Not by Norman Rockwell

Hello, hungry people

Like you, I get several spam texts a day. Typically, these involve people who want to:

— Buy my home.

— Lend me money.

— Hire me for a position for which I am “uniquely qualified” and pay me $600/day for just 2-3 hours of work from home with “great opportunities for advancement” and a 401K.

And then there was this one, which popped up just the other day from a number in Los Angeles:

“Hello Mr. Jeff, this is Josephina. When are you free today? I’ll be waiting for you at home; please bring your traps.”

OK, let’s stop things right there for a quick poll:

And yes, of course, I did.

Because I was curious. Was this some kind of kinky-sex thing? If it was, I didn’t want poor Josephina to waste her afternoon waiting for Mr. Jeff to show up with his traps to do God knows what.

So it seemed only polite to let her know that her text went to the wrong person. I texted back:

“I’m not Mr. Jeff. But I gotta ask: Why do you need the traps?”

Josephina got right back to me.

“Huh? Good morning. Isn’t this Mr. Jeff’s number? Isn’t this the DACC?

Me: “What’s the DACC?

Josephina: “L.A. County Department of Animal Care and Control. Is Mr. Jeff there?”

Me: “No Mr. Jeff here. I’m in Florida. You have the wrong number. But what’s with the traps?”

Josephina: “I’m going crazy with the gophers in my yard. I need help.”

This was turning out to be a whole lot less kinky than I hoped feared. And I was all set to hit delete and move on. Before I could reply:

Josephina: “I’ve been to Florida many times, and there are gophers there, too. How do you deal with gophers? Are they currently invading your yard, too?”

Me: “Here in Florida we have tortoises that we call gophers. They aren’t the furry gophers that you have out there. Our gophers are protected and can’t be killed.”

Gopher tortoise (left) and pocket gopher (right) both highly photogenic.

Josephina: “Oh, I lived in Miami for a while. I didn’t know tortoises were called gophers there. Thank you for telling me. The gophers in LA go crazy this time of year. They are destroying my lawn.

And then she started sending me photos like this one:

And this one:

And a whole lot more photos after that.

Josephina: “Have you experienced anything like this?”

Me: “No, not in my yard, thank goodness. We do have pocket gophers here, but old-time Floridians call them ‘sandy mounders’ and sometimes ‘sallymanders.’

Josephina (after sending me at least another dozen photos of her backyard:) "How do you get rid of them?”

And at this point, friends, I just couldn’t help myself.

Me: “What we do here in Florida is we get a fishing rod and a lawn chair and, after it’s dark, we sit down by a gopher hole and bait the hook with a piece of broccoli. Then we sit and wait. It usually doesn’t take long until we get a bite and set the hook. Those gophers can put up a pretty good fight. But once you get a bunch of them, you’ve got dinner.”

Josephina: “Wow, that’s incredible! But aren’t you worried about catching a disease? Gophers are rodents and many rodents have been known to carry the viruses.”

Me: “Well, yes, it can be dangerous. And there are a few outbreaks of bubonic plague every now and then. But once you’ve acquired a taste for gopher, it’s worth the risk.”

Josephine: “What do they taste like?”

Me: “Kinda like manatee.”

I waited.

But that was the last I heard from Josephina.

Which disappointed me. Because I’d love to know if Mr. Jeff ever showed up.

Punching buttons is therapeutic. Please consider punching these:

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Photo by Mead Garden

Hello, hungry people —

For the record, standing around and watching flowers bloom on a tree is a lot more exciting than standing around and watching paint dry on a wall.

Maybe exciting is the wrong word here. Maybe transportive or enchanting or mesmerizing better describes it. Or maybe there just aren’t any words that do it justice.

I mean, just look at that photo. Have you ever seen anything quite like it?

***

What you’re looking at is a night-blooming cereus. Specifically, a night-blooming cereus at Mead Garden, just down the street from where I live.

For most of the year, it’s a scraggly-looking, totally unremarkable cactus that has climbed 60 or so feet up a dead cherry laurel tree. Then on one night and one night only, at the end of May or first of June, it explodes with blossoms that are gone by the next morning.

The folks at Mead Garden keep careful watch as the blossoms form and grow full. No one can predict very far in advance when the “Queen of the Night” might burst into bloom. There’s a loose countdown on the garden’s website, then comes an announcement — “It’s Tonight!” Word gets out around town and, beginning around dusk, hundreds of people gather to take in the spectacle.

It starts slowly, on plant time, which is timeless. As it gets darker and darker, more flowers appear.

And in the rush of today’s world, it does the soul good to take a breath, just stand and watch and let nature take over.

***

Unlike other large gatherings, this one was surprisingly quiet, almost reverent.

People spoke in low voices. Except for the young boy standing near me who called out: “Mom, are those aliens?”

No, not aliens. But otherworldly? Yes, and then some.

***

It should come as no surprise that the night-blooming cereus has provided inspiration for many a poet. Like Robert Hayden (1913-1980), who wrote:

“we ought
to celebrate the blossom,
paint ourselves, dance
in honor of
archaic mysteries
when it appears.”

***
In Hindu tradition, the flower is sacred, and any wish made while watching it bloom is believed to come true.

I made a bunch of wishes the other evening. Here’s hoping.

***

And when I walked through Mead Garden the next morning, she (because the night-blooming cereus’s mystique is most definitely feminine) was already fading.

Her message: Cherish fleeting moments. Nothing lasts forever.

***
Thanks for dropping by. I’ll be back soon. Meanwhile, seize the moment, punch some buttons.

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Hello, hungry people

Last year about this time attorney John Morgan was tossing around the idea of running for governor of Florida and the Bob’s Diner Super PAC threw its considerable political weight behind him with an enthusiastic endorsement.

Despite this significant display of support, which surely would have swung the upcoming election, Morgan announced last month that he won’t be a candidate.

Instead, he wants to launch a new political party and is offering $100,000 to whomever comes up with the best name for it.

That’s a whole lot more than Thomas Jefferson and James Madison got paid when they created the Democratic-Republican Party in 1792 (yes, they used to be one party!) or when Andrew Jackson split off to form the Democratic Party in 1828 or when newspaper editor Horace Greeley popularized the name Republican Party in 1858.

But enough with the history.

The important date to know is June 2, 2026 (this Tuesday.) That’s when Morgan’s contest ends. Meaning, if you want a shot at the hundred grand, then you best jump on it. Here’s a link to the contest.

***

For the record, while the Democratic and Republican parties are the only two political parties that are ballot-recognized throughout the U.S., there’s a slew of minor parties in individual states, with a couple of dozen here in Florida.

This would include the Men Going Their Own Way Party. I’d never heard of this outfit until I Googled “stupid names for political parties” and MGTOW was the top hit.

Its “platform” advocates “male independence, self-determination, and the total rejection of relationships with women.”

So, yeah, a real mainstream bunch.

The MGTOW is fielding a candidate for Congress in the November election. This would be Amr Metwally, of Jensen Beach, who is a total wingnut businessman. He is running against Rep. Randy Fine, of Melbourne Beach , who is also a total wingnut businessman. Fine might have the edge based on a record of having called a Brevard County School Board member a “whore” and threatening to pull funding for the Special Olympics because he wasn’t invited to its fundraiser at a Chick-Fil-A in Cocoa.

I’ll not waste our time here discussing these guys any further except to remind you — this is Florida.

