Dry As A Bone

I don’t have a blessed thing to say today.

What could I? There’s not much going on that would be worth writing about, or that I even can write about. The weather is about as unpredictable as a startled jackrabbit. When it’s clear, it’s cold. When it’s warm, it rains. Terrible.

I’ve been staring at this blank Microsoft Word document since Monday afternoon, wondering what I might have to pontificate about that would be mildly interesting, poignant or humorous. Big scratch, there. The most important thing in my life right now is that the stupid networks have moved reruns of Dharma and Greg to the same time slot as reruns of King of Queens and believe me, I am in no condition to make decisions in the dead of winter.

I have been enjoying my DVD collection I got for Christmas, The Adventures of Briscoe County Jr. Anybody remember that one? Starring Bruce Campbell, one of my all-time favorite actors, as a late nineteenth century bounty hunter who runs into all kinds of dubious villains. The show had a Wild, Wild West feel to it in that it had a lot of futuristic gadgets, elements and plot lines, and that’s probably why it only lasted one season.

Bruce Campbell, by the way, wins my award for Most Creative Title of an Autobiography. Bruce’s is entitled If Chins Could Kill, and if you know Bruce, you’ll know why I find that hilarious.

Meanwhile, I bought myself the complete 10-season DVD set of Dangermouse. Yes, that’s right, Dangermouse, the world’s greatest secret agent. This British comedy from the early 1990s detailed the adventures of the super-agent Dangermouse, and his faithful assistant, the hamster Penfold whose “identity is so secret, even his code name has a code name.” DM is full of wry Brit humor that just cracked me up back in the old days, such as when DM had to go back in time to the dinosaur age to rescue Penfold. DM drives his super-spy car onto the time travel pad.

“Will there be any problem taking the car through, professor?” DM asks the German inventor of the time machine.

“Two only, Dangermouse,” the prof says. “Der clock vill be vun hundred and fifty million years fast…and you might have trouble finding un filling station.”

I love that kinda Monty Python stuff! Dangermouse, by the way, lives under the mailbox at 221B Baker Street in London, the residence, of course, of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

The unfortunate thing is that now, 20 years later, I don’t find it nearly as funny as I did in the early nineties. I guess I’ve become too jaded, cynical or whatever. But I still get some giggles from it, and hey, the whole set cost me twenty-five bucks, so who’s complaining?


What else? The cat and dogs are fine. Suzie’s fine. I’m fine, though if I don’t get to a hill and a creek within the next few weeks I likely will not remain that way.

Saw my favorite musical this week on Turner Classic Movies, Camelot. What a great show! Richard Harris was da bomb, you hear? Franco Nero’s singing was dubbed in his role as Lancelot, but I can’t really tell, he does a good job of lip-syncing.


C’mon, give me a break. I write 104 of these things a year, you know. Every well runs dry now and then. You just gotta wait for the aquifer to replenish it.

I reckon I’m drying out, in more ways than one. Haven’t had my feet in a creek since October. My brain is shrinking from dehydration of the psyche. Gradual mummification from creeklessness. Desiccation by—well, you get the idea.

One thing that occurs to me and Suzie as we watch the tube these days is the scary situation of medicine commercials. I mean, it’s downright terrifying.

For instance, they advertise this drug for some kind of ailment. They tell you how great it is, controls your predicaments, makes you feel so much better. Then they spend the rest of the commercial telling you it could cause cancer, heart problems, skin rash, incontinence, influenza, shingles, bubonic plague, mange, turn you into a pillar of salt, vaporize your toenails and your hair might suddenly burst into flame. Then they close by telling you again how great this stuff is for what’s ailing you. Wow.

Luckily, I take little medicine. A little control of my acid reflux, and some supplements of glucosamine and chondroitin for my knees. Now and then some headache relief, when my brain starts drying out after being away from the creek too long. Brain shrinkage is painful, especially if yours is like mine, sub-normal anyway.

Yup. I tell ya what.

In conclusion, then, just let me say:

So there’s a couple guys fishing in a river when a funeral procession passes on the bridge nearby. One of them – a fly fisherman – tucks his rod under his arm, takes off his hat, and bows his head in respect until the funeral is passed. Then he puts his hat back on and continues fishing.

“That was the nicest thing I’ve ever seen,” his fishing partner compliments.

“Well,” says the first fisherman, “I been married to her for 40 years, I figured it was the least I could do!”

2 comments to Dry As A Bone

  • pete cooper, jr.

    Brain shrinkage from creek withdrawal?

  • blufloyd

    Nice a DM collection. I think I’ll take it as an invite or something. Find that really wacky.
    I want the complete set of ‘Man from UNCLE’ I gave up basketball to watch that.
    Coldest day of year tomorrow so far. So I’ll be out icing a few crappie if back let’s me.

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