Category: Funny Post

Drinking Rum and Coca-Cola of Pimping Out a Friend

Drinking Rum and Coca-Cola or Pimping Out a Friend

God, why didn’t someone tell me that as you get older you can not drink and go dancing until 1:00 am anymore? The last time I’ve been out after 10:30 was about 3 years ago. Even then I had to toothpick my eyes open for the last act of “Glee the Movie.”

Getting older is a drag. Not a drag queen, but just a drag. You sometimes wish getting older could be a drag queen, because at least you could use heavy make-up to cover the wrinkles and wear wigs instead of spray-on hair to cover your bald spots.

Age is seamless and constant. But one thing I just don’t understand about it is why do we get smarter and wiser as our bodies turn decrepit? Wouldn’t you think that the wiser you got, the stronger your body would get? If someone has a one-on-one with God in the next day or two, let HIM know about my latest discovery.

I started my day off with a bang. My dear friend Susan Worley Meador took me to a birthday lunch. (I’m still open for birthday lunches for the rest of the month… hint hint.)  After which we went to a used music store to look at keyboards. When we got back into my Beemer, it didn’t start. I had a battery charged jump starter in my trunk. Alas, that didn’t work. Who would think being prepared would not work?

Susan called for a tow, while my brilliant mind stood outside the car and assessed the surrounding area. What was that across the street? An AutoZone? HMMM>

We decided to walk over there and ask if Susan (notice I didn’t say me) could get some help. A dirty dude handed me some jumper cables and said, “Get the car over here, and we’ll help her out.”

So, I pimped Susan out to a burly truck driver near my car, who gladly jumped the car for her. We took the car over to the AutoZone, cancelled the tow, and got the battery replaced for about 1/3 of the cost of what BMW would have charged. Fancy work and Susan only had to show her cleavage twice and her legs three times. Thank you, girl friend. All those power walks were worth it.

Now, you may ask, “Bo, why did you not trust that the crotchety old men and the redneck men would do you a favor on Nolensville Road in Antioch? Don’t you have faith in yourself?”

My answer is simple. “No.” Have lovely woman, use her wisely in redneck areas. This is the best spiritual advice you’ll get from me from today.

When I got home I took a fat nap, ate and went shopping at the Green Hills Mall (the best mall ever) to use my gift cards from my Birthday.

Don’t you just love gift cards? They are like nesting dolls—a gift in a gift. You get to open them inside the card. Then later you get to get yourself what you really want. I think everyone who doesn’t know what to really get you, should give gift cards. Another spiritual axiom for today.

I found the best bargain at Macy’s, of all places. I got a King Size comforter with sheets and shams for $49 down from $200. It is so beautiful. And I also got this great travel bag that I can use to put all my yoga stuff in on the bottom part and pack my gym clothes on the top and it has wheels. It was down from 150 to 55. Then I get to the check out counter, and the lady offers me another 35% off for opening an account. I practically got my Macy’s purchases for free. Oy, vey.  Of course, I’ll close the account next month and reopen it the next time they ask me to and get 35% off again. Did you know you were going to get three spiritual goodies to take home with you today? OMG

The last thing I bought was a swim suit at Dillards for 65% off. (I always buy my swim suits for next year the year before. Such a good idea. You must go now though, because they will go quickly.) I almost bought a black one again, then I heard Steve’s voice in the back of my head saying, “Say ‘no’ to drab, Bo!” And I went with the purple. He was proud. Cost: $11.

This is the best spiritual advice yet! This is why I can drive a Beemer and live in a $300K house. Because I shop like I live in a trailer and am on food stamps.

I may not be able to stay up to frigging 1:00 am anymore, but I sure know how to make a $200 gift card feel like $600. Now that’s a gift that keeps on giving.

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A Doobie Party

A Doobie Party

I have a dear friend who moved to Nashville from Utah. She comes from a very white bred family of 14 children—Mormon. As she moved here for the music business, she realized that life would be very different. She first got a job with an insurance agency. Her work partner was a tall, buff Asian man who had a haircut that made him look like a little boy. As she tells the story, “All the older women at work were after him and he needed some advice before he was eaten by a cougar.”

After my friend gave him advice, suggesting her sister, the stylist, for a haircut and spending some time getting to know him, she fell in love and got engaged. She and her sister moved her together and live in condos next to each other and do everything together, including church, which is where I met them at the Center of Spiritual Living, far from the path of Mormonism.

They didn’t realize that everyone in the neighborhood (the cool neighborhood–East Nashville) that they were a bit odd. One day they needed something fixed and invited a neighbor to help them. He said, “I’ve been looking forward to helping the ‘hot lesbians.”

They looked at him with a smile and said, “Where?” We’d like to meet them.