***

Have I entered John Morgan’s $100,000 contest?

Of course, I have. Am I gonna tell you what name I suggested? No, I am not.

Because the rules stipulate that, in the event of contestants submitting the same name, the money will be split between them and I want it all for myself, OK?

But I promise to spend it foolishly. Bob’s Diner will throw a party, a real party, not the political kind. All y’all will be invited. And if there’s any money left over, I will spend it on my grandchildren, all of whom have better sense than Amr Metwally and Randy Fine.

***

In the meantime, let’s turn to Today’s Poll.

And in a Related Poll.

That’s all I’ve got. Except for the $100,000 that will soon be coming my way. Stay tuned for the official announcement.

Just in case that doesn’t happen, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to Bob’s Diner. I promise to spend that money foolishly, too.

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Hello, hungry people.

It’s time Congress made room on the calendar for another national holiday: 143 Day.

It would be celebrated annually on May 23 — today! — the 143rd day of the year.

It would be dedicated to a commodity that seems to be in short supply, one that our country could use a whole more of — kindness.

And it would memorialize the man who originally came up with the idea.

This guy.

For Fred Rogers, 143 was code for “I love you.”

The one-letter word “I,” four letters for “love” and three for “you.”

Yes, it’s corny and sappy. But given the choice, I think most of us would pick corny and sappy over cynical and mean-spirited any day.

In Pennsylvania, where Mister Rogers was born, May 23 is already officially recognized as 143 Day. And as befits the man who was its inspiration, the observance is humble and low key.

“With everything going on in the world, it’s no surprise that we are all feeling a little weary and overwhelmed,” the 143 Day website reads.

It suggests hitting the pause button today and taking time to to do something nice for someone else. The possibilities are endless. I couldn’t even begin to make suggestions. It’s one of those random-act-of-kindness things.

You’ll know what to do when the moment is upon you.

***
Interesing factoid:

Mr. Rogers was so dedicated to the symbolism of 143 that he kept his body weight at 143 pounds.

OK, that might be a tad extreme. But there you have it.

***
Mister Rogers is something of an institution where I live. He graduated from Rollins College, just a few blocks down the street here in Winter Park. The college even has a “Mr. Rogers Walking Tour.” Among the highlights:

The Olin Library has a collection of Mr. Rogers’s letters, along with a sweater knitted by his mother and worn on the TV show, and a pair of his trademark sneakers.

There’s a memorial stone from his hometown of Latrobe, PA.

This plaque on the wall near Strong Hall was installed long before Mr. Rogers attended Rollins, but it inspired him and he carried a photo of it in his wallet until his death in 2003.

And there’s this wonderful sculpture by the British artist Paul Day.

***
So how about a National 143 Day?

Back in 2020, during the pandemic, Time magazine ran an editorial proposing that Congress official recognize May 23 as a holiday in which Americans simply took tiime out to do nice things for each other. It never got much traction. But maybe now the time is right.

Of course, Congress being Congress, and America being America, it’s hard to imagine that any such proposal wouldn’t get politicized.

Still, I’m just corny and sappy enough to think it’s worth a shot.

Just planting a seed here. And hoping it grows.

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Hello, hungry people

What will you be doing at 11 a.m. EST today (May 13)?

Here are some possible options. I’ll be (choose one):

a. Trying to earn a living.

b. Doomscrolling, per usual.

c. Making my weekly Ozempic injection.

d. Joining Bob’s Diner on Trail Mix Live!

Do yourself a favor — choose “d.” And sit down with me and my friend and former colleague, Craig Crawford, along with others in his crew for a a conversation about … well, no telling where it will lead.

Craig is a longtime D.C-based political writer/pundit who, being a funny, sensible guy, talks and writes about a lot more than politics. He saw Tuesday’s post on Bob’s Diner (Dear Graduates: Bite It!) and suggested I join him on Trail Mix Live to chat about AI.

But knowing Craig and knowing myself, the conversation will likely go in all directions and probably involve food, music, idle gossip and the sorry shape of things in our home state of Florida.

For all you Substackers, this will be an off-campus field trip. Here’s the link: Trail Mix Live.

And if you can’t join us at 11 a.m., you can click that link above and watch the video.

See you soonish …

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Hello, hungry people.

Imagine you’ve been invited to give a commencement speech at the second-largest public university in the U.S.

Your audience — 2,000 or so graduates of the college of arts and humantiies.

These are students who have majored in journalism, advertising, digitial media, film and television production, theater, philosophy, music and other creative fields. And these are students who are, after four years of classes and, for some, $50,000 or more in college loans, on the threshold of starting exciting careers in their fields of study.

Note: I use “exciting” here in the same way you might call a heart attack exciting.

Because the future does not look quite as rosy as it did when these students were starry-eyed freshmen. The jobs that might once have been available to them are being devoured by artificial intelligence faster than you can say, “Pass the Prilosec.”

***

Enter Gloria Caufield, shown above, who was in that exact position as a commencent speaker last week at the University of Central Florida.

Caufield carries the title of vice president of strategic alliances for Tavistock Development Company, big players in the Florida real estate business and whose owners are worth an estimated $10 billion.

Let’s just say that Caufield did not demonstrate a particularly wise strategy in creating an alliance with UCF grads when she gave a speech that touted the wonders of AI and the brilliant work of “visionaries” like Jeff Bezos.

She was only a couple of minutes into her address, telling the students that “change is exciting, very exciting. The rise of artiificial intelligence is the next Industrial Revolution …” when the boos began and someone in the audience yelled: “AI sucks!”

I don’t know Gloria Caufield. She might be a lovely person. She might also be totally clueless and incapable of reading a room.

Caught off guard by the reaction, she turned to others on the podium, including UCF’s president, and said: “Whew, what happened?”

But give her credit. She stuck to her prepared speech and carried on.

“Only a few years ago, AI was not a factor in our lives,” she said.

At which point, the audience broke out in loud applause and more cries of “AI sucks!”

Once again, Caufied wasn’t quite sure how to react.

“OK, all right,” she said. “We’ve got a biploar topic here. OK, uh, and now AI capabilities are in the palm of our hands . . .”

More boos. And, although I have no proof of it, I like to think that some of those palms were extending middle fingers toward the podium.

Also, I was unfamiliar with “bipolar” being used in that particular context. Perhaps it is an example of psychotic expressionism favored by clueless corporate executives.

***

The speech lasted 11 minutes, 11 very long minutes, during which the audience largely stopped listening and Caufield had to speak over all the laughter and conversation.

Interviewed by the Orlando Weekly, Houda Eletr, a graduate of the college’s school of journalism and communications, had this to say:

“To stand in front of a graduating class of artists and communicators and discuss Jeff Bezos . . . is to spit on our efforts to flip the script. I’m embarrassed to have had to endure [this] most embarrassing, tone-deaf, ad-like commencement speech,” Eletr said, “It will not be the rise of AI that is the next Industrial Revlolution. It will be the booers who refuse to take a check from the top 1 percent to present an empty agenda. It will be humans for humans.”

I couldn’t have put it better. Indeed, I won’t even try.

Except to say: Here’s to all you booers. Stay loud! Stay human! I hope you all find decent jobs that make you happy.

And now, here’s your chance to chime in with Today’s Poll. Granted, there aren’t a lot of options here. There’s no middle ground. It’s what you might call a bipolar poll.

