tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9667275132879528182024-03-13T22:23:34.187-06:00Ricky AndersonMizzenmast MamboRicky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.comBlogger430125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-2548639956543145792017-05-17T00:07:00.002-06:002017-05-17T00:08:45.441-06:00Things I've Done Once, AlsoMany years ago, I wrote a post called <a href="http://www.rickyanderson.net/2011/08/things-ive-done-once.html" target="_blank">Things I've Done Once</a>.<br />
<br />
I've done more things once since then, so let's commence the sequel!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>--</b></span><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Been in a fashion show and walked the runway</li>
<ul>
<li>We had to practice quick changes and fake turns and step counts</li>
<ul>
<li>We were showing off slacks and polos borrowed from JCPenney</li>
</ul>
<li>Being in <a href="http://www.bpa.org/" target="_blank">Business Professionals of America</a> was a really weird experience.</li>
<ul>
<li>That logo hasn't changed in 20 years.</li>
</ul>
</ul>
<li>Auditioned for a TV show</li>
<ul>
<li>There was an open audition for a TV pilot, so I went and tried out for the lead part because why not?</li>
<li>It was in a closed Better Business Bureau office in a strip mall, so I'm sure it was legit.</li>
<ul>
<li>People were pacing, muttering and even talking to walls. I can't imagine how scary that would be to have your livelihood on the line.</li>
</ul>
<li>I didn't memorize my lines.</li>
<li>I froze up.</li>
<ul>
<li>There's a reason I work with computers. They use different sorts of scripts.</li>
</ul>
<li>While I didn't get the part, they did offer me a background spot. That's actor talk for "you can't play with us, but we will let you sit in the corner as long as you don't watch the action or sniffle too much".</li>
</ul>
<li>Been an extra in a movie</li>
<ul>
<li>This was a bucket list item for me.</li>
<ul>
<li>I've always been fascinated by movies and TV shows.</li>
</ul>
<li>It took almost 4 hours to film a 20 second scene.</li>
<ul>
<li>I loved every moment of it.</li>
</ul>
</ul>
</ul>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvwpUrVKWQbNAtrI5PaqCzYPt1ZZON_djPCB-rz5iL8NdbEU49PHQB0B5h6Lh9x9ph9Hxy7DS73F8T4P77s_fwdPI9tBDniubbS9hA7dbhT6bhlGiV6SEaDW3JCFHgObIC-4I_20gU0c/s1600/Ricky_Priceless.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvwpUrVKWQbNAtrI5PaqCzYPt1ZZON_djPCB-rz5iL8NdbEU49PHQB0B5h6Lh9x9ph9Hxy7DS73F8T4P77s_fwdPI9tBDniubbS9hA7dbhT6bhlGiV6SEaDW3JCFHgObIC-4I_20gU0c/s400/Ricky_Priceless.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="color: red;">What have you done once?</span></i></b><br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-88177225876158003962017-01-30T19:36:00.000-07:002017-01-30T19:36:07.538-07:00The Thing About Bears<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Here's the thing about bears - if you dream about them, it's guaranteed to always be a nightmare.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">They're never friendly, even if they show up in your kitchen with a cooking apron on.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6UpJwQZZwzD4zqWOBIaHSoP0yWmyROoKJoS0f-U3fmmeVnWyP-nJFwWWbjotinr-PXfIJwrIQEiH-JlbPfQbTBFC0-vtbvasQPHstx5FoX891a3AbT6KAtTzOsOTG16NR3Ls29n6a7vc/s1600/ApronCookieBear.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6UpJwQZZwzD4zqWOBIaHSoP0yWmyROoKJoS0f-U3fmmeVnWyP-nJFwWWbjotinr-PXfIJwrIQEiH-JlbPfQbTBFC0-vtbvasQPHstx5FoX891a3AbT6KAtTzOsOTG16NR3Ls29n6a7vc/s400/ApronCookieBear.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">That just means the cookies they're sprinkling sprinkles on are meant to fatten you up before dinner. Because you're the dinner.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-29514769468508279432016-10-31T11:14:00.000-06:002016-10-31T11:14:42.570-06:00Redwood Bengal Razors<b>Product manager:</b> Ok everyone, let's get started. We have a new product ready to launch, and we need to come up with a name.<br />
<br />
<b>Marketing manager:</b> What does it do?<br />
<br />
<b>Product manager:</b> It's a shaving razor. It's capable of skinning a Bengal tiger in one swipe. It can topple a Redwood with the flick of a wrist.<br />
<br />
<b>Lawyer</b>: Sounds dangerous. We have to think about customer safety and our potential liability.<br />
<br />
<b>Marketing manager:</b> Eh, let's just call it a safety razor.<br />
<br />
<b>Product manager:</b> Brilliant.<br />
<br />
<b>Lawyer</b>: We see no issues.<br />
<br />
<b>CEO</b>: Great job everyone, let's call it a day. See you at the bar.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="color: red;">What other products are inaccurately named?</span></i></b><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-74991282385389917662016-04-10T15:57:00.000-06:002016-04-10T15:57:02.171-06:00Call Me Cleatus<div class="MsoTitle">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">There was a time, long ago, when I was physically active. I wrote this back then.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoTitle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I like playing
softball. The only problem is that I’m
not that good at it. I’m a better
observer than player. This is not a good
thing, especially on the field.
