Results: 292

Entry #86

Sara Stanger was born in Narol in 1912 to Yisrael and Dina. She was single. Prior to WWII she lived in Narol, Poland. During the war she was in Rawa Ruska, Poland. Sara perished in 1941 in Majdanek, Camp.

Carry on, (and never forget) Citizens!

The event is called the Testical Festival and it happens annually in Oakdale, CA.  It is put on by the local Rotary Club and it benefits the Oakland Cowboy Museum.  It draws upwards of 450 people and raised $28,000 last year.  That’s a lot of balls. And a lot of bitter bulls.

I’m not sure what is more surprising about this event. Is it that it even exists or that it’s not sponsored by NOW?

Carry on, Citizens!

That’s why I laughed out loud when I read that Nigeria is “re-branding” to shed its corrupt image. Re-branding? Do you really think the slogan “Nigeria: Good People, Great Nation” is going to make me forget that your citizens scam Americans to the tune of $1 million per day?  Let’s face it, President Umaru Yar’Adua, Dateline Undercover is like American Idol for your citizens!

Hey Nigeria, how about ruthlessly pursuing those d-bags that keep sending me emails about the $20 million locked up in some hoaky bureaucratic red tape but I can have 15% of the cash if I send them my social security number, bank account, and some of my DNA? Until then, we’ll stick with your old slogan: Nigeria: Posing as Somebody Else Since Email Was Invented!

Carry on, Citizens!

Bonus Material: Most commonly heard motivational taunt by coaches at Special Olympics practices this week: “Come on you guys, you’re playing like the Obama Administration!”

Every year, I get together with a group of 10-12 guys and we draft players for the NCAA tournament. It’s a much more complex pool than just picking teams.  I’m closing in on a decade of futility in this pool. Ah, I remember the heady days of drafting 2 Florida players for 3 straight years, only to see them lose before the Sweet 16. Then after swearing off Florida players forever, they reel off 2 National Titles.

Who can forget the year I drafted JJ Redick, only to see him toss in a career low. Or, the year I drafted Jeff Newton. Newton? Why didn’t somebody hit me with a few of the 100 chicken wing bones that usually accompany this party? The memories make me want to bludgeon the Syracuse Orange mascot until citrus pulp flows across the Carrier Dome floor. And yes, I’m doing it all over again.

Carry on, Citizens!

Carry on, Citizens!

That’s sort of how I felt when I read that tomorrow (March 3) is Square Root Day. Okay, that’s not exactly why. I get that it’s 3/3/09. The real reason is I discovered there are several other official “Days” tomorrow. These include:

• I Want You to Be Happy Day
• If Pets Had Thumbs Day
• National Anthem Day
• Peach Blossom Day

What worries me is that people are out there wondering what a world with pet thumbs would be like. And, there are enough of them to gain sufficient critical mass to have an official holiday named. Imagine how many awkward conversations had to take place before these people found each other. “Hi, my name is Stanley. I’ve been pondering the possibilities of my cat having a thumb.”

Somehow, I’m thinking these are the least likely people to ever be matched on eHarmony. In fact, I’m thining the Pet Thumb people are less likely than the Square Root people to be in committed relationship with an actual human being.

I’ve decided to create my own day. I’m going to lobby my Congressional representative to have it nationally recognized. I think March 12th should be Carry On, Citizens! Day. You should celebrate by dressing as your favorite character from Trolley Dodgers or Kansaska. And you should give gifts to other people -preferably copies of the aforementioned books.  You should also listen to Karnie music or join the save the Karnie page on Facebook. Who’s with me?

Carry on, Citizens!

No, you don’t.  Babies are forced to marry dogs in India. I’m NOT KIDDING!

You see, when a baby in the Munda tribe develops a tooth before turning two, they kind of freak out.  They see it as an omen that the baby is in danger of Tiger attacks.  So, his parents did the only thing a truly loving mom or dad could do when their child is in mortal danger: they married the kid off to their neighbor’s dog.

According to the AP, “The dog belongs to the groom’s neighbors and was set free to roam around the area after the ceremony. No dowry was exchanged, the witness said, and the boy will still be able to marry a human bride in the future without filing for divorce.”

Wow, I guess they have sort of an “open marriage,” with all the roaming around. I wonder if he would have to file for a divorce if he wanted to marry another dog. Or a cat. Or whatever species Joan Rivers became after the 15th surgery.

Carry on, Citizens!