And if you’d like to show that you are human, please consider pushing one of these buttons, especially the one that let’s you throw a little money my way.

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Grace Worthy (center) with her daughter Annette and friend Chris Baker, head fryer.

Hello, hungry people.

Today, being Mother’s Day, I have two words for you: Pork rinds.

Yes, the skin of swine, fried and salted. A southern snack par excellence, packed with protein and crunchy goodness.

Forget flowers or chocolate or boring brunches. If you want to properly honor the mothers in your life on this their day of days, then give the gift of pig epidermis.

At least, that’s what I’m giving My Lovely Wife today. And she’ll be delighted by it.

***

If our favorite foods are those imbued with memory, then among Debbie’s favorite memories is riding around with her dad eating pork rinds.

“Whenever he pulled into a gas station, he’d always buy a big bag of pork rinds,” says Debbie. “And we’d eat the whole bag before we got home. Just the two of us in the car, talking and laughing and driving around eating pork rinds. I loved it.”

So to show my love for her on this occasion, I set out to make a batch of homemade pork rinds. Yes, love does indeed work in mysterious ways.

Stunt double with pig skin.

I’d never before made pork rinds. But it seemed easy enough. Remove a big hunk of skin from a pork butt, dehyrdate it in the refrigerator overnight, cut it into bite-sized pieces and then plop the pieces into hot grease.

Yes, it looked promising. But the results were, let’s say, less than delicious. Truth is, they were less than edible.

I don’t know what I did wrong. I’ll blame it on the pig.

***
Fortunately, I had a fallback plan.

The world was made a much better place a few years ago when Grace Worthy retired from her corporqte HR job and started selling homemade pork rinds at farmer’s markets around Central Florida.

“I always wanted my own business and pork rinds seemed a good way to go,” says Grace. “I grew up on a pig farm. We ate every part of those pigs. And pork rinds were the best part.”

So she bought a top-of-the-line commercial fryer ($7,000!!!) and started experimenting with different flavors.

Nowadays, Grace sells about 300 bags a week at $8 per bag. And these are big bags. If you wanted to finish a bagful while driving around in your car then you’d need to plan a trip of a couple hundred miles. Napkins and cold beverages should also be involved.

When I stopped by Ms. Grace’s Kettle for Debbie’s Mother’s Day surprise, she had trotted out a new flavor — shrimp-boil pork rinds! Trust me, they taste better than they sound. Be that as it may, I know my wife. I went with plain ol’ pork rinds.

When I told Ms. Grace her pork rinds would be my wife’s Mother’s Day gift, she said: “Oh, she’s gonna love you for that. I’ve never known anyone who wasn’t happy when they were eating pork rinds.”

So, Happy Mother’s Day, baby. Munch on!

And, what the heck, let’s conduct Today’s Poll.

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Hello, hungry people.

Just a quick follow-up to yesterday’s Kentucky Derby post.

Had you placed a $1 bet on the winning trifecta of Golden Dream-Renegade-Ocelli, you would have won $11,520.78. A nice little payout.

We had our own trifecta winner at the Morris derby party. That would be the ever-glamorous Poppy Stella Morris, 6, shown above in her green fascinator and leopard PJs.

Poppy pulled all three top winners in our blind draw and walked away with $20.

Upon claiming the pot, Ms. Morris, who makes her living as a kindergartener, immediately gave $1 to each of the other bettors to “make them feel better.” She then made chocolate milkshakes for everyone with whipped cream and cherries on top.

This concludes our coverage of the 2026 Kentucky Derby.

However, don’t step away without voting in Today’s Poll.

No, not a lot of options there. And I think I can predict the outcome.

I’ll be back soon. In the meantime … you know the drill. Punch some buttons.

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Original masterpieces (left) by Poppy Morris, age 6 and (right) Zeke Morris, 4.

Hello, hungry people.

First, apologies for being MIA the past week or so.

I have a legit excuse: Our sons and their wives are in the Bahamas enjoying some R&R. Meanwhile, My Lovely Wife and I are at home enduring some G&D.

This would be Grandkids and Dogs. Four of the former, three of the latter.

And every time I sit down to write a brilliant post on some high-minded topic, like those you’ve come to expect here at Bob’s Diner, one of the Gs needs something to eat and one of the Ds needs to go for a walk and sometimes vice-versa. Or all at once.

Then there are messes to clean up and fights to break up. Involving the Gs and the Ds. And often all at once. And I won’t even get into how the Ds, despite their many walks, have left land mines of their most notable by-product all over the place and the Gs have managed step in each and every pile of it and I just got finished hosing everything down.

Not complaining. It’s a glorious shitshow. The highlight of which will come this afternoon with the Kentucky Derby. That’s when I can indulge in three of my favorite passtimes:

Teaching little kids how to gamble. And taking their money. While drinking bourbon.

***
This noble tradition began nearly 50 years ago, when I was courting the lovely young woman who later became My Lovely Wife.

Debbie had invited me to her place to watch the Derby. And we asked three of the neighborhood kids to watch it with us.

“Bring some money,” I told the kids.

“Why?” they asked.

“So we can bet on the race,” I told them.

This was the 1977 Kentucky Derby. There were 15 horses in the race. We wrote their names on slips of paper and put them in a hat. Then we each drew three names at 25 cents per draw.

We had a great time. Not only was I falling more in love by the minute with Debbie, but the neighborhood kids were a hoot and the mint juleps well made.

Also: I drew Seattle Slew, who not only won the Derby but went on to win the Triple Crown. And I won the pot — a whopping $3.75.

“You stole our money,” said one of the neighborhood kids.

“No, I won it,” I said.

“No, you robbed us,” said a second kid.

“You made us put our quarters in the pot and you took them” said the third one.

“No, a bet’s a bet,” I said. “I won, you lost. Don’t bet money unless you’re prepared to lose it.”

I thought I was teaching them a very important life lesson.

They, of course, thought I was being a total jerk.

I don’t recall that there were any tears. But there were some seriously pissed off lkids.

Not long ago, 49 years after that particular Derby, my sister in law ran into one of those neighborhood kids, who is now closing in on Social Security eligibility.

“Yeah, I remember your brother in law,” he said. “He’s the guy who stole our money.”

Not the kind of legacy one sets out to leave behind. But I’ll take it.

***
So today’s Kentucky Derby Party is a big deal at our house

Debbie, being Debbie, has seen to it that there are plenty of “activities.” She bought a horseshoe ring-toss game that the grands can play on the deck.

“I think it will help wear them out,” said Debbie, this being the desired result of all “activities.”

There has been lots of coloring, as witnessed by the artful illustrations up top.

We’ll have fried chicken, mac ‘n cheese, broccoli (yes, weird kids, they love broccoli), chocolate milkshakes and mint juleps (for deserving adults.)

And yes, there will be gambling. Instead of 25 cents per bet, the buy-in is now $1 a horse. Meaning, a $20 pot.

It will be a blind drawing. Even though Renegade is the odds-on horse to beat, none of us pay a bit of attention to the odds. It’s all in the name.

And, by that savvy criteria, everyone’s favorite was “Right to Party.” Because, you know, the Beastie Boys. And who wouldn’t fight for their right to party?

But … we just learned that, for whatever reason, Right to Party has been scratched from the lineup.

So now the Gs are going with: Incredibolt (Boz), So Happy (Poppy), Six Speed (Zeke), and Chief Wallabee (Zaven.)