Grounders go through my legs and strikes loft into the catcher’s glove
undisturbed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I heard that our
church had a coed softball team in a local city league, and was looking for
participants. “You’ve been excellent at
warming the bench for years at the little league”, my mother told me. “Why don’t you go warm the bench for the
church team?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
It
seemed a good idea, but I’ll admit I was a little skeptical at first. Our team would be defending the city league
championship for the second time. We
would be playing many challenging teams from large corporations around
town. What if they were too overbearing
and talented for us? What if I messed
up? Would I be ostracized and humiliated
by my fellow Lutherans? Could I play up
to par? The city’s deputy police chief
was on the team. He was a brute. He had muscles in places that I haven’t even
got places for. When he hit the ball,
the ground shook. We should have
nicknamed him Casey.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Regardless
of the obvious pressure, I signed up, knowing that I would thoroughly enjoy it
and that it would provide an obvious opportunity for me to go buy a new pair of
cleats. New cleats are vital to the
success of a ball player. If the
shortstop misses a sharply hit ground ball, take a look at his shoes. If they’re old and worn, that shortstop has
no excuse for not stopping that ball because he’s a veteran. He’s been marked and doomed by his cleats for
all to see. If, however, the second
baseman misses a slow dribble, and he’s wearing new cleats, no one holds it
against him. He’s obviously new at
this. Boy, did I ever need those cleats.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
My
troubles began right with the first practice.
Softballs carry differently than baseballs. This was a lesson I learned the hard way…as I
ran…long distances…after the balls I missed.
Softballs are also harder to throw in a straight line. When I throw them, they tend to float down
like snowflakes. This gives the opposing
team plenty of time to calmly waltz around the bases and score many runs
against us while the catcher has a nap waiting for the ball I’ve thrown to
land.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Hitting
was only slightly better. You’d think
that after having baseballs whipped at me by gorillas on the pitching mound in
little league, slow-pitch softball would be a breeze. It was.
I could feel several breezes each pitch.
First came the breeze made by the ball floating by me. Then came the breeze made by my bat hitting
air. Then came the breeze from the coach
as he exhaled deeply in an effort to remain calm. The balls came in at an angle I’d never had
to deal with before when hitting: straight down. It was as if it was hailing softballs the
size of…softballs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
To
top it all off, they told me I had to learn a whole new set of rules. Some, such as the ten run, sixth inning mercy
rule, were meant to shorten the game to its strict timeframe of an hour. Another was the pitching count. You went up to bat with a ball and a strike <i>already on you</i>. I thought they were joking. Then I heard “Striiiiike two-yerrrrr
out!” Seeing as how this was a coed
team, other rules had been changed to “even the playing field” (everything but
the pitcher’s mound). The batting order
had to alternate between the sexes.
Women got to hit a smaller softball.
It carried farther and was easier to throw. Men got the regulation-sized one with
dimensions roughly the same as an Oldsmobile.
If a man got walked, he advanced directly to second, and the woman
batter behind him got the choice of taking her chances at the plate or taking
the easy way out and going straight to first.
Other rules simply were made to throw a loop in things. For instance, if you hit a ball out of the
park, it wasn’t a home run. It was an
automatic out. Luckily, I never had that
happen to me. I was worried, though, and
tried my best not to hit the ball hard.
It’s the only reason my season batting average was 2.75, honest.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Despite
my best efforts, we still won the championship that season. In a weird turn of events, I even came off
the bench to hit in the winning run, which happened to be our deputy police
chief. He landed on home plate with only
a minor earthquake. I had tapped a
little dribbler to the left side of the shortstop, and the second baseman
bobbled the ball off her chin. I made
sure to thank her afterwards.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><i><span style="color: red;">What do you not excel at?</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="background-color: white;">.</span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-28873906885746667132016-03-29T00:08:00.002-06:002016-03-29T00:08:45.786-06:00Home Delivery<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><span style="color: red;">I recently came across this bit I wrote in college. Made me laugh, so here you go.</span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">No, I’m not
talking about giving birth.</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I’m talking
about </span><i style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><u>The Wall Street Journal</u></i><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">.</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I recently began receiving this wonderful
publication when a subscription to it was strongly recommended to me by my
marketing professor in exchange for a passing grade in his class.</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I immediately agreed to these terms and gave
the bill to my dad.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><u>The Wall Street Journal</u></i> comes
once every business day. Really, really
early every business day. Sometimes it
is so early that it gets here <i>yesterday</i>. Punctuality for this organization does not
seem to be a problem.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The impressive
thing about <i><u>The Wall Street Journal</u></i>
is the customer service. If you think a
retail store lacks customer service, be thankful <i><u>The Wall Street Journal</u></i> doesn’t run the place. They take the concept to a whole new level.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The first day I
received <i><u>The Wall Street Journal</u></i>,
it came folded in my mailbox. The next
day it was waiting for me in the driveway.
On the third day, it was also in the driveway, but encased in a bag. Where it got crazy was the fourth day. I woke up and discovered a mint on my
pillow. Startled, I sat up…to find the
paper on a tray next to my bed…with a steaming cup of doctored coffee…and a
Danish…all accompanied by a handwritten note that read, “Enjoy!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
While convenient,
the polite intrusion was still very unsettling.
However, this perk was easy to grow accustomed to. The nice invisible people of <i><u>The Wall Street Journal</u></i> were
doing their best to make sure that I got the most out of my subscription.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
One night after
class, I was heading to my car to go home after a long day. As I put the keys in the door lock, I felt a
sharp jab in the small of my back. While
inexperienced in such matters, it did not take a genius to conclude that this
was the business end of a handgun. I
froze as a gruff voice commanded, “Give me the keys and be quick about it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
What happened next
is hard to describe. There was the sound
of a painful grunt and an aborted cry.
Then there was a soft thud and a quick flurry of movement. I still had not moved, and was very
frightened, to say the least. After the
movement subsided, there was silence for a moment, and then a piece of paper
came fluttering down onto the hood of my car.
I picked it up and read, “It’s safe.
Have a nice night and sleep well!”
I slowly turned around and saw my would-be assailant on the ground about
ten feet away, hog-tied and gagged. Not
that it mattered, because he was out cold.
