not allow a state to impose term limits on their representatives. Where do we turn?

There is a legal and constitutional way we can impose term limits without getting the permission of Congress, the Supreme Court or the President of the United States. Article V. of the Constitution allows for the passing of an Amendment without the need of Congress.

“…the Application of the Legislatures of two thirds of the several States, shall call a Convention for proposing Amendments, which…, shall be valid to all Intents and Purposes, as Part of this Constitution, when ratified by …Conventions in three fourths thereof.”

Two thirds of the states can call for a Constitutional Convention and pass Amendments with approval by three fourths of the state delegations; no Congress, no President, no Supreme Court.

I say we have a convention, pass a term limit amendment to the Constitution and let the elected rulers squeal. Let’s have it in Kansas City; I am tired of pork, but I like a good steak.

Randy Russ
www,randyruss,com

You Don't Want To Wag The Tail

If The Tail Ain’t Wagging Itself

Being a dog lover, I always owned a dog, or perhaps the dog owned me. Dogs are loyal and give unconditional love. Your wife and kids will get angry, or in my case, embarrassed, by you from time to time, but a dog will always be happy to see you. If you go away for a day or two, the dog will miss you.

I don’t hate cats; I don’t wish ill upon them, I just wish they would not put their paw prints all over my newly washed car. A cat is not happy to see you when you return from a trip. They will show mild interest if you have food. A dog will run up to you, food or not.

It is amazing I like dogs so much because my older sisters nearly ruined it for me when I was a child. When I was 12 inches in diameter I had a life changing experience. Does it seem odd I measured my age as a child in inches of diameter instead of in years? It is odd and indicative of the weirdness of the story.

When I was 12 inches in diameter, we had a nice Heinz 57 family mutt with characteristics of multiple breeds. One day, our mutt was missing. Four days later, we noticed a foul smell emanating from the culvert under the driveway. A brief investigation revealed the old dog crawled into the middle of this culvert and died.

Living in the country, it fell upon us to do our own animal removal. The culvert was small, just a little larger than… you guessed it, me. My sisters suggested I crawl in and pull out the dog. Aren’t sisters wonderful? They decided I should crawl in with a rope, put it around the animal, and my dad and my brother would pull him out. Sounds like a good plan doesn’t it? It turned out to be good for everyone but me.

They fastened a handkerchief, soaked with my sister’s perfume, over my mouth and nose, slapped me on the back for good luck, and sent me into no man’s land. What a loving family. I entered head first, my hands extended above my head with rope in tow. Before getting too far, I quickly realized the culvert was too narrow for rope work. After retreating, my sisters informed me of Plan B.

Plan B required I tie the rope around my waist and grab the dog’s tail. My loving family would pull both of us out. I went once more into the breach and inched my way to the middle of the culvert. (Why did she have to crawl into the middle of the culvert?) When I reached the dog I grabbed her tail, but it started to wag. Hey, what’s this! She’s not dead after all, her tail wagged. Shortly, I realized the dog was not wagging her tail, I was! It broke off in my hand! Believe me when I say, you don’t want to wag the tail if the tail ain’t wagging itself.

I unleashed a primordial scream, scaring my support staff standing above me in the fresh air. The handkerchief fell off my face when I realized I was not the only thing alive in the culvert. My loving family began to furiously pull on the rope. Of course, I got stuck. Going in frontward dragging the rope was difficult, coming out backward was nigh impossible. Finally after fifteen hours if you ask me, fifteen minutes if you ask my beloved sisters, I made it to daylight. You would think my oldest sister admired me for my effort, but you would be wrong. She wanted me to go back for her handkerchief.

So, it is astonishing I love dogs so much today, but I don’t care much for handkerchiefs.

Randy Russ
http://www.randyruss.com/

A Baseball Miracle

On a beautiful March day in Eden Park, the all star baseball game between the characters of the Old and New Testaments is about to start. Moses is coaching the Old Testaments and Jesus is coaching the New Testaments. Prior to the first pitch, Jesus talked to the hot dog vendor, the temple merchant and asked, “How are your sales going today?”

“Just awful,” replied the merchant, “the crowd has been eating two fish and five loaves of bread all day. They aren’t buying anything. Just when the fish and bread appear to run out, all this manna falls from the sky. I’m going back to the temple.”

Moses, in the Old Testament bullpen choosing the starting pitcher said, “Let anyone among you with talent cast the first ball…. I didn’t think so, I will pitch.”

Goliath, the first batter, was ahead in the count when Peter hit him on the forehead, killing him instantly. Jesus went to the mound and said, “Peter, why did you hit Goliath, I gave you the sign to pitch outside.”

“No you didn’t,” said Peter.

“I gave you the pitch-out sign because Goliath is a tremendous hitter but is slow on the base path. We could  pick him off,” sayeth the Lord.

“I didn’t see any sign. How was I to know a rainbow meant to pitch outside?”

