Tag: humor

A Coffee House Moment

Coffee house hissing, loud laughter, and boisterous conversations swam around me. Waiting in line, a barista prepared quiches and burritos and told me about her cat until I reached the register.

Jessie, the cashier, has grave eyes with a welcoming but cautious smile. As she rang up my order, I tilted my gaze to a cheap-looking white ring on her third finger.

Wondering if it had symbolic meaning, I suggested, “That’s an interesting ring.”

Holding her hand up, Jessie regarded the ring and chuckled. “My sister-in-law lost her wedding ring in the ocean one year. I started worrying that I’d lose mine, so now I only wear my wedding ring on special occasions.”

Turning the ring on her finger, she looked off and smiled to herself. “I wear rings like this instead. I have a bunch of them and let my daughter pick them out for me. She’s say, ‘Today, you’ll wear pink.’ Or, ‘I think you’ll wear orange.'”

We laughed together. Walking off, I imagined her daughter giving her a pink ring to put on her finger.

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The Price of the Prize

In an old news story — two weeks ago, ‘old news’ in the smash and grab Trump news cycle — María Corina Machado, 2025 Nobel Peace Prize recipient, gave her prize to Trump.

I suspect she was secretly paid to give her prize away.

An effective front man for the executive branch’s growing lawlessness, keeping him placated is paramount. Otherwise, he began obsessing on losing the 2020 elections again.

Frustration was high. Nothing seemed to lift Trump’s mood. He wanted Greenland but Denmark wasn’t selling, even though he’d threatened more tariffs. His ballroom’s construction was mired down. ICE’s growing violence was driving his popularity and approval ratings to new lows, and the issue about affordability just was not disappearing. Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos were calling almost every day, ranting, “This is not what we paid for!”

“We need to meet,” Vought hissed to Trump’s cabinet. “Something needs to be done before senators and representatives start growing some balls because they’re going to lose an election.”

“Well, I’m out,” War Secretary Hegseth said. “We already abducted President Maduro from Venezuela. I thought that would make him happier.”

“I know,” Noem said. “We’re doing everything we can over in Homeland Security but now judges are growing a spine. Who do they think they are?”

“I agree,” Miller said. “I thought adding Trump’s name to the Kennedy Center would make him happier.”

“I have an idea,” Bondi suggested. “Let’s approach Machado and see what her price is for giving Trump her Nobel Peace Prize.”

Vice President Vance nodded. “A Noble Prize, yes! That sounds like the perfect pacifier for him.”

Feelers were put out to Machado. Their pitch was basic. “We’re in charge of Venezuela now. We can put you into office. Support you with the strength of the U.S. military. Fund your campaign. All you need to do is give Donald Trump your peace prize as a gift. Come on, what will it hurt? You said that you thought he deserved it. And the record will always show that you won. It’s a win-win.”

Officially, they said Machado came up with it on her own, perhaps in an effort to gain Trump’s support.

As far as they could tell, it worked. Other than another diatribe at Davos about losing the 2020 election again, Trump stayed on track.

“It’s still early days,” Miller reminded the rest at the next meeting. “I think we need to do something bigger, something to really put a smile on his face.”

Everyone’s shoulder’s slumped. “Think,” Bondi encouraged. “What can we do? Doesn’t anyone have any idea what will make him happier for a little while, at least until the midterms?

“Arrest Biden?” Miller said with wide-eyed eagerness.

“Too much,” Hegseth answered.

“What about this?” Bessent said. “Let’s have a Trump coin minted.”

Trump’s cabinet and advisors held their breath in thought.

“That’s more tangible,” Miller said.

Eyes bright and large over a grin, Hegseth exclaimed, “No living president has their name on a coin.”

Vought reached for the phone. “I’ll call our legislative lackeys and get them working on it.”

“Make sure it’s gold,” Bessent said.

Vought sneered. “Of course. We know that Trump is a fool for gold.”

“Okay, I think we’re done for today,” Bondi said. “Americans are getting angry. New polls will probably show that.”

Miller scowled. “That’s because he’s so great, misunderstood, and underappreciated.”

“Anyway,” Bondi continued. “We need to get ahead of the curve.”

Vought smiled. “Of course. Let’s get to work on those memorial gates he keeps going on about. We need some kind of TrumpCares program, too. Doesn’t matter what it does.”

“I’ll take that on,” Kennedy replied. “I know how he thinks.”

Relieved, the group filed out, feeling happier about the future for the first time in days. “It’s good to know to have a direction,” Vought said to Kennedy.

Kennedy nodded. “I just hope it makes Elon happy.”

Vance piped up. “By the way, has anyone seen Trump today?”

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Sunday’s Theme Music

Not my snow; photo from sis in Plum, a suburb of Pittsburgh, PA.

It’s Sunday, January 25, 2026, in Ashland — if I’m reading my computer right. I trust my machine to tell me the truth but as things evolve into greater complications, it’s not always trustworthy.

We have dry weather, sunshine, and blue skies. The temperature gap has returned. My home system shows it’s 25 F. Online cites the temperature as 29 but Alexa says it’s 40. High temperatures in the fifties are expected.

Two different issues draw my attention as the massive winter storm takes on most of the United States, and Minnesota deals with unrest after another ICE shooting. Fortunately, I have a cat.

Papi’s weather focus is extremely limited. He shows more interest in food, although, power to him, he really likes helping me with yardwork. If I’m out cutting things, pulling weeds, and so on, Papi’s steely green-eyed gaze inspects my work. Both annoying and cute, because I worry about him getting hurt.