Until then, I didn’t know that <i><u>The
Wall Street Journal</u></i> included<i> tae
kwan do</i> in the training for delivery people.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After a couple
more weeks, another unexpected event occurred.
It was a cold November morning, and I was getting ready to head to
work. As I approached my car, I noticed
that the windows were scraped and the engine was running. I slowed my stride and took a cautious glance
around the neighborhood as I opened my car door. The heater had already done its job. I cleared the seat of the packed lunch (!)
and took my seat behind the wheel. I
noticed the note, timidly picked it up, and read, “Have a wonderful day.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I guess you could
say that I’m really enjoying my mysterious subscription to <i><u>The Wall Street Journal</u></i>.
The birthday presents (a La-Z-Boy and bigger coffee mug, for a more
enjoyable <i><u>Wall Street Journal</u></i>
reading) were a nice touch. The oil
changes don’t go unnoticed. It doesn’t
even bother me anymore that I still have yet to meet the delivery person. What bothers me is how this nice, caring and
thoughtful stalk- uh, person (and his employer!) is going to take the
news. You see, I’m finally canceling my
subscription to <i><u>The Wall Street
Journal</u></i>…due to the fact that I’ve never sat down and read it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="color: red;">What's the best/creepiest customer service you've ever received?</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: white;">.</span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-49833183522978126582016-03-20T23:30:00.003-06:002016-03-20T23:30:37.286-06:00Packin’ It<div class="MsoNormal">
“Food?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Check.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Water?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Check.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hiking boots and extra socks?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Check…unless you want clean ones.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ben-Gay and other assorted pain-relieving medicines?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Check.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were about to embark on a dangerous and exciting
mission. One that would change our lives
forever. One that would make us <b>men</b>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But I don’t <i>want</i>
to be a man,” whined my sister. She was
always whining about things like that.
My mom, who looked forward to our yearly trip with great anticipation,
said, “Enjoy your back-packing trip.
HA! I don’t have to go traipsing
through the mud and muck! <i>My</i> brain is functioning just fine! I get the house all to myself for two whole
days!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What, dear?” asked my dad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I said to enjoy your backpacking trip with our kids,
honey. I hope you have a fun time!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh. I thought you
said something else. Was that a
snicker?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You must be hearing things.
Off you go now! Bye! Suckers!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The five of us – one Dad, one sister, two brothers and one
Yours Truly – piled into our bright orange Volkswagon van. (My friends and I would later come up with a
song for our beloved van: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ora-nge jalopy, orange-orange jalopy. Jalopy!”)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were off for the boonies; also known as the Sandia
Mountains (Sandia means “the place of hot uphill travel and softball-sized
mosquitoes”). Here we would brave the
elements and my dad’s crunchy green macaroni for two days of backpacking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I said <i>backpacking</i>,
<b>not</b> camping.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do not go camping.
Lazy, smart people go camping. I,
being neither lazy nor smart, go backpacking.
What’s the difference, you ask?
Pipe down, I’m getting there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Camping is when you city pansies decide to “harmonize with
God’s gift of Nature” and “get away from it all”. Which you promptly do by taking it all with
you in your SUV’s as you head for the hills.
Showers, TV’s, La-Z-Boys, butlers.
All these comforts of home are as easily available as a portable hotel
room. There are flocks of families
reclining in the mountains ordering catered room service while watching HBO.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Backpacking is when you park your beat-up VW van at the base
of the mountain and hike your jug of water and box of macaroni and cheese up
the face of your local Mt. Everest.
Backpacking is trying to find a flat, treeless plot of ground on which
to pitch your tent before it gets dark.
Backpacking is when you fail to get it up in time and tempers grow short
as you miss the tent stakes and hit your thumbs with the rock you’re using
because you don’t have a hammer with you because you left it in the orange
jalopy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Campers wake up in the early hours of the afternoon to hot
coffee and pastries served in bed. Then
they read the paper for the stock market report and then move on to a hot
shower. They make sure to share their
lovely rap music and beer cans with the rest of us. No one ever said they weren’t nice!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Backpackers wake up in the dead of night with a bladder
problem that needs direct attention. We
muster our courage and make a run for the nearest tree. We don’t find it; it finds us – right in the
nose. After picking our whimpering,
bare-foot, frozen selves off the icy tundra, we fix the problem at hand and
follow the skunk tracks back to the tent.
We then stand at frozen attention until sunrise when the skunk gets out of
our sleeping bag, stretches, and wanders off to find better
accommodations. My sister says, “Next
time we’re bringing the hotel room. Boy,
was it c-cold last night! What’s for
b-breakfast?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then we eat cold oatmeal, pack up our two items (tent and
pack, no hammer), wave goodbye to the skunk, and stagger back down the mountain
to our orange jalopy, which, if we’re lucky, will run long enough to take us
back to Mom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="color: red;">What were your outdoor family traditions?</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;">.</span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-75256203064380328392016-03-12T17:05:00.002-07:002016-03-12T17:05:49.545-07:00The Investigators<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
We were on the
lookout. There was a job to be done, and
we were setting out to do it. We had to
go undercover, you see, because there were criminals on the loose. A gang of the ‘bad ones’ had busted loose and
had yet to be recaptured. What was
unfortunate for those on the lam was the fact the local paper had printed
mug shots of each on the front page and now we were on the case. We were bounty hunters, so to speak, minus
the bounty. Our community needed us and
we were happy to oblige. We
were both armed to the teeth and had clever disguises designed to make us look
innocent enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
There was no
discussion about what needed doing. Each
knew what the other thought and agreed, so we hit the streets at an early
hour. As we rode through the dry summer
heat of the desert, our spirits waned from the initial excitement and eagerness
of the hunt. Sightings were few and far
between. There were fruitlessly searched
miles behind us, and an inexhaustible supply of fresh ones ahead. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Our pace slowed to
a crawl. Our throats were parched and
our muscles cramped. Without warning,
one of our tires blew. Our failure
seemed secured. That’s when we saw your
place, ma’am. At first, we were certain
it was a mirage. The heat waves
distorted our view. You were no mirage,
though, ma’am. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
You were a
Godsend. As we pushed our crippled ride into your driveway, you met us halfway with iced lemonade. With sweat dripping off our youthful faces,
we drank your refreshments and sat on your weeds. We filled you in on the days’ events. And now here we are, ma’am. We appreciate your kindness and hospitality,
ma’am. What was that? Why, yes, I can fix the flat on my
bicycle. I’ve been doing it since I was
six, ma’am. Pardon me, ma’am? Yes, I’ll be seven this fall. My friend here is seven and he lives next
door to me and he has a pet turtle and a big brother. Are we far from home,
ma’am? Why, no, we’re not. See down the street where that red house is
with the swing hanging from the tree?
