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In my pot-smoking days of the early 1970’s marijuana was a lot like Tupperware – it was passed around at parties and purchased with great enthusiasm. Pot was so pervasive back then, all you had to do was breathe in and there was a chance you’d get high. Some people didn’t want to take that chance. They were fearful of this “reefer madness.” Then they’d try it, and suddenly, it was reefer gladness. Their transformation was not done with smoke and mirrors – it was just smoke.
From ages 10-14 I partook of the giggle smoke whenever my elders were around. Now these weren’t parental-type elders. These were just elders who were older than me – older than David-the-Younger. Older, and more importantly, they had pot. It was like elders with benefits. The 1970s were a less judgmental time when you shared what you had without distinction of rank or age (thank you very much Woodstock generation). And from almost 50 years hence I recognize the following strange story might give the impression I’m high right now. I’m not. Except for a few salmon, David-the-Elder hasn’t smoked anything in decades.
In revisiting my cannabis memories, I’ve reanimated that familiar fuzzy state and in the process activated one mother of a flashback. In this case it’s a harrowing incident I’d like to share with you – an incident that is a constant reminder of the importance of choosing the right parents. Of course, as far as I can tell, children have never been consulted on the matter, so it’s a moot point. But what’s a valid point is that you have to play the hand you’re dealt: or, more specifically, the body and circumstances you’re born into. Once the veil comes down…Game On. And this episode I present is just one volley in that game.
This flashback has enduring power and has taught me to practice eternal vigilance. It’s not that I’m forever suspicious, I just try to be aware of my local circumstances – to see around the corners of my actions and anticipate their consequences. And although this bizarre yet authentic tale may sound like the product of a THC-influenced imagination, I once again assure you, David-the-Elder has NOT been smoking anything mind expanding – unless you want to count the salmon. But remember, no matter how much salmon you smoke, it’s just waist-expanding, not mind-expanding. Read the rest of this entry »
It is often said that to lead a happy life you should, “Dance like nobody’s watching.” I get that. But with a twist. What brings me joy is to, “Write like nobody’s reading.” And based upon my Google Analytics of late, that statement has never been truer. There’s no denying what brings us joy. The heart wants what the heart wants.
So as I bathe myself in literary pixie dust in preparation for a writer’s journey into rapture, I find myself in my element. I’ve got my backlit keyboard, my predatory imagination and I’ve just cracked open a fresh ginger-hibiscus kombucha. I’m not only in my element, I’ve become an element: Hardimanium – a rare psychoactive literary element consisting of Higgs bosons and a knowing smirk.
Now as I gently loosen the tethers mooring me to conventional and unspectacular wisdom, I feel the motivating presence of a million eyes not reading this. Such exquisite freedom. My gatekeepers have been put on administrative leave and in their absence no bureaucratic censor exists to burden my thoughts. The swirling excesses of my cerebral vortices are tamed only by the limits of the English language.
Yes, it’s the perfect literary storm and the NWS (No, not the National Weather Service, but the Narcotized Writers’ Sanctuary) is calling for a lacerating Category 5 hurricane once the literary storm travels up your optic nerve and saturates your consciousness. But please don’t evacuate yourself just yet. I promise to keep you securely within the eye of Hurricane David, at an observationally safe distance from its high-velocity humor and killer premises. You might get a little wet, but that’s only in keeping with the words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow who mused so eloquently: “Into each life some rain must fall.”
So let us open a Pandora’s Box of temptations. Pearls of Wisdom from a cultured oyster. English expressions of ephemeral ideas. A disgorgement of mental freneticism. A Hobson’s Choice to be sure.
- The Communist: Pinko
- The Master Mason: Stucco
- The Cowboy: Gaucho
- The Mexican: Taco
- The Snack Eater: Nabisco
- The African-American: Oprah…OK not quite, but Oprah backwards is Harpo. So there’s that.