The cost is $25, which includes lunch.  Proceeds go to Play Ball Indiana, an organization that provides baseball and softball opportunities for inner city youth. Please plan to join me there for a great start to the baseball season. You can learn more about the event and Play Ball Indiana here.

Just to sweeten the deal, I will throw in a free signed copy of Kansaska if you come to the event and say you read this blog post! And one more great deal:  the first two people who can list all of the teams in the K.R.A.P. League circa 1948 will receive a pair of free tickets to the event.

Carry on, Citizens!

Four Rings of Decreasing Quality
Valentine’s Day had always been a disaster for me.  For normal people, Cupid shoots an arrow that sends the couple on some romantic escapade that they could share with their kids someday.  For me, he set the arrows on fire and sent my relationships down like a Viking funeral.  Think I’m exaggerating?  One Valentine’s Day, I slipped on the ice while opening the car door for my date. When I came to, I was in an ambulance and she was making out with the EMT.

One year, I sent my Valentine a box of her favorite candy from an exotic chocolate company.  Turns out she was allergic to nougat. Who’s allergic to nougat?  Anyway, she didn’t send me a Valentine. She sent me a summons. My wages are still being garnished.

There were other Valentine’s Day triumphs: the year I set a restaurant on fire; the year I set my date’s house on fire; and the year I set her father’s hair piece on fire. Hey, I told the old man not to look under the hood of my car. Mechanic beware, I say.

Anyway, I was determined to have a good Valentine’s Day with Kate. It would take planning. It would take courage. It would take a few beers with Darryl and Klondike to come up with a plan.  We decided that this type of planning would be best with beers that were on the largish side, so we headed to the Irish Lion to drink a yard.

“What about something simple like roses and dinner?” asked Darryl.

“Too boring,” I answered.

“With your track record, you should think simple,” he replied.

“Why not take her to a bed and breakfast? That’s pretty romantic,” offered Klondike.

“Your place is the only one with a vacancy this Saturday and I’m not taking her there!”

Klondike seemed hurt. “Hey, what’s wrong with my hotel?”

“I noticed you’ve never stayed there with your wife,” observed Darryl.

“I see your point.”

“Guys, I need to really wow her this year,” I pleaded. “I need a good Valentine’s Day or she’s going to kick me to the curb.”

“Propose to her.”

Those three words came out in unison from Darryl and Klondike. A hush came over the bar and the lights dimmed. We looked at each other in disbelief. “Gentlemen, are you suggesting hardware?” I asked.

Neither man answered. The suggestion was on the table and the full weight of idea settled upon us. Did I have the courage to give up my amateur status? Would she say yes? When is the waitress going to bring us more beer?

“You realize what this means don’t you?” I asked.

“What?”

“I’m not going to be able to make big life decisions over beer anymore. I’m going to have to include her.”

“That won’t be so bad. We’ll have a designated driver,” said Klondike.

“No, you idiot. I won’t be able to make the decisions with you guys.”

“That won’t be such a bad thing either,” said Darryl. “The last time we make a big decision together over beers, Klondike ordered fishnet bathrobes for the hotel.”

“Yeah, that was bad one,” said Klondike. “My wife didn’t talk to me for a month. Talk about a bad Valentine’s Day.”

In the dimmed light of the Irish Lion with my two best friends and copious amounts of barley-based wisdom, we hatched the plan for my first proposal attempt. In the two years since Bloomington tried to buy the Dodgers, Kate and I had been through various ups and downs.  This particular February, we were in a down.  I had failed to provide the necessary finger hardware deemed necessary by a woman with a mind for marriage.  No ultimatum had been issued, but I figured it was a matter of time.  So, I knew the guys were right. I had to propose. So, I headed to Brad’s House of Diamonds to secure the proper ring to mark the occasion.  I was turning in my amateur status. I was going pro.

Seven Dead Flamingos will be available this Spring. If you would like to get to know these characters better, please check out Trolley Dodgers.

Want a little more?  Here’s another excerpt from the same chapter:

Ring number three was consumed by a water dwelling reptile of considerable size. I have since considered hunting the creature down in my own Moby Dick style quest for vengeance, but I didn’t want to drive to Indianapolis. Also, the city wouldn’t respond to my request to put a whaling ship in the canal so I could harpoon a giant snapping turtle. Always with the rules and regulations, those city parks people.

The plan was brilliant but it was executed by me so you can probably guess what happened. We spent a fall Saturday in Indianapolis and I decided to ask her to marry me at sunset. I rented a paddle boat and we set off for a canal adventure. Everything was going well, until I reached into my pocket to pull out the ring. A Labrador Retriever chased a duck into the water; keeping Kate distracted enough to let me pull the ring out of my pocket.