That’s my place, ma’am. It’s
where my mother lives, too. Yes, ma’am,
I’ll tell my mother where we were and that you said hello.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Well, I guess
we’ll be on our way, now, ma’am. Thank
you very much for the lemonade. I think
the bad guys got a lucky break today.
What’s that, ma’am? You say the
bad guys turned themselves in this afternoon?
Those scoundrels must have known we were on their trail, huh? Well, you know what they say, ma’am - <span style="line-height: 200%;">the truth always comes out in the
end.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<o:p><b><i><span style="color: red;">Were you a child superhero too?</span></i></b></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<o:p><span style="color: white;">.</span></o:p></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-73538552404129283692016-02-01T08:30:00.001-07:002016-02-01T08:30:22.314-07:00National Kazoo Day 2016<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/c_cXdg58HIo/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/c_cXdg58HIo?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="color: red;">Did you celebrate National Kazoo Day?</span></i></b><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-83649638403944006652016-01-21T22:46:00.002-07:002016-01-21T22:46:32.471-07:00Song Lyrics That Annoy the Snot Out of MeEver find yourself singing along to some catchy tune, and then you stop to think about how dumb the lyrics are? When that happens to me, I can no longer sing the song. The song becomes something to avoid at all costs. Here's a few of my non-favorites:<br />
<br />
<b>Gwen Stefani, "Rich Girl"</b> - <i>"See, I'd have all the money in the world, if I was a wealthy girl".</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kvgVhW2tJmYoMooPn-gu1zS58uZ9L33U10fx4ao2y4R1xQUzZMO7koBejxjxuqNlIgO1ymIPV-MIZu3aCezm3cFOMsXrT1QSeXTTqPWv5SyP9CYxkdsiJgv8o4bzyKvXGn5XFAqpDyk/s1600/wealthygirl.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kvgVhW2tJmYoMooPn-gu1zS58uZ9L33U10fx4ao2y4R1xQUzZMO7koBejxjxuqNlIgO1ymIPV-MIZu3aCezm3cFOMsXrT1QSeXTTqPWv5SyP9CYxkdsiJgv8o4bzyKvXGn5XFAqpDyk/s400/wealthygirl.PNG" width="350" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I should be a song writer.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
No, no you would not. Well, maybe for a little while. Until you bought something. Math is hard, Gwen.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Meatloaf, "Anything For Love"</b> - <i>"I would do anything for love, but I won't do that."</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJCveoycbPmqFDoksBh82VkMjdAYdiIsGrBjxqLLhyphenhyphenn1CCIePexpNnRzLT5JUFK9Pgj6ivB0E6gY8VXiv_h09rCpTsIWiyP4mOF4zkDej100_eVLG8sJthzhMXz1Eg6yYTiSG13L1RD9E/s1600/anythingforlove.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJCveoycbPmqFDoksBh82VkMjdAYdiIsGrBjxqLLhyphenhyphenn1CCIePexpNnRzLT5JUFK9Pgj6ivB0E6gY8VXiv_h09rCpTsIWiyP4mOF4zkDej100_eVLG8sJthzhMXz1Eg6yYTiSG13L1RD9E/s400/anythingforlove.PNG" width="380" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anything but fight flying motorcycles with a skyscraper dragon.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I don't mind that there's some lines you won't cross, but could you do me a favor and change the title of your stupid song, please?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Coldplay, "42"</b> - <i>"You didn't get to heaven but you made it close."</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZsjdk_xysR_l0khSZWK1tsLfQkP8ZbgH_FuaRHfSPt4oppD_18DdMaezhn8UC5fUOZscY19PyTVd8in5KaHjl-6tsFsFG56mirNaFMiVNdnMSEkNw4eAosdAl-S46AG25uzvBxHL9_9E/s1600/noheavenforyou.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZsjdk_xysR_l0khSZWK1tsLfQkP8ZbgH_FuaRHfSPt4oppD_18DdMaezhn8UC5fUOZscY19PyTVd8in5KaHjl-6tsFsFG56mirNaFMiVNdnMSEkNw4eAosdAl-S46AG25uzvBxHL9_9E/s400/noheavenforyou.PNG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wonder which smiley rich friend didn't make it?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Such a friendly way to tell someone they're going to hell.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="color: red;">What lyrics bother you?</span></i></b><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span><br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-58013119888613143162015-05-03T22:18:00.001-06:002015-05-04T00:34:10.621-06:00Changeup, Chapter 28Joe leaned on the padded fence off the third base line. It was usually his favorite part of game night, but tonight Joe stared listlessly as the kids ran the bases, shouting exuberantly.<br>
<br>
What was he thinking?<br>
<br>
He wasn't trying to buck the system, he was just doing things his way. He didn't want the other owners to fail. He had simply been given the chance of a lifetime and took it.<br>
<br>
Dummy.<br>
<br>
He was the youngest owner in major league history, and he was afraid that fact was about to bite him in the butt.<br>
<br>
"I'm still not happy about this."<br>
<br>
He didn't even turn his head. He just sighed.<br>
<br>
"Hi, Annette."<br>
<br>
"Ms. Primrose."<br>
<br>
She leaned against the fence next to him, staring at the same empty spot. Screams of laughter punctuated their silence.<br>
<br>
"I'm not happy about it, but they are. And that's all that matters to you, isn't it?"<br>
<br>
For the first time, he watched. Kids of all ages and sizes were running, skipping and even waddling. Every last one had a smile on their face.<br>
<br>
"This is how it's supposed to be, Annette."<br>
<br>
"Ms. Primrose. I know this is how it should be, but things are different here than they were in little league, Joe."<br>
<br>
"They shouldn't have to be. It's still baseball, right?"<br>
<br>
A boy in a blue Royals shirt, around 8 years old, ran through third base and jumped on the top of the fence next to them. He was grinning ear to ear.<br>
<br>
"Hi, Mom! Come run the bases with me!"<br>
<br>
Joe stared in shock at Ms. Primrose for a moment. She was beet red.<br>
<br>
"Better get out there, Mom. That's an order!"<br>
<br>
After another moment, Ms. Primrose laughed.<br>
<br>
"That's Annette to you, Joe. And when I get back, remind me to tell you how you can fix your ownership problem."<br>
<br>
"Oh, really? Care to give me a sneak preview?"<br>
<br>