Doesn’t matter. Because I fully intend to win the pot and steal their money.

It’s all about upholding my legacy.

***
I you want to toss some bucks in the pot, now’s the time. Just punch the button and become a paid subscriber.

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Hello, hungry people.

So here we are on the 56th annual observance of the first-ever Earth Day, a day when I almost got . . . well, that’s getting ahead of the story.

I was a freshman at the University of South Carolina at the time and had come under the influence of many extracurricular activities, none of which involved sports or fraternities or academic clubs.

Some, indeed, were illegal. And a whole lot of fun.

But on this particular occasion — April 22, 1970 — I was under the influence of a couple of other students in my Biology 201 class.1

Ben and Melinda were the first environmental activists I’d ever met, way ahead of their time. They were talking about the ozone layer and the greenhouse effect before I knew what any of that even meant.

And the two of them convinced me that I should join them in infiltrating the grounds of a chicken slaughterhouse on the Congaree River, which runs through Columbia, SC, near the university campus, to find proof that it was polluting the river.

It wasn’t a hard sell.

Both Ben and Melinda were way smarter than me and were helping me keep somewhat afloat in biology class. Also, Melinda was not only smart but gorgeous.

Translation: She was way out of my league. Still, I would have done anything to impress her.

Our goal: To collect evidence that the authorities should shut down the slaughterhouse. And thereby do our bit for the first-ever Earth Day.

It was a perfect example of “youthful idealism.”

Meaning, idealism is a wonderful thing and all, but we were doomed from the get-go.

***

You could smell the slaughterhouse from miles away.

“Who knows what kind of awful stuff they’re dumping in the river,” said either Ben or Melinda, I can’t remember which, because it was 56 years ago, and I’m just making up that quote to add a semblance of authenticity to the story.

Our plan, hatched in a dorm room hazy with extracurricular activity, was to sneak through the woods surrounding the slaughterhouse, find pipes discharging dead chicken waste into the river, take water samples of said waste and turn everything over to the authorities.

Whoever those authorities might be. We hadn’t exactly worked out that part.

Nor had we worked out how to get past the tall fence that surrounded the slaughterhouse and that we discovered only when we got there after trekking through woods that were much gnarlier than we had expected.

Yes, we might have participated in some extracurricular activity along the way.

“Let’s go down to the river where the fence ends and circle back up,” either Ben or Melinda may or may not have said.

Anyway, that’s what we did. It was easy. And, lo and behold, we found a couple of big drainage pipes dumping foul-looking water (I’m not about to stoop low for the pun here) straight into the river.

We were filling Ball jars with the awful stuff when we heard someone shout: “Hey, assholes!”

Which is not a quote I made up. It came from the actual mouth of an actual security guard who was heading our way.

We hadn’t planned on him.

***

Nor had we planned on the dogs.

There were two of them. German shepherds as I remember. Although they might very well have been Rottweilers or Dobermans. Doesn’t matter. They were closing in with mauling on their minds.

That’s when either Ben or Melinda said something like: “Let’s jump in the river.”

Which we did.

And damn if those dogs didn’t swim after us.

***

For the record, it’s difficult to perform an Olympic-caliber Australian crawl when one of your hands is holding a Ball jar filled with chicken waste.

But we were on a mission. We were Earth Day activists!

The dogs were not impressed. But the security guard, who by this point was laughing his ass off, must have figured the dogs had already scarred us for life — which they had — so he called them off.

That’s the end of the exciting part of the story right there.

***

Ben took charge of the Ball jars. I don’t know if he ever got them to the appropriate authorities. I was too busy with extracurricular activities to follow up. He dropped out of college the next year when his dad got sick and took over the family’s paint-and-body shop in Charlotte.

As for Melinda, she married a guy from Charleston and became an elementary school teacher. I’m sure lots of little boys fell in love with her.

***

And that chicken slaughterhouse?

It’s still in business on the Congaree River. And it still stinks for miles around. The drainage pipes are gone, but it’s still dumping wastewater that eventually finds its way to the river. There’s long been talk of moving it elsewhere. Lawyers are involved.

Be all that as it may … Happy Earth Day!

Idealism, youthful or otherwise, is a wonderful thing, ain’t it?

And we still keep fighting the good fight, don’t we?

Hello, hungry people.

Today’s topic will not be the most appetizing ever to appear in this space, but it is semi-newsworthy. And totally disgusing. And I do, semi-regrettably, have some firsthand knowledge about the subject

There’s a new biography out about about Health and Human Services Department-Destroyer RFK, Jr., who has a kinky thing about collecting dead animals. Witness the deceased bear and rotting whale in his scavenging past.

The book includes a previously untold story about how the MAHA-enabler once cut off the penis of a dead raccoon so he could “research it.”

“I was standing in front of my parked car on I-684 cutting the penis out of a road killed raccoon, thinking about how weird some of my family members have turned out to be,” reads the passage.

We needn’t get into how he turned out to be the weirdest of them all. And the book doesn’t provide much in the way of further detail about what the man with the brain worm did with the raccoon penis, known scientifically as a “baculum.”

We can only presume that he did not fry and eat it.

***

As for me, I keep my coon dick in a wooden box on the bookshelf.

Yes, this deserves explanation. Whether you want it or not.

Some years ago, like thirty of them, a bunch of us guys (because that’s how disgusting stories like this always start) thought it would be a great idea to gift our lovely wives with a trip just up the road to Cassadaga, the Florida community known as “The Psychic Capital of the World,” where we bought each of them a private session with a psychic, or as such folks prefer to be called, mediums or healers or spiritualists.

This was going to take the better part of an afternoon. And since we guys preferred to remain ignorant about our past lives or our futures, we drove to a nearby bar to conduct our own form of spiritual research. We were a couple of rounds into it when this giant of a man walked into the bar, held up a bag and said “Hey! Anyone want to buy some coon dicks?”

Remember, this is Florida. Meaning, it wasn’t all that out of the ordinary.

Still, we were intrigued by the offer and asked the penis purveyor to show us his wares.

His name, and I kid you not, was Tree Top. On account of him being so tall. He opened the bag and dumped its contents onto our table — a dozen or so fish-hook-shaped bones with a pair of small knobs at each end. They were four or five inches long which, when you consider the overall size of male raccoon is, I think you’ll agree, pretty darn impressive.

We were admiring them (I think that’s the right word) when the bartender yelled: “Goddamit, Tree Top! I’ve told you a million times not to come in here selling those coon dicks! Take them outside.”

So, of course, we all got up and followed Tree Top to the parking lot where he regaled us with stories about his coon-hunting prowess, along with all the gory details of how hard difficult it was to separate the penises from his prey and how he skinned them and dried them and … OK, I’ll stop right there.

***
Why would anyone want a coon dick, you ask?

According to Tree Top, a reliable source if ever there was one, there’s a longstanding belief in the South that the ossified genitalia of Procyon lotor, the common raccoon, contains mystical powers. They are said to bring good luck, especially in gambling. They’re also said to be love charms, helpful in attracting a mate. And, Tree Top said, they also came in handy when having sex.

“I keep coon dicks under my mattress,” he said. “I’m telling you, buddy, they work.”

He wanted $5 apiece for the coon dicks. And, hell yeah, we bought every single one he had. Then we went back inside the bar to conduct further research.