One neighbor couple just didn’t like them at all until the fianceé moved in. After which, the couple invited the lovely young blonde and her Asian fianceé to a Doobie party. To which my friend replied, “Oh, thank you, that would be great,” in her Utah accent.

When she announced to her fianceé that they were to go to this party, he asked what kind of party it was. She told him it was a “theme” party. He said, “What kind of theme?”

She said, “A doobie theme. I guess like the brothers, the dog, the 80’s… Not really sure. But isn’t cool that they invited us?”

Her boyfriend just laughed and shook his head. “Honey… a doobie is a kind of a party that is against the law. You know? Pot?”

Of course, she had no idea and she felt like a Doobie!

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Necessary Biting

Necessary Biting

Oh God… Every day I sit in my chair and wait to hear from Spirit about what to write about. I usually get a phrase and then I begin listening in my spirit for some of what to share and then write from my experience for the rest of it. Today’s title scares me. What the heck? “Are we writing about vampires today, God?”

Okay, quiet, Bo. There is something here to tell.

Every year at Christmas time I get at least one fruitcake. I usually never open it, take the tag off of it and find someone who likes fruitcake and regift. Done deal! Never have to bite.

One year, a dear friend made a fruitcake and brought in her own fancy, shmancy glass cake dish with a large domed glass lid. I thought, yum… fruitcake in a glass jar. This sure does make this more appetizing… NOT!

Anyway, my point was that she wanted to take her glass cake dish home, so she waited for me to have a taste of her grandma’s famous fruitcake recipe. I swear I was having visions of that episode on “Friends” where Jennifer Aniston decides to make a trifle and the pages of the recipe got stuck together with some beef recipe and she ended up making beef trifle—sweet, meaty, too many colors to eat— cake.

I didn’t want to hurt my friend’s feelings, so I cut a piece while saying, “You know, I don’t think I have ever really had fruitcake before. I’ve seen a lot of them (regifted about 100-nya nya), but never really tasted them.”

My friend said, “You are sure to like this one. I have never had anyone not like it.”

I sat right next to the garbage can and called my dog over to the table in case I had to do some fast thinking. Coco would eat almost anything. I served us both a piece and 2 cups of coffee.

Okay, I’m ready to take that first bite, for the sake of God and good southern manners. It goes into my mouth, and I start to chew and chew… and chew… and it just won’t go down.

My friend keeps looking at me, which made it worse. I was trying to smile, but my eyes began to tear up. I thought, if I swallow this, I’m going to gag or barf on her. It tasted like old, chewy candy from an rickety old man, Seagrams 7, ground chuck and cinnamon all jumbled together.

I started to swallow and the tiny forkful went down without a hitch. Since I’ve written a rather successful cookbook, my friend was waiting to hear my “professional” point of view about her cake. Just as I was about to conjure something nice to say, she said, “It’s the second bite that really gets you into it. The first bite just wets your whistle. But the second bite just lights up your taste buds.”

My stomach had a monster in it that rose up in my larynx and spoke: “YOU WILL NOT TAKE ANOTHER BITE!” The sound came out as a kind of growl.

“I’m not too hungry. I just ate lunch,” I said. “I can tell you how I feel about it… really.”

“No,” she insisted. She actually took the fork, dug into my plate and waited with the forkful at my clenched jaw like a mother trying to feed her child pureéd peas.

I closed my eyes and opened my mouth and took the poison. The entire time thinking, why am I going against everything I believe in, to make this friend feel good about her cooking? I began to chew. This time, the cake taste worse, because all the stomach acids from me silently vomiting in my mouth ten times were mixed with the cake. I chewed again and more tears followed.

Next, the strangest thing happened. I started to laugh. The cake began to spew out of my mouth. I held my hand up to keep from spraying it all over the kitchen. I went to the sink and started to gag and spit up the cake and cry and laugh all at the same time.

My dear friend put her hand on my back and started to laugh with me. It was uncontrollable. We were both dying laughing. Turns out, she got that cake as a gift from me the year before, saved it for an entire year in her freezer, and brought it back to me in this lush cake dish, because I had given her 3 really bad fruitcakes 3 years in a row.

Don’t eat what you don’t like. It’s not worth it. Just recently I had a friend to dinner. He hates roast beef. My mother cooked roast beef. He choked down the entire dinner. At the end of the dinner, he politely said, “Excuse me, I have to use the bathroom.” The poor thing never even made it to the bathroom before he lost the entire dinner in the hallway.

I think we are smart enough to do this: When you get invited to dinner somewhere, tell the person who is cooking what you can’t eat and are allergic to. That friend will understand. If he or she doesn’t, they won’t cook for you ever again. It’s fairly simple.

And the last lesson: Let’s stop the madness with fruitcakes at Christmas. We all hate them. No one likes them. And I’d rather go out and eat worms!

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