Annette only smiled as she hopped the fence and took off around the bases with her son, laughing the entire way.<div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-82719955584123595442015-04-21T23:26:00.000-06:002015-04-21T23:26:04.736-06:00DoctorsThis is how I'm convinced every doctor's appointment is going to go:<br />
<br />
Me: Doc, what do you think could be causing this weird symptom?<br />
<br />
Doc: Something expensive.<br />
<br />
Me: Would you care to elaborate?<br />
<br />
Doc: Something very expensive.<br />
<br />
Me: Such as?<br />
<br />
Doc: We'll have to run some tests.<br />
<br />
*3 weeks, 2 blood draws and a series of x-rays later*<br />
<br />
Doc: I'm going to have to refer you to my golfing buddy. I mean, a specialist.<br />
<br />
Me: Oh, dear. What did you find?<br />
<br />
Doc: Inconclusive. But we did confirm the presence of an <span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: HelveticaNeue, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">epicondyle.</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: HelveticaNeue, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: HelveticaNeue, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">Me: Can you remove it?</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: HelveticaNeue, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: HelveticaNeue, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">Doc: Your elbow? Not necessary. But please pay my receptionist four million dollars on the way out. </span><br />
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: HelveticaNeue, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: HelveticaNeue, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">Me: Absolutely. Thank you!</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-76412716224005449102015-04-15T21:46:00.001-06:002015-04-15T21:46:21.796-06:00The Pneumonia DietForget Atkins.<div><br></div><div>South Beach is for losers.</div><div><br></div><div>The Daniel Plan will only fill you with carrots before the lions get you.</div><div><br></div><div>My new diet plan is the way to go. On the Pneumonia Diet, I lost 22 pounds in 3 weeks. And since I got sick right after New Year's, that means I had more than accomplished my resolution of 15 pounds before January was out. No other diet plan can claim this kind of success.</div><div><br></div><div>Side effects may include respiratory failure, delusional ambulance rides, long hospital stays and hair loss.</div><div><br></div><div>I'll be writing a bestselling book about it, and will probably be featured on Dr. Oz's weird show. You would not believe how much of that show I was subjected to in waiting rooms for all my follow up doctor appointments.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>How are your New Year's Resolutions coming along?</div><div>.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-5780680363390900872015-04-15T00:14:00.000-06:002015-04-15T00:14:37.291-06:00Confession Time With RickyAfter all this time, I think I finally owe you an explanation.<br />
<br />
It's hard for me to find the words that will let you down easy, but I'll try:<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>I'm not a real astronaut.</b><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-18581993862923838452014-12-01T12:40:00.000-07:002014-12-01T12:48:17.805-07:00My Modern Lemonade Stand<i>"If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"When life hands you lemons, make lemonade."</i><br />
<br />
<b>I have bad luck.</b><br />
<br />
I'm not talking about the major things in life. I'm blessed with a loving family, a great job and a roof over my head.<br />
<br />
I'm talking about the little things:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>If I make a bet with you, I will lose.</li>
<li>If I wash the car, it will rain (18 times in a row; ask my wife!).</li>
<li>I've gone gambling once and played the lottery once; I lost both times.</li>
<li>Whichever sports team I'm rooting for will lose.</li>
<li>Whichever stock I buy will go down.</li>
</ul>
<br />
This seems like an Eeyore mentality, but I have some entrepreneur blood in me. So I've decided to make lemonade.<br />
<br />
This is my new business model:<br />
<br />
For $50, I will cheer for your football team's opponent. The price goes up during the playoffs, and doubles for the Super Bowl (triple if you need me to watch the halftime show for some reason).<br />
<br />
For $100 plus expenses, I will buy the stock you're short selling.<br />
<br />
Jockeying for a big promotion at work? I'll write recommendation letters for your competition. Just $25 / letter.<br />
<br />
Of course, with my luck, my luck will turn around right after I get my first client.<br />
<br />
I can't win.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="color: red;">What would you pay me to mess up for you?</span></i></b><br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-21964476106433166672014-11-27T04:14:00.000-07:002014-11-27T04:14:00.410-07:00Giving ThanksIt had been a long day.<br />
<br />
Shopping for hours. This store, then that store. One side of town to the other.<br />
<br />
Evan had done very well, all things considered. Our last stop of the day was the grocery store.<br />
<br />
He ran around like an untied balloon. Too much energy pent up for too long.<br />
<br />
I couldn't keep him out of the way of other shoppers. After he ran in front of the same lady for the third time, I grabbed his arm and yanked him out of the way, my face red with frustration and embarrassment.<br />
<br />
"I'm so sorry", I said to her.<br />
<br />
She stood there for a moment, just staring at my son.<br />
<br />
I prepared myself for a snide comment or stern admonition.<br />
<br />
Finally, she said softly, "Don't be frustrated with him. He's just exuberant. He reminds me of my son. He passed away around that age. Just try to enjoy every moment."<br />
<br />
So today, I'm thankful.<br />
<br />
Thankful for the <a href="http://www.rickyanderson.net/2011/11/gift.html">family God gave me that science said I couldn't have</a>. Thankful for a son who's excited to see and touch everything. Thankful for a daughter who just learned to crawl and lights up when she sees me walk into the room. Thankful for a wife who still wants to spend time with me after seeing me every day for 10 years. Thankful for an extended family who loves us and supports us far more than we deserve.<br />
<br />