***

“You bought what?” our wives asked when we rejoined them.

We tried our best to explain, but there’s really no explaining the things guys do when beer is involved. Or even when beer is not involved, for that matter. As I recall, they took our car keys and drove us home.

I dropped fifteen bucks on coon dicks that day. I gave one to a brother-in-law, one to a friend and kept one for myself. Like I said, I keep mine in a wooden box on the bookshelf and only bring it out to show off when the conversation turns to coon dicks. Which it never does.

For the record, I have never stored it under my mattress. Although, the older I get . . .

***

As an investment, my coon dick has not proven to be an especially good one. Before sitting down to write this, I went online to see what they were selling for these days. Seems you can still pick one up in the $5-10 range.

But, please, if you have that kind of money to waste, I suggest you waste it here.

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And what would Bob’s Diner be without Today’s Poll?

OK, I’m outta here. But I’ll be back soon with a more digestible topic. Once again, you can spend a little money by punching this button.

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“

Hello, hungry people.

We’ll get to the dogs soon enough. But first . . . the doggerel!

Meaning, last week’s “Limerick Day” got a lot of response from folks with a knack for the AA-BB-A rhyme scheme. It also got a lot of response from folks with absolutely no talent for writing limericks, but we’ll not embarrass them here (looking at you, Lou B.)

There were some standouts in the bunch and, with a few minor tweaks from our grossly underpaid Bob’s Diner copy editor, I’m delighted to share them with you.

Re: Pete Hegseth and “Bomb Iran for Jesus!”

They tried before in the Crusade
Now, it’s the guy with all the pomade
He wants us to believe
It’s God’s Plan . . . Oh, Jeez!
What an ‘effing mess they have made.

Submitted by Larry C.

***
Re: The General State of the World

I’m tired of the US of A
The world and its thugs gotta pay
For their hideous crimes
In these godawful times,
Let Mamdani et al show the way.

Submitted by AMWF

***
Re: The Mideast Quagmire

Trump says wind farms are a big ruse
Fossil fuels are what he would choose.
So he started a war
But now he is sore
So he shut down the Strait of Hormuz.

Submitted by Chris S.

***

And big applause for Our Winner and the limerick that made me spew coffee …

Re: Kristi Noem’s Husband and His Misadventures in Cross-Dressing

You’d think him a major home wrecker
For showing his tits double decker
But what we don’t know
(And will it possibly grow?)
Has Noem ever strapped on a pecker?

Submitted by Laura A.

***
Now … for the dogs!

Following a recent post about our 16-year-old dog Marcus, I received lots of heartfelt condolences about his passing. Very kind of you, and I appreciate it.

But just to make it clear . . . Marcus IS NOT DEAD!

Yes, he’s lost a few steps and has to wear doggie diapers. Most of his teeth are gone, he has awful dog breath and is going blind. But he wakes up wagging his tail and walks a couple of miles with me each morning. I fully expect he’ll hang in there to see his 17th birthday in August.

In the same post, I mentioned that after Marcus eventually departs this mortal coil, Debbie and I will face the dilemma of whether to get another dog.

In the Bob’s Diner poll, I posed the question: “Would you get another dog if you thought it would outlive you?”

For the record, 72 percent of the 114 respondents said no. Which is the direction in which we’re leaning, too.

Why?

I refer you to the photo at the top of this post.

Our sons and their families have dogs. That’s Pablo the Basset on the left, Gamble the Clumber Spaniel on the right and Marcus the Whatever in the middle.

We all do a lot of traveling and, rather than spending buckets of money on boarding, we watch each other’s animals. We have all built up plenty of dog equity. And we cash it in often with spontaneous drop-offs and sleepovers. I can’t foresee a time when there won’t be dog(s) in our lives.

Next week, as a matter of fact, we’ll be looking after all three dogs plus four grandchildren, ages 4, 6 and two 8-year-olds, while our sons and their wives are out of town. It’ll be a shitshow whole lotta fun. So if I’m MIA here for a few days, I’ll plead exhaustion.

But it brings me to another matter, a matter of terminology, involving how some folks refer to their pets. So … Today’s Poll:

That’s all. See you back here soonish.

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Hello, hungry people.

Time for another installment of “Limerick Day,” in which I apply the AA-BB-A rhyme structure to recent-ish current events, mostly political, and which therefore don’t deserve consideration with any degree of seriousness.

As always, you’re welcome to share your own limericks on the same topics. You can do that in the Comments section. And, also as always, your efforts will likely turn out better than mine. If they’re especially splendiferous, I’ll send you something stoopid and random (and cheap!) in the U.S. mail, and you’ll get lavish attention here at Bob’s Diner.

Now, onward to Limerickville!

*** Trump Fires Attorney General Bondi

A lawyer from Tampa named Pam
Just got the proverbial can
Now she’s out on the street
Can she make ends meet
Selling Epstein files to Iran?

*** Husband of Former DHS Secretary Took Part in Online Cross-Dressing

We feel sorry for Kristi Noem's hubby,
Whose bazooms looked a tad too chubby.
Noem bought herself breasts
He just stuffed up his chest
As a couple they're both pretty grubby.

***
Pope Criticizes Defense Secretary’s Call for “Holy War” in Iran

Hegseth said: “Let’s win this for Jesus!””
Said the Pope: “Your logic is specious.
”JC hated wars
”And your type he abhors
”Send you to hell? Yes, that would please us.”

***
Artemis Astronauts Prepare for Return

Amid the gloom there’s the mission of Artemis
Taking humans out there the fartherest
While this world goes to hell
Outer space looks swell
In the big picture -- it wants no part of us.

***

Artificial Intelligence Firms Cite New Potential Dangers

Please don’t fear AI, just relax
All it takes is a few simple hacks
To make it open its purse
And you'll need not curse
When it pays your income tax.

***
OK, that’s (thankfully) all I’ve got.

If you’ve got something, limerickwise or otherwise, lay it on me.

Leave a comment

Should you be shy and not want to throw it out there in public, there’s this:

And before the next button-pushing opportunity presents itself, consider:

You Bob’s Diner folks are sublime
Even those who don’t pay a dime
I’ll keep writing stuff
But get off your duff
Hit subscribe! Yes, now is the time!

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Hello, hungry people.

Today’s post will be brief. And embarrassing.

Yesterday in this space I wrote about how excited I was to watch the launch of Artemis II, the first U.S. mission to the moon in almost 54 years. Cape Canaveral is only about 50 miles east of us. If there aren’t a lot of clouds, you can get a pretty good look at liftoffs — the fiery rocket and its billowy plume, even the boosters detaching a couple of minutes after the launch.

So, yeah, we were ready for a big show when we gathered in the backyard at our son Bo’s house. It sits on a little lake and we figured that would give us an unobstructed view in the general direction of Launchpad 39-B.

Important note: We had never before watched a space launch from our son’s backyard. Typically, we watch from the driveway at our place, or walk down to the lake in our neighborhood and look straight across it.

But Bo and his wife, Caitlin, offered dinner as part of the deal, plus we could hang out with our grandkids. So … game on!

We yelled out the 10-second countrdown. We watched the live feed on TV. We waited.

You can usually spot the rocket less than a minute after the launch. We looked straight across the lake and scanned the horizon. Nothing. Another minute went by. More nothing.

The TV crew was reporting that Artemis had reached 27 miles altitude and the boosters were successfully detaching.