Mexican “cuisine” is one simple dish known by 34 different names. It’s some combination of meat, beans and rice shlopped into a tortilla, sprinkled with queso and served on a plate so hot it can melt the bones in your hand. Let me splain some more by analogizing this peasant fare to the Winter Olympics. Mexican cuisine is a lot like the Winter Olympics which purports to be a showcase of winter sports, but is really just an excuse to slide something (pucks, sleds, skates, skis and even rocks) on frozen water in 34 different ways. So just as the Winter Olympics is basically glorified sliding (wheeee!), Mexican food is a simply a glorified rearrangement of meat, beans and rice onto or into a tortilla, sprinkled with queso and served on a scorching plate so hot you’d think it had just been removed from the containment vessel of a nuclear reactor.
What’s in a Name
There are all sorts of designations of burritos. You’ve got your basic burrito, your super burrito (so big that illegal aliens have gotten across the border hidden inside one) and wet burritos (one hopes the wetness does not contain any human DNA). There are even transgendered burritos – where one is never sure which gender the burrito is currently identifying with, until you bite into it and then…Surprise!
There are tacos, taquitos (formerly called dwarf tacos) and tacolas (meat in a cane sugar Coca-Cola sauce). And if you don’t want your dish too spicy that’s no poblano.
You’ve got your chimichangas, chilaquiles, ching-a-lingas and Chitty-Chitty Bang Bangs. There’s no end to the names for this simple farmer food. But know this: no matter what you order, you’re eating a rearrangement of the same thing – some combination of meat, beans and rice shlopped into or onto a tortilla and sprinkled with queso! You’re just sliding on frozen water while sitting on a tortilla.
All Nachos Are Created Equal
And of course there’s Nachos – just an unorganized pile of chips, beans, cheese and meat. I mean c’mon. They’re not even trying with this one. If you can make a mud pie, you can make nachos. And they come in a wide variety depending on how high and how deep you want it piled: There’s the Nacho Supreme. The Generalissimo Nacho, the Fine Corinthian Leather Nacho and of course the Nacho, Nacho Man. There are even Nacho Diploma Mills in Mexico where you can get a PHD in Nacho making – PHD: Piled Higher and Deeper. In addition to the diploma mills in Mexico, there’s also a Donna Mills in Hollywood whose starlet days have long since passed. But those eyes. Those Donna Mills eyes. She had 2 brothers you know. They were known as the Mills Brothers.
The People Want to Know
What’s the difference between a chalupa, a tostada and a gordita? Answer: about $1.20 at Taco Bell.
When ordering Chile Relleno, always pronounce the 2 “l”s in Relleno – especially if you live in Reno.
Did you know Enchiladas were the 14th iteration of the dish till they perfected it? Yup. There was the A chilada, the B chilada, the C chilada until they finally got it right with the N chilada.
Which reminds me of a politically incorrect joke you’ll not be offended by: What do they call Cinco de Mayo in China? – Chinko de Mayo.
Do you wave good bye to wavos rancheros, or do you huev good bye to huevos rancheros? Eggsellent question.
Let us not forget the lowly quesadilla. The grilled cheese of Mexican food. If you can get cheese to melt, you can make a quesadilla. There are 2 kinds of quesadillas: the regular one and the Special Needs Quesadilla. The Special Needs Quesadilla is when you smear a tortilla with Cheez Whiz and microwave it for 20 seconds.
OK there’s fajitas. Wow, they added onions and peppers to the usual suspects. How’d they ever come up with that? Fajitas come on an audibly sizzling plate that has only recently been warming in volcanic magma. Of course, with fajitas, some assembly is required. I mean you have to put the thing together yourself. Hmmm let’s see, what you do is put on your asbestos gloves, and shlopp your meat, beans and rice into a tortilla, sprinkled with queso and serve. And just in queso you run out of queso, there’s cheese.
Guacamole Is Extra…Funny
The best thing about Mexican food is that they’ve legitimized the word “guacamole.” It’s the only time you’re allowed to say “gwok” or “molay” without getting laughed at. If mashed avocados never existed and you said “gwokamolay” people would think you were a drunken caveman. Think about how many times you’ve been asked, “Would you like gwokamolay.” And you’ve said, “Yes. I want gwokamolay.” You’ve agreed to eat gwokamolay. Anyway I probably shouldn’t do edibles when I write this stuff…but gwokamolay…really?
Flan: An Unfinished Word
I’ll grant you it’s a fine Mexican dessert, but it should rhyme with “plan.” It doesn’t. It rhymes with Juan. Do you realize if Juan wasn’t feeling well he might look wan? I just don’t have a plan for flan? I do not like green eggs and flan. Let me splain, it should be plain that flan should be spelled flane, then it wouldn’t be such a pain.