Thankful for every blessing He's given me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="color: red;">What about you?</span></i></b><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-61604413222172874142014-11-19T23:07:00.000-07:002014-11-19T23:07:57.070-07:00My Second Chance - Guest Post for Bill GrandiToday <a href="http://billgrandi.ovcf.org/wordpress/?p=11769">I am guest posting for Bill Grandi (Cycleguy)</a>.<br />
<br />
Bill asked me to guest post about a time when I was given a second chance.<br />
<br />
This was months ago, and months before that.<br />
<br />
I'm glad he gave me a second chance...<br />
<br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-14292732414664891832014-10-27T04:14:00.000-06:002014-10-27T04:14:00.040-06:00Changeup, Chapter 27<i>It was the top of the 9th. Last game of the season.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Two down. The runner on third inched down the line, ready to bolt for home.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Joe's knees ached, but the excitement kept his mind focused on the pitch.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He signaled low and in, and the pitcher complied.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Crack!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Sharp grounder to short.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The runner's cleats kicked up dirt as he flew home. Joe jumped in front of the plate, waiting for the throw.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The ball slapped into his glove. The runner's cleats came up. Joe braced for impact.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Crash!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Joe stood his ground, even as the breath was knocked from him.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He held the ball up for the umpire to see as the crowd cheered.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He took his time getting back to the dugout, catching his breath.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>As he pulled the chest protector from over his head, he heard his coach call, "You're up, Joe. Do your thing."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He unclipped the shin guards and tossed them aside. He grabbed his bat and helmet and headed back to the plate.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>It was a mighty swing, but a wimpy hit. The ball dribbled down the third base line.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Joe put his head down and ran like his butt was on fire.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He ran through the bag as the first baseman stretched for the throw. He wasn't sure whether he was safe or not, but then the crowd's roar let him know. He turned to grin at the first base coach, expecting a thumbs up. There was nothing but intensity on the first base coach's face as he pointed at second base with one arm and windmilled the other.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Joe was already running for second before he realized what had happened - the throw to first had gone wide and the ball was at the fence.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He slid into second, grinning and wheezing.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>A moment later, he watched a long fly ball head to center field. He tagged up on second, and sprinted for third on the catch, easily making it on time.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Bottom of the ninth. Score still tied. One down.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Joe glanced to the dugout, raising an eyebrow at his coach.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>His coach shook his head, slowly and firmly.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Joe knew he should play it safe.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Should wait for the hit.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Shouldn't risk everything on a hair-brained risky move.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>But on the wind-up, his feet were already moving, as if they were in charge and he was not.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>For a moment, he was terrified. But there was no turning back now, so he leaned forward, legs and arms pumping in a desperate effort.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He dove, arms stretched like Superman, stretching for the plate.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The catcher was blocking his way, but had taken the pitch too far in front of the plate after pushing the batter out of the way. Joe glimpsed the back 6 inches of the plate, exposed behind the catcher's shin guards.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The throw had beaten him, but he hadn't been tagged yet.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>As he landed, he lunged. He felt the tag hit him hard on the head. He rolled away, momentum carrying him into the umpire's legs.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He lay there, tangled with the catcher and umpire, panting as the crowd's screams filled his ears.</i><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-77020063192916006112014-10-20T04:14:00.000-06:002014-10-20T04:14:00.044-06:00Changeup, Chapter 26Joe stared at the lights, bright as day above his head.<br />
<br />
He was lying in the grass in center field. The team was on the road, and there had been no game tonight. Even empty, it was a sight to behold. He'd dreamed of standing on a big league field his whole life, and now he could do it whenever he wanted.<br />
<br />
For the time being, anyway.<br />
<br />
"Whatever's on your mind looks awfully heavy, Joe. Need some help carrying it?"<br />
<br />
He hadn't heard or seen her coming, but her voice brought a small smile to his tense face.<br />
<br />
She sat next to him, and he moved to place his head in her lap.<br />
<br />
"I think it's over, Renee."<br />
<br />
She frowned down at him.<br />
<br />
"Huh. Not the way I pictured hearing that news."<br />
<br />
Joe's eyes opened wide in terror.<br />
<br />
"Not us! This." He waved at the lights.<br />
<br />
He explained the situation.<br />
<br />
"I could sell out, but they know I'm between a rock and a hard place, and I would be lucky to get pennies on the dollar. My dad's inheritance, wiped out in a little over a year. Betcha he'd be proud of me, huh?"<br />
<br />