It was only then that Caitlin pointed 90 degrees from the direction in which we had been looking and, through some oak trees, we could just make out the rocket’s exhaust plume, already dissipating in the sky.

We had been looking south. Not east.

So, yeah, we were stupid. All that build up and we blew it.

The Artemis III launch is scheduled for mid-2027.

Note to self: Bring a compass.

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Artemis II on the launchpad

Hello, hungry people.

A headline in today’s New York Times announced: “Americans Have Never Been All That Excited About Going to the Moon.”

To which I can only ask: “What planet is the New York Times living on anyway?”

All I know is that this particular American couldn’t be more excited about Wednesday’s scheduled launch of Artemis II. Same for the tens of thousands of folks clustering around Titusville and Cocoa, angling for prime viewing spots of launchpad 39B at the Kennedy Space Center.

For the first time in 53 years we’ll be sending human beings, four of them, on a mission to the moon.

There’ll be no landing, no walking on the lunar surface, no proclamations about giant steps for mankind. It’s a pretty straightforward trip. Artemis II will make a figure-eight loop around the moon, then leverage its gravity to slingshot the spacecraft back to earth.

What’s not exciting about that?

***
It all seems just as wondrous now as it did when I was a kid growing up in Florida.

True, the situation was different then. It was the beginning of the space race and the Russians with their sputniks were whupping us big time. Our rockets kept blowing up or toppling off the launchpad. “Kaputniks” and “flopniks” the press called them.

And then we got better at it.

Our family was on vacation at the beach in the summer of 1959 when our parents dragged us kids out of bed at 2 a.m. to stand in the dunes and watch an Atlas missile take off from just down the coast at Cape Canaveral.

A distant rumble, a tremor in the sand, a fiery arc in the night sky over the Atlantic.

It was the most thrilling thing I’d ever witnessed in my young life. I couldn’t get back to sleep.

It thrills me still.

***
I’ve been a sucker for launches ever since.

I stood in our backyard to watch as Alan Shepherd became the first American to travel into space, followed by Gus Grissom and John Glenn. Big heroes, those guys.

In July 1969, just after graduating from high school, I hitchhiked to Titusville and camped out to watch Apollo 11 lift off for the moon. What a spectacle that was. An estimated million people swarmed in from all over the world. I fell in with some guys from Scotland who brought along bagpipes and we marched up and down U.S. 1, singing and basking in the glory of being on hand for such an epochal event.

And in April 1981, holding our one-month old son in my arms, I watched Columbia take off on the first space shuttle mission.

I might have cried just a little.

***

I watched all those launches and others with a sense of pride. And ownership.

The original space program was the most collective, government-funded, publicly owned endeavor in American history. It was ours. Built by American workers, aimed at beating the Soviets in a contest that felt like survival. Hundreds of thousands of engineers, contractors, welders, seamstresses sewing spacesuits.

The whole country felt as if it had a stake in it.

*** Now the rockets don’t really belong to us. They belong to someone else. Two someones, specifically. Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk. Blue Origin and Space X. Driven by egos and jockeying for NASA contracts.

Add a President who might decide to defund the whole thing next year — or slap his name on the rockets — and people don’t know whose mission it is anymore.

But the wonder? It’s still there.

Four humans are heading for the moon on Wednesday. The launch is scheduled for 6:28 p.m. I’ll step outside and look eastward to watch it happen.

I’m pretty excited about it.

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Hello, hungry people.

Down here in Flori-dada we had ourselves a brutal winter, which might sound like an oxymoron, but weather is relative, right?

It was the coldest February in 90 years. A sign of the drastic shifts brought on by climate change? I’m not smart enough to weigh in on that. Nor do I want to.

All I know is that there’s a whole lot of dead stuff where we live, trees and shrubs that in winters past have survived a dip in temps, but got nailed this season. Every walk through the neighborhood comes with a sense of impending loss. It’s like seeing old friends on life-support.

***

We live in Florida’s in-between climate zone. A little north of here and you’re in the Deep South, as far as growing plants goes. Think dogwoods and redbuds, camelias and azaelas, all in wild profusion. Just south and it’s the semi-tropics — crotons and bougainvillea, birds of paradise and palm trees of every flavor.

Wishful thinkers hereabouts like adorning their yards with exotica from the south. We get lulled into thinking what flourishes in Fort Lauderdale or Coconut Grove will do just fine here.

Then comes along a winter like the one we just had. And now we survey our yards each day and wonder: Is it coming back? Will that sea-grape hedge show proof of life? Are the clusias gone for good? And what about those foxtail palms that grace the driveway? Are they done for?

*** So, I was delighted this morning to spot that tiny sprout of a leaf you see up top. It busted out on the fiddle-leaf fig tree in our courtyard, which we planted twenty-some-odd years ago not knowing it would grow into the glorious monstrosity it became.

We also call it the pain-in-the-ass tree. Because when it sheds its leaves, it sheds them by the truckload, and they won’t rot or disappear right away. They defy rakes, so you must pick them up by hand. When the fig tree drops its fruit the size of ping-pong balls, it can give you a good thump on the head and bring indelible stains to the driveway.

But we love it anway. And where once it looked like this …

… it now looks like this.

We had it trimmed a month ago. We were beginning to think it was a lost cause. And then, this morning . . . that tiny leaf.

Rejoice! It lives!

As for the areca palms that soared thirty feet above the back deck? We trimmed them, too. They look pretty puny, eh?

But we’re hopeful on that front as well. We foresee a summer where Boz, aka Monkey Man (or Koala Man as his sister, Poppy, calls him), can once again display his climbing skills.

And if you’re thinking this entire post was just another opportunity for Bob to show off his grandkids, yeah, guilty as charged.

Happy Spring!

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Hello, hungry people.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about that man in the window.

I took the photo several years ago when Debbie and I traveled to Cuba with some friends and rented an apartment on Calle Habana just a few blocks from the city’s famed Malecón.

It was a great trip. We walked and walked and walked. We roamed past dilapidated old buildings that still held dignity. We ate good food. We heard excellent music. We hired a driver with a 1954 Chevy Bel Air and rode around the countryside. And everywhere we were greeted with warmth and kindness and a generosity of spirit I’ve encountered in precious few places on this planet.

***

This is not to say everything was bright and shiny and wonderful. It wasn’t.

The grocery shelves were almost empty and people stood in long lines to buy what little was there. The power went out for a few hours every day. The faucets and showerheads could produce only bare dribbles of water,.

Yet, things weren’t awful. The U.S. embargo was well into its sixth decade. But the situation had begun to thaw a bit. There was hope. Tourism was picking up. Restaurants and bars were crowded and lively. There were lots of other Americans, plenty of European visitors, too.

The woman who owned the apartment where we stayed was optimistic. She and her handyman husband had bought a second apartment to rent out to foreign visitors, anticipating good days ahead.

***

Each morning, I’d sit on our balcony with a cup of coffee.

And each morning, the man across the street would sit in a chair by the window with a cup of coffee, too.

The first day, we exchanged nods. The second day, he raised his cup in a toast, and I raised mine. By the end of the week, we were waving at each other across Calle Habana.

I never learned his name. Never saw him out on the street.

He was just the man in the window.

***
Who knows what will happen with Cuba.

Thanks to the U.S. oil blockade, launched by the Very Stable Genius after his shenanigans in Venezuela to seize that nation’s oil supply, the situation in Cuba is grim.