Enjoy all the Mexican food you want, but remember: the plate may be muis caliente.
- Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald – The guy, and not the ship
2. Clumping Litter for Humans – Really? Yes Really. Features stylish Rubbermaid litter boxes the size of storage sheds scooped out by customized Bobcats. A bad idea impeccably executed.
3. That Better Be Melted Chocolate – Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. Ewwwww!
4. Hospice Bloopers – Ask the guy that’s been a patient for 9 years
5. The Other Mannequin Challenge – We follow the exploits of introverted and nerdy high schooler Osgood Fillmore as he attempts to take his longtime mannequin and not-so-imaginary playmate, Mindy to the prom and pass her off as his date. OK, I’ll grant you the slow dance was precious, but the making-out part in the back seat afterward left me as unmoved as Mindy.
6. Fish Pedicure Salon Cam – Extreme close-ups of these deranged little fish “voluntarily” eating away the dead skin found on customers’ feet in order to obtain the only nourishment they’ll ever receive. Plus there’s no privacy. They have to live their entire life in a fishbowl.
7. Honey Bucket Ice Challenge – Hijinks ensue when the usual ice is replaced with waste from Honey Buckets used at the Coachella Festival. I mean on the one hand it raises a lot of money, but on the other, it raises a lot of questions.
8. Words That Have 3 Consecutive Dotted Letters – Hijinks ensue when the word hijinks is discovered to have 3 consecutive dotted letters. For obvious reasons, it is suspected the website originates from either Beijing or Fiji. In a performance art video they line up 3 consecutive Dorothys and say, “Dot, Dot, Dot.”
9. End Stage Milk Cartons – Pictures of milk containers that have only a few days left before they expire. Very poignant in a lactose tolerant whey.
10. Geriatric Undergarments – An intimate and unnecessary look into the laundry hampers of octogenarians
- Guardian Angel Waitress Pays for Homeless Veteran’s Lunch: Next day he brings in 5 friends and orders Lobster
- Barking Up the Wrong Headstone: Grief-stricken Dog Sleeps Atop Grave of a Guy with Same Name as his Owner Who’s Still Alive.
- Hack of Adoption Records Reunites Mother and Son 33 years after she put him up for adoption. Son’s Reaction: “Great. Now I’m stuck buying Christmas presents for 2 mothers. Thanks a lot Global kOS.”
- Unbelievable Canine Loyalty: Tearful Spalding family puts ailing Fido to sleep before vacationing in Hawaii. One week later guess who shows up on their lanai in Maui soaking wet with a few questions.
- Joan Rivers daughter Melissa Told Her Mother’s Grave Will Have to be Moved: “She Just Won’t Shut-up. She’s disturbing the other corpses,” says superintendent.
- Flint, Michigan Losing its Spark.
- After Democrats Demand to see Mitch McConnell’s Birth Certificate, the Kentucky Senator Admits: “Alright! I’m A Sea Turtle. I never knew my mother. I was hatched. Thank God I had an egg tooth.”
- Men Vote “The eyes” 4th Favorite Female Body Part. Wait till you see what number 1 is.
- Meta-Spoof Headline Makes No Sense: So Much Time to Waste. So Little Time to Do It In.
- Shakespeare was a Great Playwright: Wait Till You See What He Looks Like Now!
- What a Dog is Really Saying When He Sniffs Your Crotch.
- Even Trivia Feels Trivialized By Tsunami of Bullsh*t
Yours truly is working on a project and will be away for awhile. My posts will be intermittent at best. This is a writing project and not associated with prolonging the freshness dating of pharmaceuticals so they’re not flushed down the toilet rendering our seafood a school of drug-addicted fish. Please feel free to write or comment on anything I’ve written so far. And as I have more followers than bought the last Ringo CD, I’m sure I’ll be hearing from you.
1. Arrive refreshed and unconscious
2. Avoid the “busy hands” of frisky TSA agents
3. Finally understand the adage: That which does not freeze me, only makes me colder.
4. Can congregate in front of landing strut without being told to return to seat
5. Great way to earn Frequent Dier Miles
6. Get to board plane before those snooty Platinum Club members
7. Can’t beat the cushy oversized rubbery seat
8. Don’t have to listen to know-it-all guy next to you go on and on about how, ”On a BTU for BTU basis, propane gas is your best value.”