“If you saw the rainbow, you saw the sign,” said Jesus.

Peter replied, “What rainbow?” Just then, the cock crowed and Jesus said, “Get thee behind me, Satan; for you have denied me three times. I am bringing in a relief pitcher.” Turning to the crowd, Jesus asked who they wanted.

“Give us Barabbas,” the crowd roared. Peter stormed off the mound and lunged into the crowd, biting off a spectator’s ear after being heckled. Barabbas retired the final batters. The game went back and forth for several innings, with the Old Testaments opening a 5 run lead going into the bottom of the ninth inning. Moses, pitching a brilliant game, was tiring in the last inning. John the Baptist made the first out because he chewed his bat to a nub and struck out. Barabbas made the next out on a pop up to shortstop.

Judas, the next batter, got a base hit to left field. On the next pitch, he stole second and continued to third when the throw was wild. Jesus called timeout to talk to Judas. “How many times do I have to tell you, thou shalt not steal?” Jesus then replaced Judas with a pinch runner, Nebuchadnezzar.

This move caused a murmur among the New Testaments. “This is an important run. I don’t know why Jesus chose Nebuchadnezzar to pinch run. After all, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man get home,” said Matthew.

Zacchaeus, the next batter, squatted down, drawing a walk. He is only 4’ 10” tall standing and presents no strike zone at all when he squats. Lazarus approached the plate with runners on first and third. He had not been able to solve Moses all day, as he meekly struck out three prior times. He was determined to do better this time and crowded the plate. Moses hit him in the head with an inside fastball. Lazarus dropped dead on the spot. Thinking Moses killed Lazarus because Peter killed Goliath earlier, Solomon was about to toss him from the game when Lazarus popped up and trotted to first base.

The Old Testaments were 5 runs ahead, but the New Testaments had loaded the bases with two outs. When Jesus put himself in as a pinch hitter, Noah called timeout in order to talk to Moses. “Moses, we need to intentionally walk Jesus.” As they were talking, they turned to see Jesus there with them.

Moses shouted, “Lott, why didn’t you tell us Jesus was coming to the mound?”

“I didn’t see him. I wasn’t going to turn around,” replied Lott. Lott continued, “Jesus why are you in this meeting, you coach the other team?”

“For where two or three are gathered together in My name, there am I in the midst of them,” came the reply. Jesus returned to the plate and with two outs, the bases loaded and trailing by 5 runs, he hit a 6 run homer to win the game. It’s a miracle!

Randy Russ
http://www.randyruss.com/

Child President

Tantrum at the Whine of the Union Address

In November, 2008, this country elected a President with virtually no experience based on the promise of hope and change. The people hoped Obama would grow into the job as he administered this hope and change. That is what makes this country great, virtually anyone can become President. Obama proves that point.

With a super majority in the Senate, control of the House and a popularity rating in the 70% range, the new President seemed poised to push through any legislation he desired, but something funny happened along the way. The American people rejected his policies of government take-over, drunken-sailor spending, backroom deals and Miranda rights for terrorists.

The American people grew tired of his ad nauseum apologies. They did not like to call the war on terror an overseas contingency. The change promised during the campaign became 15 cents on the dollar and the hope was maybe it would become 20 cents. The American people tried to express these grievances during the spring and summer with tea parties all across America. Prior to the Revolutionary War, the original tea party in Boston was a protest against the heavy-handedness of the King. The modern tea parties are trying to convey the same sentiment. Our would-be King, the Child President, is pushing his agenda of ‘Big Brother’ government regardless of the Constitution or the will of the people.

The Child President and his Court, along with the Court Jester, Joe Biden, continued to be oblivious to the tea parties. The tea party participants were vilified, called racists, Nazis and stupid people who cling to their guns and religion. The tea parties were dismissed as a few right wing dissidents too stupid to understand the Child President.

Then along came the Massachusetts senate race. The Child President campaigned in that state and derided the American-made 200,000 mile truck driven by Brown. That crazy bunch of right wing dissidents in Massachusetts elected Republican Scott Brown to the Senate over Democrat Martha Coakley to the seat held by the late Ted Kennedy since 1962. Obama would no longer enjoy a super majority in the Senate and would have to actually have to invite those rascally Republicans to meetings. Well there goes the neighborhood. The Child President suffered his first scrapped knee and was not happy about it.

The Child President took the opportunity of the State of the Union Address to throw a tantrum. He turned it into the Whine of the Union Address instead. He whined about partisan politics just before he bashed the Republicans. He whined about the Supreme Court while the members of that Court were sitting there in front of him. He whined about TV pundits. He whined about the evils of lobbyists and then invited them to a meeting the very next day. He whined about Bush. He whined about the deficit, promising to freeze spending in 2011, but he ran up a record deficit in only one year.

The petulant Child President does not want to hear from the unwashed populous the king is wearing no clothes. If you think it difficult to rear a Child President, just wait until his teen years. God help us all .,, Wait, can I still say God?