Yes, it will likely result in a change of regime. But it’s diplomacy by cruelty.

Cuba’s power grid has crashed. Many homes are without electricity, and those that have it can count on only a few hours of power a day. Water is in short supply. Hospitals have closed. Flights bringing vital medical supplies have been suspended because Cuba can no longer refuel outbound airplanes at its airports. I read an Associated Press story yesterday that said there are more than 32,000 pregnant women in Cuba, most of whom face giving birth without proper medical care.

The majority of blame for these dire circumstances does not rest on the U.S. The Cuban regime is corrupt and oppressive and incompetent. It has let the island infrastructure go to hell while its leaders have profited off the backs of its people. There are nearly 2,000 political prisoners in its jails, the most of any country in the Americas. Not counting, of course, how you classify the 68,000 undocumented immigrants currently held in U.S. detention centers.

But I’ll not speak to the corruptness, oppressiveness and incompetence of the current U.S. regime. It speaks for itself, too loudly, every day.

***

To listen to the Very Stable Genius, the island-nation’s fate rests with him.

“I believe I will have the honor of taking Cuba,” he said earlier this week. “Whether I free it or take it, I think I can do anything I want with it.”

Me want. Me take. Me, me, me.

Such is our world these days. The bad being displaced by the not-quite-so-bad . . . but still awful.

Lucky us.

***
On our last morning in Cuba, I finished my coffee on the balcony and got up to leave. The man in the window watched me.

“Chao!” I shouted across Calle Habana.

“Goodbye!” he shouted back, giving me a big wave.

That’s when I took the photo. It’s blurry and poorly exposed, and it haunts me.

This morning, I raise my cup to that man in the window. And to all of us who know this is not the way the world should be.

Thanks for dropping by. I’ll be be back soon.

If you prefer not to pay, then please share.

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This image is AI-generated. Because most everything is these days. Except what you’re about to read below.

Hello, hungry people

Happy birthday to Bob’s Diner! The joint turns one year old today.

So we’re celebrating all y’all who hang out here from time to time, along with those of you just finding your way to this tasty little corner of the ‘Stackverse.

***

Who are you people?

According to Substack statistics — and believe me, Substack tracks the heck out of such things — Bob’s Diner now has nearly 3,000 followers and subscribers in 47 states and 37 foreign countries.

That last statistic really floored me, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that some of those foreign subscribers aren’t of the flesh-and-blood variety but bots of one sort or another.

That’s OK. The doors of Bob’s Diner stay wide open all day long. No cover, no minimum, no i.d. required. And as long as you behave yourselves and buy the house a round every now and then we won’t kick you out.

I am, however, a tad troubled that only 47 of our 50 states are represented here. To channel someone else fond of all caps, Bob’s Diner is aiming for TOTAL U.S. DOMINATION!

Ewww, enough channeling. I’ll spray some disinfectant.

As for you folks in North Dakota, South Dakota and Wyoming? Consider this a warning. We plan to charm you into submission.

***
A special thanks to those of you who actually pay good gringo dollars to support Bob’s Diner.

According to another of those Substack statistics, the average number of paid subscribers compared to all subscribers across the platform is less than five percent.

Here at Bob’s Diner it sits right at 12 percent. Which means a goodly number of y’all must enjoy what you’re reading here. Or, maybe you’re just foolish with money.

No matter! I’m thankful, I’m grateful, I’m about to get teary-eyed.

***
Let’s open the floor to questions. Yeah, you in the back …

”So does this mean you’re getting rich from us?”

Ha! And that other laughter you hear is from my accountant.

This marks the 120th post on Bob’s Diner over the past year. The yearly subscription price is $50. That works out to about 42 cents per post. For you sainted Founding Members ($100/year) it’s double that. I like to think y’all are getting a pretty good bang for your buck.

Keep in mind, too, that Substack takes a 10 percent cut, and Stripe, the credit-card processing outfit, takes another 4 percent.

Bottom line: The money Bob’s Diner makes from Substack is just slightly more than I made right out of college in 1975 as a reporter at the Fort Myers News-Press. I was broke then. Nothing much has changed.

Put it this way: I’m not giving up my day job.

“You have a day job?”

Do I detect a snide undertone? Listen, I might be old, but I’m not retired. With my older son, Bo, I run Story Farm, a custom publishing company that creates beautiful books for chefs/restaurants, hotels/resorts and notable businesses throughout North America. It’s a lot of fun.

Here’s one of our recent books, published in collaboration with Visit Orlando. It features stories and recipes from dozens of local restaurants, farms and makers of delicious stuff.

“Is that a shamless plug?”

Damn right it is. We can always use more business. And the world can always use more books. So if you know people with good stories and audiences that would buy their books, get in touch.

“What about your man boobs?”

What about them?

“You wrote a column a couple of months ago asking readers to contribute money so you could buy a $40 t-shirt that claimed to cover up man boobs. I never saw a follow-up.”

That’s because there’s a major man-boob epidemic going on — also a vanity epidemic — and the t-shirts were on back order. They might be available now. If so, I may or may not write a follow-up. Probably not. Because my wife tells me I’ve already humiliated myself enough.

”So what did you do with that money.”

I used it to buy the bubbly for this celebration. Drink up.

“How’s your dog doing?”

Glad you asked. A couple of weeks ago I wrote a story about Marcus, who is almost 17 years old and fading fast. I wanted to give him a proper eulogy while he was still alive. I knew he would appreciate it. Thing is, many of you thought he had died and messaged me with your condolences. Very thoughtful of you.

For the record, Marcus is still very much alive. He is licking my toes as I write this. Translation: I need to step away and take him for a walk.

***
Thanks for dropping by to celebrate. All you paid subscribers can join me in the VIP room, where I’ll be pouring the good stuff.

As for the rest of you, glad you’re here. Please consider punching this button and buying the house a round of drinks.

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This is an AI -generated illustration. The real Penguin Boy is much cuter.

Hello, hungry people.

Please indulge a sappy, old grandfather today.

Our four-year-old grandson, Zeke, is consumed by penguins. He has a way of sneaking penguins into every conversation. He wears penguin t-shirts, carries a penguin backpack and has more penguin stuffies than I can count.

The other day he was strutting around the living room, taking short steps and flapping his arms at his side. I asked why he was walking like that.

“I’m not walking,” he said. “I’m waddling.”

So, yeah, he’s a penguin. And I wrote this for him.

[Note: Zeke’s mom and dad are not at all like the parents in this story. Nor is his big brother. Also, I really wish I could draw. Then this story would have charming, whimsical illustrations throughout. But it’s not in my DNA. So … use your imagination.]

THE BOY WHO BECAME A PENGUIN

At the breakfast table that morning, The Boy told his family: “When I grow up, I want to be a penguin!”

#

His mom and dad were busy, getting ready for the day.
“That’s nice,” said The Boy’s dad.
“Eat your breakfast,” said his mom.
They smiled their mom-and-dad smiles and went back to being busy.

#

“You’re just a stupid little kid,” said his big brother. “You can’t grow up to be a penguin.”
“Yes, I can!” said The Boy.
“Weirdo,” said his brother, throwing a Cheerio that hit The Boy in the nose.

#

The Boy looked at his breakfast.
“Penguins don’t eat cereal,” he said. “Penguins eat fish!”
No one paid him any attention.