9. 5 hour trip seems like 10 minutes because you were unconscious for 4 hours and 50 minutes
10. Because there is no oxygen, you never have to worry about placing margarine cup over mouth and “breathing normally.”
11. Private compartment kept at a constant temperature of -48
12. Without the prying eyes of passengers, can join the mile high club when you’re ready
13. Freedom to get up and move about the wheel well whenever you want
Author’s note: In Edmund Morris’s authorized biography of Ronald Reagan, Mr. Morris employed a fictional character as a literary device to report on and catalogue the many events of Mr. Reagan’s long life. I employ a similar literary device in my unauthorized thumbnail sketch of Jesus Christ’s life, although at no time do I refer to Jesus Christ as “Dutch.”
Sure I remember the Christ boy. He was the son of Joe & Mary Christ. They lived down the street from my cousins the Goldstein’s of Nazareth. If we knew then what we know now, we would’ve been a lot nicer to him. It’s not everyday God incarnate appears in your midst. He had it all, but that wasn’t enough for him. He wanted everyone else to have it all too. You might say that was his mission in life. Some people didn’t want it all. They wanted things returned the way they were BC, and therein lied the rub.
His life and his death have inspired billions, and spawned a fierce and bewildering competition for his legacy in yet another example of why earth would be better if it was run by Microsoft. If only Jesus’s estate had the foresight to copyright his images and words, perhaps then we would’ve preserved the kernels of wisdom in his loving message. Instead, careless clerics have germinated them into an inconsequential tuft of weeds. The Garden of Eden is in serious need of landscaping. People are more stymied than facilitated by their religions. It just seems his whole message has gone to seed. Read the rest of this entry »
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Here at davidhardiman.com we value our readers and we understand that many readers self-medicate with these essays. Again, if this is an emergency or you are hyperventilating, stop reading and dial 9-1-1. Otherwise continue reading and a pain-relieving essay will be with you as soon as one becomes available. We apologize for the delay in bringing you relief, but we are currently fresh out of ideas. You are the 5th reader in the queue so don’t stop reading or you’ll lose your place in line. Your wait time for a meaningful essay is approximately 8 sentences. We are sorry that due to higher than normal reader volume, we are unable to provide our usual level of wit. Additionally, geopolitical events have stifled our creative process. Our outsourced Idea Department was mostly staffed by Ukrainians who have since fled Crimea and are now refugees. We are working hard to keep you interested and while we’re not exactly sure where the problem lies, we are sure President Obama is to blame. Meanwhile please bear with us as we fumble to say something meaningful or at least pertinent. Read the rest of this entry »
This is the city: Los Angeleez Califor-ni-a. The following story is true. The names were left the same because there were no innocent to protect. In a moment a description of the events. But first an ad from our sponsor Chesterfield Cigarettes:
More deceased doctors recommend Chesterfield Cigarettes for their cadavers who smoke cigarettes than any other brand. Why not try a Chesterfield today and experience the full rich tobacco flavor of toxic gases slowly nestling into your once pink lungs. And with Chesterfield there’s no morning hack. In fact, after smoking them for a while, there’s no morning at all. Just mourning.
That’s how you could advertise cigarettes in 1954. And now back to our True Story:
A telephone conversation between frantic landlady Florence Katz Ross and her unimpressed friend Gladys Rabinowitz:
Florence: Yes operator. I’d like MElrose3-9421.
Operator: One moment please. OK. Go ahead.
Florence: Hello Gladys? Gladys, you’re never gonna believe what just happened.
Gladys: Well what is it honey? Do tell.
Florence: Well I was just adjusting the rabbit ears on my new 8” Philco-Vision TV set to watch my stories, when Frank Sinatra and Joe DiMaggio break down my door with an axe, run over to me and demand to know where Marilyn is. I said “Marilyn who?” And Joe says, “My wife Marilyn Monroe. She’s shacking up here with some bum and I’m gonna give it to him real good see. You capish lady? Now where is she?” Read the rest of this entry »