Randy Russ
http://www.randyruss.com/

Groundhog Day

Be Like Phil (But Not At First)

"Last Tuesday, the 2nd, was Candlemas day, the day on which, according to the Germans, the Groundhog peeps out of his winter quarters and if he sees his shadow he pops back for another six weeks nap, but if the day be cloudy he remains out, as the weather is to be moderate."

James Morris, Berks County, Pennsylvania Storekeeper, February 5, 1841

This is one of the first American references to what we now call Groundhog’s Day celebrated on February 2nd. It was the basis for one of my favorite movies, Groundhog Day, starring Bill Murray. In this movie, Bill Murray plays the part of an egocentric Pittsburgh weather man, Phil Connors, covering the hated Groundhog Day assignment in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. Strangely enough, it is Groundhog Day each morning Phil awakens and he has to repeat this hated assignment over and over again. At first, he uses this unique situation for his own selfish reasons. With no fear of long-term consequences, Phil eats to the point of gluttony. He steals money, he uses inside information about the townspeople for dubious motives. He gives abusive and offensive reports on the Groundhog Day. He kidnaps Punxsutawney Phil and drives off a cliff, much to the horror of everyone else. He commits various forms of suicide. He does all of this knowing he will awaken the next morning to the sounds of Sonny and Cher on his radio alarm and will start a fresh day.

But a strange metamorphosis occurs. Eventually, Phil Connor uses his unique situation to make his life and others around him better. He learns foreign languages. He learns the piano. He learns to ice sculpt. He discovers other people’s needs and assists them. It took Phil a long time reliving the same day over and over before he changed. His life moved forward only after he finally changed into a better person. At last, he woke to the morning of February 3rd.

I fear we are all a little like Phil Connors. We try the same thing over and over and seem to never wake up to a truly new day. Oh, it is a new day according to the calendar, but is it really new? We get in a rut and like it there. The rut is familiar and is safe. We do the same thing over and over, never bothering to look over the sides of our rut. The longer we stay in our rut, the deeper it becomes and we like that as well. If work your rut long enough, it becomes an inescapable grave.

We do not move from our ruts until we abandon our selfishness and think about other people’s needs. You do not have to learn to ice sculpt, play the piano or speak French before you wake up to a new day, start this moment. Make a difference in someone else’s life. Find someone who needs help, look them in the eye and quote the song Phil Connors heard every morning, I got you babe.

Randy Russ

http://www.randyruss,com/

Take A Mulligan

Everyone Deserves a Do-over Once In A While

It is a brand new year, which can only mean one thing; a lot of us will participate in the annual lie called ‘New Year resolutions’. A New Year resolution does not start out as a lie does it? We really mean to lose weight, read more, stay on a budget, go to church, not gossip, etcetera but then something terrible happens; the morning of January 2nd comes around. There is always a reason for not losing weight, reading more or going to church. It’s raining; it’s not raining; it’s too cold; it’s too hot. Each of these excuses is followed by, ‘but I will do it next time. I promise.’ Resolutions are easy on New Year’s Day, but then comes January 2nd, January 3rd and so on and so forth. The resolution starts to fade and we feel a twinge of guilt about our lack of resolve. Being adverse to failure, I make resolutions I can keep.

One year, I resolved to resist the urge to smoke. Since I never smoked, resisting the urge to start was achievable. Other resolutions included eating more, exercising less, procrastinating more, and not wearing metal pants in electrical storms. I am happy to report I kept all those resolutions. This year, for reasons I will not mention, I resolved to lose 25 pounds. This year is harder than most and I will need some help. I need a mulligan.

A mulligan is a golf term meaning ‘do-over.’ When you hit a bad shot, take a mulligan. A mulligan is not legal under the official rules of golf, but is employed by mutual consent during friendly rounds with golfing buddies. The origin of the term is not known as several versions exist. One explanation by the USGA Museum, proposes a gentleman named David Mulligan, playing at the St. Lambert Country Club in Montreal, Canada, hit a tee shot of which he was not particularly proud. He re-teed and called it a ‘correction shot.’ His buddies decided the shot deserved a better, more distinctive name, so they called it a mulligan.

If you watch me attempt to play golf, you know a mulligan is my favorite shot. Some people like putts, others chips, but I like mulligans. I stand there on the first tee and check my grip and my stance. I go over my swing technique in my mind and finally launch into the shot. The golf ball promptly lands in the lake or the woods or perhaps on the roof of the silly homeowner who built a home so close to where I play golf. After the laughter subsides, I claim my mulligan and get a do-over.

It is nice of my buddies to grant me a mulligan; we all need one from time to time. I will need a do-over to keep this year’s resolution. I fear a single mulligan will not suffice, but if one mulligan is a good thing, two would be wonderful and 365 would be …sufficient. Hey, I think I am on to something here.

Randy Russ
http://www.randyruss,com/