Unfortunately, both of us were distracted and didn’t see the other boat. The collision knocked the ring out of my hand and into the water. I spun around and shoved my hand into the canal. I could still see the black box and almost had it when the creature appeared. Startled at first, I pulled my hand back. Then I looked into those blackened hate filled eyes and realized we both wanted the same thing. I plunged my hand back into the water as the giant snapping turtle made for the ring. He won. I fell in.

For a split second, I was on the bottom of the canal, face to face with the creature. He could have easily bit off my nose. Instead, he opened his mouth just enough to show a wicked grin and a small jewelry box in his gullet. Then he swam off with my still yet-to-be fiancé’s engagement ring.

“Why did you dive in the water?” Kate asked as I stood up. (The canal is only a couple of feet deep.)

“I thought I saw a gold watch,” I lied.

She stared at me with the “boy, you are out of your mind” look. I get that look a lot. I started to climb in the boat.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting back in the boat.”

“Oh, no you’re not. You walk out of the canal and meet me back at the paddleboat rental shack. You’re not getting back in here and soaking me too. Gold watch, seriously?”

I walked out of the canal with my tail between my legs and my heart in my stomach. I not only made a fool out of myself, but I had lost yet another ring. It was a long wet drive back to Bloomington.

Kate was growing impatient and I didn’t know what to do. Should I tell her about the three failed attempts to propose?  Would she even want to marry a guy who had lost three rings? I’m sure there’s an appendix in the Girls’ Guide to Guys that covers this very scenario. I could imagine it says something like:

“In the event your boyfriend loses three engagement rings, you should consider that immediate grounds for dismissal.  There’s no telling where this guy might leave your first-born child in a moment of weakness or ESPN highlights. Best to send him packing.”

Of course, I have never seen the Girls’ Guide to Guys but I’m sure it exists. And I was equally sure that if I told the truth, I would fall victim of the Three Lost Engagement Rings clause. On the other hand, if I didn’t produce a ring and a proposal soon, I would be cut from the team as well.  I was dealing with a lot of pressure.

With this in mind, I made my way to Brad’s Jewelry Store on last time. When I opened the door, the sales staff gasped. The women shook their heads in disdain or amazement. Or both. One of the ladies scurried back to the office. Undoubtedly, she was looking for the Guide to see what my fate would be.

Brad reacted differently. He reveled in the fact that he was about to take the last few coins from my pocket.  The knowledge that he hadn’t quite bled me dry in the first three purchases (but was about to accomplish the task) brought a wicked smile to his face. I’m certain he glanced at my car to see if it had any trade value.

“So, Mr. Bennett, how can I help you today? You wouldn’t be in the market for another ring would you?”

“Yes, yes I am. I’m down to my last $1,000.” I winced and added, “Please be gentle.”

“You are in luck because I happen to have a beautiful ring that’s only $949. Of course it’s not nearly as beautiful as the last ring I sold you. And it’s considerably less attractive than the ring before that. And let’s face it, it’s a dog compared to that first ring I sold you.”

“You’re not making this any easier.”

“We’re really sorry about your recent string of misfortune and we’re happy to help you with an engagement ring solution.”

So this is what it has come to, I realized. The first ring was a jaw dropping statement of my love. The second was a promise of eternal commitment. The third was a token of my affection. And ring number four would be a solution to my misfortune. Buyer’s remorse didn’t even begin to sum up how I felt when I left Brad’s.

Carry on, Citizens!

Peace, I’m predicting will come from Taiwan.  All we have to do is get followers of Han Dan connected to the factions of Islam that are bent on jihad. No brainer. No problem. And how, do you ask, does this solve world peace? Simple: Jihadists like to blow people up.  Followers of Han Dan like to be blown up. We get them together, and the rest of us can live in peace until the World Series. Why the hell am I not the President?

If you’ve never heard of Han Dan, I’m not surprised. He’s a rather obscurish (yes, I made that up) god, that according to the AP, is a “god of wealth who likes fire but fears the cold, so believers throw firecrackers to please him.” Folks in Taiwan love Han Dan. (Personally, I think the name sounds made up) Shop owners hire people to stand outside their stores and throw fireworks at them.  Apparently it brings good luck. Even better, it saves money on gloves because you’re less likely to need a pair after this ritual.

Now, if we can just get the Jihadists to Taiwan or the Han Danists to the Middle East.  Maybe we can add that to the stimulus package.

Carry on, Citizens!