"I'm proud of you, Joe. You're doing things your way, and it's working. Otherwise, they wouldn't need to pull such shady shenanigans to beat you."<br />
<br />
"Thanks. I could borrow the money, but how is going into debt honoring Dad's gift? I can't do that."<br />
<br />
Joe sighed.<br />
<br />
"What would you say if all this was gone?"<br />
<br />
"I'd say you still owed me a hot dog."<br />
<br />
She smiled.<br />
<br />
"Look, Joe. I don't care if you're rich. You weren't when I met you. Riches haven't changed you, and I'd like to think your riches haven't changed how much I love you. We'll figure it out."<br />
<br />
Joe relaxed. They stared at the lights in silence for a while, enjoying quiet company.<br />
<br />
"Marry me?"<div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-64718692902614602472014-10-13T04:14:00.000-06:002014-10-13T04:14:00.674-06:00Changeup, Chapter 25Joe stared at the letter. He had no idea what it meant.<br />
<br />
He glanced over the top of it, and then gently let it fall from his fingers to the desk.<br />
<br />
Ms. Primrose met his stare and raised an eyebrow.<br />
<br />
"Ok, Annette. What does this even mean?"<br />
<br />
"Ms. Primrose, thank you, and it means you have to come up with funding for a new stadium by the start of next season."<br />
<br />
Joe coughed, and coffee splattered on the letter.<br />
<br />
"What?!? Why?"<br />
<br />
"New rule. Stadiums can't be more than 40 years old. Trying to maintain a big-league image, after all."<br />
<br />
"How old is ours?"<br />
<br />
"Kauffman Stadium is 41 years old."<br />
<br />
"Then this isn't about the age of the stadium. Someone wants me out. What other stadiums are affected by this?"<br />
<br />
"One. The Angels just announced a plan to build a new stadium. Most are unaffected because there's a grandfather clause for stadiums renovated since 2010."<br />
<br />
"That's a relief! We just renovated."<br />
<br />
"In 2009."<br />
<br />
Joe's brow furrowed and his face flushed; his demeanor darkening uncharacteristically.<br />
<br />
"Then it's not just someone, Ms. Primrose. They all want me out."<br />
<br />
He crumpled the letter and threw it across the room.<div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-41250628839847018832014-10-06T04:14:00.000-06:002014-10-06T04:14:00.098-06:00Changeup, Chapter 24"We have to stop him."<br />
<br />
"He's changing everything."<br />
<br />
"He doesn't care if his bottom line isn't going up."<br />
<br />
"Doesn't he realize this is a business?"<br />
<br />
"What are we going to do?"<br />
<br />
"Well, I'm sure not losing to some kid!"<br />
<br />
The room wasn't crowded, but the agitated chatter filled it just the same.<br />
<br />
Mr. Simpson stood and cleared his throat. Silence filtered through the room.<br />
<br />
"Gentlemen, thank you for meeting me today. Before we begin, I need to stress that this is not an officially sanctioned owners' meeting, and the commissioner knows nothing about what we're discussing today. Isn't that right, Mr. Commissioner?"<br />
<br />
Everyone chuckled as the commissioner raised a glass from his table in the back.<br />
<br />
"I'd like to invite Nathan Finnigan to tell us more about Joe, the new thorn in our side."<br />
<br />
There were a few more chuckles, but Nathan didn't so much as smile as he stood.<br />
<br />
He laid out the details much as he had the evening he had met privately with Mr. Simpson.<br />
<br />
When he finished, Simpson spoke again. "Gentlemen, I have no problem accepting change, but I will not accept thinner margins and weaker bottom lines. If this is how he wants to play, then we need to figure out how to shut him out. Any ideas?"<br />
<br />
No one spoke as they all stared at each other, scheming, and apparently coming up with nothing.<br />
<br />
Eventually, someone spoke up. "What are his vulnerabilities, Nathan? Where's he weak?"<br />
<br />
A smile finally cracked on Nathan's face.<br />
<br />
"Cash. Joe's rich, but he's all in."<br />
<br />
The smile spread from Nathan's face to every other one in the room.<div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-57430874489187286372014-10-03T06:48:00.001-06:002014-10-03T06:48:29.322-06:00Invisible Pizza BabiesI was picking up dinner at a local pizza joint the other night. I had called ahead and was picking up our order in the drive-thru.<br />
<br />
The teenage girl who was running the window confirmed our order and reached to take my debit card. She froze as she looked in my back window, then squealed with delight.<br />
<br />
<b>Drive-thru Lady:</b> Your baby is CUTE!<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> Um...<br />
<br />
<b>DTL:</b> Wait, where IS your baby?<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> At home. Asleep.<br />
<br />
<b>DTL:</b> But I see the car seat.<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> Isn't it cute?<br />
<br />
When she left to ring my card, I couldn't help laughing as I picked up my phone to pass the time.<br />
<br />
She came back to the window, saw me on my phone, and said sheepishly, "You're posting that on Facebook, aren't you?"<br />
<br />
"No", I said, as I <a href="https://twitter.com/Arthur2Sheds/status/517501489569607680">posted it on Twitter</a>. "Absolutely not."<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="color: red;">It's your turn for funny stories...GO!</span></i></b><br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-46949648134890155472014-09-01T20:27:00.003-06:002014-09-01T20:34:28.085-06:00Changeup, Chapter 23"Joe, there's a lawyer here to see you."<br />
<br />
Joe frowned. He didn't like lawyers.<br />
<br />
"What about? Am I being sued?"<br />
<br />
His receptionist, Kate, shrugged. "Not likely. Works for you in Legal."<br />
<br />
Joe frowned further. He didn't know he had a Legal department, but it made sense.<br />
<br />
"Send him in, I guess."<br />
<br />
"<b>She'll</b> be right in", Kate said pointedly.<br />
<br />
A tall, dour woman with permanently arched eyebrows tapped in loudly, her high heels leaving a staccato echo in the hall.<br />
<br />
"Hi, I'm Joe."<br />
<br />
"Annette Primrose, your General Counsel."<br />
<br />
"Pleased to meet you, Annette. Have a seat."<br />
<br />
"Ms. Primrose, thank you." She sat, but remained ramrod straight. Joe unconsciously slouched a bit more to balance it out.<br />
<br />
"What's this about, Ms. Primrose?"<br />
