Bertha’s Bakers Dozen ™: MORE Questions for the Ages

     As with many of my blog posts and Bertha’s Bakers Dozen ^TM lists, I was amazed at how many of you responded!  It is nice to  know that I am not the only one privy to the weirdness around us.  It is in your honor, dear loyal readers, that I present to you installment number two in my Bertha’s Bakers Dozen ^TM Questions for the Ages list.   

13) Why do the movie versions of Jesus and space aliens always have British accents?  The last time I checked, Jesus was from Bethlehem and Captain Zorfz-Chaputdnk was from the deserted planet Hwoaf-Nert.  How in the world did the Brits get there before we did? 

12) Why do stores start carrying Christmas items in August, but have it all cleared out by December 28 to make room for swimsuits?  As weird as it may feel to buy ornaments in the summer heat, it can’t possibly be any more bizarre than shopping for beachwear in the midst of a snowstorm.   

11) Who invented baby washcloths?  One trip through the wash and they permanently roll up to the approximate diameter of a breadstick.  Ever tried washing a baby with a breadstick?    

10) Why do meat prices fluctuate based on popularity?  When I was a kid, stores were practically giving away chicken wings and hamburger meat, while “loin of pork” was reserved for extremely special company.  Now, chicken wings are ridiculously expensive, hamburger meat is almost the same price as a steak, and “loin of pork” is dirt cheap.  I say we all join forces and drive the popularity of scrapple through the roof so prime rib will become the new bologna.   

9) Why was Mike Brady such a bad architect?  Think about it: the man was an idiot.  He’s got six kids, a wife, and a housekeeper, yet he builds a 3-bedroom house and makes the maid to sleep in the kitchen.  What’s worse than that is the fact that the kids have to share a bathroom with pocket doors separating the two rooms.  You’d be waiting for hours just to pee.  That office he built for himself was bigger than the two bedroom/one bathroom combo the kids had to share.  

8) Why do we have to be so politically correct about everything?  I for one absolutely, positively, defiantly REFUSE to say “snowperson”.  Unless it’s wearing snowflake earrings and an icicle tiara, I will continue to refer to it as a snowMAN.  I am a proud member of MANkind, I have no insecurities or offenses being a committee chairMAN, and I will forever think of Frosty as a snowMAN.  Snowperson.  Barf.     

7) Why are women’s products and services so much more expensive than men’s?  My hair is the same length as the paper boy and I’ll bet a week’s worth of wet newspapers he spends less on his mane than I do on mine. 

6) Why is every accident/disease/misfortune on earth “the leading cause of death” for some group or another?  Being run over by a truck is the number one cause of death for plastered college students who wrap themselves in black lawn and leaf bags and lay in the middle of the road at 4am.  Being smothered by a fat chick is the number one cause of death for size-2 sales ladies who roll their eyes and snort, “Oh, we don’t carry anything in this store to fit your butt.”   

5) Why do advertisers feel the need to make numbers sound bigger or smaller than they really are?  I heard a commercial for a used car lot that screamed, “We have over seven models to choose from!!!!!!”  Over seven?  You mean like eight?  Or how about those pay-by-the-month plans for various services and products that boast, “Less than a dollar a day!”  Aaaaaand what does that mean exactly?  Twenty-nine ninety-five perhaps?  What about February?

4) Why do we confuse the heck out of our children?  I once had a friend who would say, “No-no for babies” whenever her kid would reach for the DVD player, but would turn around and say, “You’re not a baby!” when he would cry for his pacifier.  It is any wonder we have kids throwing tantrums of frustration when they’re little and then growing up to rob convenience stores?

3) Why is there really no such thing as “speed dry” nail polish?  Every brand, every shade, every formula … it’s the same story.  It’s like wearing modeling clay on your fingernails.  Sure, it might be “dry” in the academic sense in that it is no longer technically “wet”, but one false move and your “dry” polish is permanently dented, misshapen, or formed into some other-worldly origami.  Forget “speed dry”.  I want “dent proof”.     

2) Why have restaurants given names to their dishes longer than the roll call in first grade?  Honestly, they are more like a description than an actual name.  I mean, how stupid do you feel ordering?  “Yes, I’ll have the Seared Brined Chicken Breast with Hearts of Palm and Wilted Bok Choy Smothered in a Farm Fresh Organic Cream Sauce Enhanced by the Natural Juices of the Seared Brined Chicken Breast Served Over a Side of Creamy, Butter-Kissed Garlic Potatoes Accompanied by a Steamed Seasonal Vegetable Medley Lightly Seasoned with Fresh Herbs and Truffle Butter, please”. 

1) Why do dating websites never show those disgustingly happy couples after they’ve been married for 10 years?  This is the true test of how well their “matching system” works.  Wait until they’ve been together so long that she’s got stretch marks from so many kids, he “helps out” by sweeping the garage, their grocery budget is $35 a week, and they haven’t had sex since Dean Martin was on the Jerry Lewis telethon … if they still like each other, THEN you can tell me how great your website is.

 © Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution

Hippity-Hop, Your Product's a Flop

Dear Sirs of Acme Good Luck Gifts and Gags:

     Please find enclosed one of your “Hippity-Hop Lucky Rabbit’s Foot” key ring charms, listed on the tag as “Lot 351 Tahitian Purple”.  I recently purchased this item in the sincere hopes of turning around what has come to be a life of misfortune, accidents, and sincere bad luck.  You see, I was born under an unlucky moon, in an unlucky hospital ward, on an unlucky morning.  I am certain you hear that quite often considering the nature of your business, but I must assure you that my particular bad luck is unique:

     It.  Never.  Ends. 

     When my husband proposed to me, I said, “I need to get this out in the open before we go any further.  You ARE marrying a bad luck charm.  I bring a pox to every household I enter, every project I touch, every person I meet.”  He sweetly patted my arm and said, “I don’t believe in luck.”  I snorted in hysterical laughter and retorted with, “You will.”  After a particularly unlucky stretch, I happened into a gift shop and noticed your “Hippity-Hop Lucky Rabbit’s Foot” display rack.  The sign promised to “offer good fortune and protection to anyone” and “turn bad luck into good fortune”.  With my history of jinxed automobiles, mysteriously exploding appliances and illnesses whose diagnoses can be summated by a doctor scratching his head and pouring over medical books with beads of sweat running down his face, I was skeptical that any rabbit’s foot could turn that kind of luck around, but I decided to give it a try. 

     I got up this morning and was in the bathroom trying to get ready for work.  I flushed the toilet and noticed a really weird gurgling sound and the shower was barely a trickle.  I called out to my husband, The Yankee, "Be careful when you flush the toilet; we have no water."  I could hear him say, "Great".  He goes under the house to find out what's wrong with the well pump, but can't find any problems.  I got my daughter, Buttercup, up, dressed, and on the school bus while The Yankee is getting madder and madder and blaming me for everything.  "I wanted you to call the warranty company MONTHS ago but NOOOOOOOOO you forgot AGAIN."  (Like if I called the home warranty company and said, "Do you cover well pumps?", then our water wouldn't have been acting up today ... whatever.)  So I go in the house and read the fine print on the policy.  No, they don't cover wells, pumps, pressure tanks, bladders, underground or outside plumbing, or anything else that isn't a bathtub elbow pipe.  Period.  Well, this gets him even madder, "We're getting another warranty company!" he bellows.  I tried to calm him, "They all have limits on what they cover."  "NO THEY DON'T!!!" he screams.  I don't argue with children so I went back in the house to call my dad.  I tried not to be angry with The Yankee.  I told myself he's upset about yet ANOTHER thing going wrong (which brings our grand total to about 452,581,898,747,852,541,599,985,264,653,115,022 over the last 10 years.  I could kinda understand his irritation.)  So he's going on and on about, "Now we gotta hire a backhoe to come dig up the well pump."  I said, "You don't need a backhoe.  You can pull it out from the top with a winch."  Well, that got him on his "Me-The-Man-You-The-Woman-What-The-Fricken-Fracken-Mother-Father-Firetruck-Do-You-Know-About-Squat" soapbox again, so I just made my phone call. 

     The Yankee is barking at me in one ear and my dad is asking me these technical questions in the other ear like, "So when you pull the top off the shazzmafrazz and look down the glocken-morley, what color is the tape-orfen-jollynot that is attached to the wire coming from the horlen-fritzy-jay?  And if there isn't a wire coming from the horlen-fritzy-jay, then there's probably a switchboard hossen-feeler that's on the opposite wall of the schmarlen rickta-frazz, so tell me which way the hortzen is pointing." 

     I finally said, "Dad wants to talk to you." 

     Long story short, we finally got water at 12:15.  I took a shower and made myself half-way presentable and left for work.  I get on the Interstate and called my assistant to tell her when I would be there and she says, "I hope you're not taking the Interstate because a tractor-trailer accident has both lanes blocked and traffic is backed up for 12 miles."  So I get off on the very next exit and take the back roads in.  The traffic was nuts but I made it.  I stopped at the hardware store and picked up some spare parts for the well pump and when I was leaving the parking lot, the power steering stopped working on the car.  So, I get some fast food, have to work the crap out of my biceps to turn the steering wheel, and finally get to my office.  Running for the front door, I twist my ankle and my food goes flying across the parking lot, dirty little chicken nuggets bouncing down the hill in a mocking tango that fairly screamed, “Take that.”   

      So, here I am, ankle throbbing, stomach growling, and dreading having to tell The Yankee that the power steering is gone and, thanks to a free diagnosis from the mechanic next door to my office, we need a $4,000 engine block. With my fabulous luck, the house will probably be a smoldering pile of rubble by the time I get home.  I would have thrown the “Hippity-Hop Lucky Rabbit’s Foot” in the trash, but I’m afraid it might come back from beyond the beyond and twist my other ankle.  If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be hobbling my way to the break room in hopes of finding some salt to throw over my shoulder, and hope I don’t slip in it on the way back.

With fingers crossed,

Bertha

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.