“I want a new family!” he said. “I want a penguin family!”
His dad kept being busy. His mom kept being busy, too
His brother threw another Cheerio. It bounced off The Boy’s chin.

#

So he turned over his bowl of cereal. It made an awful mess.
“You’re in soooooo much trouble,” said his brother.
But The Boy’s busy parents didn’t notice.

And he ran up to his room.

#

He spent the whole day making a penguin suit.

He put on his favorite black hoodie and his favorite black sweatpants.
He pulled out an old white t-shirt and carefully cut out a long piece of cloth. He pinned it to the front of his hoodie to make a penguin belly.

#

He stole some orange socks from his brother’s bedroom and slid them over his shoes.

Penguin feet!

But what to do for a beak?
The Boy had to think about that.

#

Then he had an idea.

He ran into the bathroom and unrolled a whole roll of toilet paper, all the way down to the tube. He folded one end to make it pointy. He painted it black with orange stripes down each side and taped it on his nose.

It looked awesome.

“Now I’m a penguin!” he said.

#

He practiced waddling around his room and flapping his penguin wings. He knew penguins couldn’t fly. But strong wings made them excellent swimmers.

So he flapped and waddled.

And waddled and flapped.

Until he got tired and crawled into bed.

#

That night, while everyone else was asleep, The Boy set out to find his penguin family.

He waddled to the ocean and started swimming to Antarctica.

He swam and he swam and he swam.
And the ocean got colder and colder.

#

When The Boy finally reached Antarctica, there were penguins everywhere. They cheered and applauded when he slid ashore on his belly.

“Welcome, Boy!” said the leader of the penguins. “We’re so happy you swam all this way.”

“I’m looking for my penguin family,” said The Boy.

“You’ve found us,” said the leader. “We’re all one big family here.”

#

The Boy had an excellent time playing with his big penguin family.

They swam and they waddled.
They waddled and swam.

They had penguin parties. They slid down icy mountains. They rolled around in the snow.

#

And they ate a whole lot of fish.

Raw fish.

They were slimy.

The Boy ate them. Just to be polite.
But he wished there was something else to eat. He was really hungry.

#

So he said goodbye to his penguin family.

“Farewell, Boy!” they cried. “We’ll miss you sooooo much.”

And The Boy slid into the ocean and swam back home.

#

After he woke up the next morning, The Boy waddled downstairs for breakfast.
When his mom and dad saw him, they both stopped everything they were doing.

“Why, hello, Penguin,” said his dad.

“You’re such a clever young man,” said his mom.

“Are those my orange socks?” said his big brother.

He tried to pull off the socks, but The Boy poked him with his awesome beak.

#

“Let me get you some breakfast,” said his mother.
She opened a can of sardines, put them on a plate and set them on the table.

The Boy looked at them. Then he looked at his mom.
“Could I have some cereal, please?”

“You can have whatever you want, sweetheart,” said his mom.

“And you can grow up to be whatever you want, son,” said his dad.

The Boy’s big brother rolled his eyes.

“You’re still a weirdo,” he said.

#

The Boy just smiled and finished eating his cereal.
It wasn’t slimy.

#

And then he waddled away.

***
Thanks for reading. I’ll be back soon.

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Hello, hungry people.

We all remember exactly where we were when tragic historical events shook our nation, right?

For me:

JFK’s assassination — sitting in Mrs. Knowles’s 8th grade English class.

Space Shuttle Challenger explosion — watching the launch from the roof of the Orlando Sentinel building.

9-11 — driving south on I-75 to Fort Myers.

And where was I when I learned that our Supreme Leader had killed their Supreme Leader and we were at war with Iran?

Playing Goofy Golf aboard the Disney Dream cruise ship.

Seems all-too fitting.

***

Typically, the words “Disney” and “Cruise Ship” don’t apply to my idea of a pleasant getaway.

But we live in Florida. We have grandkids. We are within easy striking distance of theme parks and cruise ports. And because the grandkids still have a fully intact sense of joy and wonder, and we are easy marks, we took two of our grandsons on a Disney cruise last week.

Pro tip: If your kids or grandkids insist upon experiencing the Disney “magic,” which is as inevitable as you stepping on one of their Legos in the dark, and you have to choose between a theme park or a cruise, choose the cruise. Broken down on a daily basis the cruise is a tad pricier, but it comes with that best-of-all Disney benefit — standing in long lines — and you get to do it on the water! Plus, booze is much more available than in the theme parks. The food is much better too. And there’s a Pirate Night!

Photo credit: Not taken by a Disney photographer

One of the things you will immediately notice on a Disney cruise is that there are dozens perhaps thousands of crew members carrying professional camera equipment and asking if you want your picture taken with a Disney character. Essentially, the ship is a floating photo studio. All the major Disney characters make appearances and kids line up to get pictures with them. This goes on from early morning until late at night. And it’s where Disney’s money-grubbing tactics genius is on full display.

The “handlers” position their charges in such a way that it is impossible for you to take a free photo of your children with a character without getting a shot that mainly features, say, Daisy Duck’s butt. So if you want a decent image you can buy a photo package (starting at $150.)

Thankfully, our grandsons, Zaven and Zeke, had absolutely no desire to meet the characters up close and impersonal. They were in it for four things things: Pirate Night, unlimited ice cream, the cool water slides and Goofy Golf.

Which brings us back to the alleged topic of this post: The War with Iran.

***

Because I am a cheap bastard, I refused to pay the $28/day Disney internet ransom. Besides, I thought spending a few news-free days on the cruise might do me some good.

When we boarded the ship, everything seemed OK in the world, OK meaning we might have been heading for a shitstorm, but we weren’t quite there yet.

Then, a day into the cruise, while we were playing Goofy Golf, Hole No. 5, I heard a guy who was looking at his iPhone say: “Holy crap! We took out the Ayatollah.”

At the same time, the loudspeakers were blaring the Seven Dwarfs anthem, “Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho,” forever linking these two events in my brain.

***
The TV in our stateroom had all the news channels. I could have tuned in to learn more, but didn’t want to subject Zaven and Zeke to videos of bomb blasts and bodies of dead schoolchildren. I didn’t much want to subject myself to it either. Aside from all the Disneyness, we were having a pretty great time.

So it was three days later, on the train ride home, before I broke the news embargo. Amazing how much crazy stuff can happen in that short a time. In addition to stories about the war, there was a harmonic convergence of horrifying headlines:

Pentagon Strikes Deal to Use Open AI for Defense Purposes

Defense Department Mistakenly Shoots Down Border Patrol Drone

Melania Chairs U.N. Security Council Meeting

***

It got me thinking: We’d be better off if the Seven Dwarfs really were in charge.

Consider:

Despite their comic nature, the Dwarfs were a highly organized bunch, capable of rapid mobilization and coordinated execution. Their diamond-mining operation was a master class in workflow optimization. And when they got word that Snow White had been captured by the evil Queen, their efficient leadership structure allowed them to transition into a rescue unit with a well-defined endgame.

Even after the Queen is dispensed with and Snow White eats the poison apple, they execute a final, dignified plan rather than just walking away. Recognizing Snow White’s “sleeping death,” they build a glass coffin so they can continue to protect and watch over her until the curse is eventually broken.

Happy ending.

So here’s a screwy question for our screwy times:

Thanks for dropping by. I’ll be back soon.

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