<br />
"You have to stop these stunts."<br />
<br />
"What stunts?"<br />
<br />
"You know perfectly well what stunts, Mr. -"<br />
<br />
"Joe. Just Joe. So what do I have to stop doing?"<br />
<br />
"Hmph. The lottery you hold before each game by randomly calling a seat number for a fan to throw out the first pitch, or to be the bat boy for the game."<br />
<br />
"There's no harm in that, and the fans love it."<br />
<br />
"What about letting the kids run around the bases after the games? If there were an injury, you would definitely be sued."<br />
<br />
"For letting kids be kids? I doubt it."<br />
<br />
"It's my job to protect you from lawsuits. These are things I see as a potential risk for our organization. It's my duty to advise you against these activities."<br />
<br />
Joe stared for a moment, almost amused at the consternation Ms. Primrose felt over some Little Leaguers.<br />
<br />
That's when the idea struck.<br />
<br />
"I appreciate it, Ms. Primrose. But please don't have a heart attack when that risk gets a bit more potential."<br />
<br />
Though hardly possible, Ms. Primrose's eyebrows arched higher as she sat up even straighter in her chair.<br />
<br />
"And just what do you have planned?"<br />
<br />
"Every Little Leaguer in the world dreams of playing on a major league field someday, Ms. Primrose. And starting tomorrow, they'll get that chance."<br />
<br />
Before every home game, Joe let a local little league team play a game on his field. The leagues played on a rotating basis, so teams from all areas of town got a chance to play. Admission was, of course, free. And if you cared about baseball enough to show up early and watch the kids, you got to stay and watch the pros.<br />
<br />
Attendance soared.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="color: red;">Hi!</span></i></b><br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-22297306252829912482014-08-06T04:14:00.000-06:002014-08-06T04:14:00.228-06:00Telepathy Tacos<b>User</b>: Aaahhh! The conference room PC is acting up!<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: I'm sorry to hear that. What's it doing?<br />
<br />
<b>User</b>: You'll have to see it yourself. I can't explain it.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Okay, Where are you located?<br />
<br />
<b>User</b>: I'm in (different town than me).<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Please give me the name of the PC so I can remote into it and take a look. This information is located<br />
on the PC itself or on the desktop background.<br />
<br />
<b>User</b>: I can't give that to you now. We're in a meeting. This is the conference room, remember? Just sit tight and I'll give it to you later.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Oooookay.<br />
<br />
<b>*Later that afternoon*</b><br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Hi, did you have a chance to grab the name of the PC in your conference room?<br />
<br />
<b>User</b>: No, I forgot. Let me get back to you.<br />
<br />
<b>*The next morning*</b><br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Hi! Did you have a chance to-<br />
<br />
<b>User</b>: Look, I'm really busy. I'll get back to you.<br />
<br />
<b>*Two days later*</b><br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Hi! Did-<br />
<br />
<b>User</b>: I don't have time for this. Can't you just go around the corner and look for the stupid name of the stupid computer yourself?<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: I'm sorry, I'm not at your location.<br />
<br />
<b>User</b>: Well, has anyone else complained?<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: No, yours is the only ticket I have for your office.<br />
<br />
<b>User</b>: Then it's obviously not a problem, now is it?<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: You tell me. You opened the ticket.<br />
<br />
<b>User</b>: Oh, bother. Just close it.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Sorry for the inconvenience.<br />
<br />
<b>*I close the ticket. Under notes, I put "User resolved issue by being persnickety and unavailable."*</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="color: red;">Be honest...are you this user?</span></i></b><br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-9369957053694028412014-07-28T21:28:00.000-06:002014-08-05T14:49:38.124-06:00Immediately Delayed<b>Me</b>: Reboot your computer and it'll work.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>User</b>: Are you sure? I just did.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Me</b>: And the problem survived the reboot?<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>User</b>: Yes, it came back shortly after.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Me</b>: How long between when you rebooted and when the issue returned?<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>User</b>: I rebooted Monday, and today is Thursday, so...<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Me</b>: Oh, just reboot.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="color: red;">Is it just me, or will most people do everything they can to avoid a reboot?</span></i></b><br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-966727513287952818.post-3041523037877269882014-07-28T07:13:00.002-06:002014-07-28T07:13:34.940-06:00A Letter to My DaughterEliana, yesterday we were privileged to dedicate you to the Lord.<br />
<br />
Your name means "God has answered".<br />
<br />
When we were told we couldn't have kids, we prayed...and God answered.<br />
<br />
When we thought we might lose you the night you were born, we prayed...and God answered.<br />
<br />
The first Bible verse I ever memorized was Psalm 56:3 - "When I am afraid, I will trust in you."<br />
<br />
We want to raise you secure in the knowledge that you can trust your Heavenly Father.<br />
<br />
He's been there for us, and He'll be there for you, too.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="color: red;">We love you.</span></i></b><br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">---
This post copyright by Ricky Anderson, but please feel free to forward it to everyone you know, print it out to tape on the fridge, or read it at large family gatherings. I need the attention.</div>Ricky Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15156720647595883360noreply@blogger.com0