He and I went out to salute the sun in the back, our habit going back for years. We came in, I fed him, then began preparing my breakfast. Through the kitchen window, I watched my neighbor across the street. Every day, he walks to the end of his driveway, faces the sun, and stands, eyes closed, for several minutes. Today, with this cold, he was returning to his house within two minutes — about the same amount Papi and I did.

Sis’s on-the-scene report from Pennsylvania said everything is closed, finishing, “Been snowing since it started, middle of the night. ‘Ooo, baby, it’s a white world,’ is the official song.” She sent a photo of her front view, with her son-in-law’s car parked in the driveway. The snow is expected to keep falling through Monday.

Eight southern states are suffering power failures from ice due to the storm. Hope people are able to stay warm and safe.

Likewise, I hope everyone in Minnesota is safe, and stays safe.

Today’s song was inspired by Papi and my wife. Papi wanted food and attention. My wife wants assistance with some running around. The Neurons responded to the exchanges by playing “I’m Your Puppet” by James and Bobby Purify. I admit, I looked up who performed it and turned it into a hit that I often heard on my transistor radio when I was young.

These were the lyrics in mind when The Neurons took the song to my morning mental music stream:

Your every wish is my command
All you gotta do is wiggle your little hand
‘Cause I’m your puppet
I’m your puppet

The lyrics were modified from hand to paw for Papi.

Let peace and grace finally track us down, stay a while, and restore some sense of optimism for the future. Cheers

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A Car & Its Driver

I paced the room, waiting for word about my wife’s 2003 Ford Focus. The car was recently stopping on its own, unsafe and inconvenient.

I resisted thinking it was a battery at first. The car cranked up and fired without any issues but then died.

My wife didn’t think it was a battery. “It starts up. Nothing dims, and it doesn’t have that weak, sluggish sound when it starts.”

I agreed in principle. I checked the battery, confirming, no loose wires or cables, intact and clean. A date on the battery’s side, 05 20, surprised me.

Telling my spouse about it, I added, “I didn’t think the battery was that old.”

We reminisced about buying it. Delivering Food & Friends alone because the COVID pandemic was underway, her car died enroute. She called me to rescue her, which I gleefully did to escape the house.

I reminded her, recent ‘high-discharge’ batteries don’t show the same dying battery symptoms we grew up seeing. Then I recalled, it was cold when the car died on her a couple times this week. Cold affects how much energy batteries can deliver.

I decided, checking the battery was where to begin. An appointment at Les Schwab, a mile away, was made for 10 AM this morning.

I started the Focus without any issue; it died five seconds later. I started it again. Death came five seconds later.

Three times was a charm, but I worried about the car dying as I drove to the appointment.

The Les Schwab tech confirmed, bad battery. “One cell is completely dead,” he said.

That fit, to me. A couple hundred dollars later, we believe we have the problem solved.

Whether the problem is truly solved won’t be clear until the car has been driven normally a few times. I have high confidence it’s fixed, though.

But — knock on wood.

Just in case.

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Floofmulus

Floofmulus (floofinition) – An animal’s private secretary or personal attendant. Origins: Floofman, from Flooftin for servant. First use noted in print 1854, “The Travails of A Royal Floofmulus”.

In Use: “Two days after adopting a rescue cat, Becca realized she was a floofmulus, scheduling checkups and planning meals while ensuring she’s safe, comfortable, and entertained.”

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Another Wandering Thought

Drinking and writing in the coffee shop, I briefly emerged from my fog of words. Conversational strands pulled me in.

“We’re losing ’em all,” a customer said to the barista, Preston.

“Yes,” Preston agreed.

“There’s only one Beatle left, isn’t there?”

I flipped the Beatles’ names through my mind: Paul, John, George, Ringo.

“Yep. No, two,” Preston said.

“Yeah, that’s right, Ringo and George.”

Preston answered, “No, George and John.”

“That’s right,” the customer agreed, walking off.

Eyebrows rising, I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to call out a correction.

“No, wait,” Preston shouted. “John and Paul. No, Ringo and John. I mean. Paul! Ringo and Pau!”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Thank dog they came through with the right names.

I don’t know what I would have done if they hadn’t.

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Fridaz Wandering Thoughts

It was the weirdest damn thing. I backed out of my garage and drive this lovely Saturday morning. As I straightened the car and drove down the street, a gray Tesla 3 pulled from the curb, preceding me. We were close enough and angled right that I noticed the driver — an older-looking, white woman, short gray hair.

She went down and stopped at the hill’s bottom. As I pulled in behind her, another gray Tesla 3 cruised by. Hand to Dog, that Tesla’s driver looked just like the first two.

The Tesla ahead turned left, falling in line with the first gray Tesla. Gasping with delighted surprise at such serendipity, I pulled up to the stop sign. Another gray Tesla 3 went by with another white, female, gray-haired driver.

No way, I thought. It was almost like a surreal dream.

Settling behind the three gray Teslas with their gray-hair white drivers, I wondered. Is this a trick of my mind, or triplets driving identical cars? I also imagined that an elaborate ruse was being pulled, but who was the intended victim?

Temptation arose to follow them and see if the three cars ended at the place and if the drivers really looked alike. But coffee, writing, and routine called, and I peeled away, leaving the mystery to be solved by another.

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Fridaz Theme Music

Frida finds our Ashland home peaceful. Alexa says it’s 55 F outside, but my systems put it at 38. Other locations report it’s 48. The invisible fog has lifted, leaving sunbeams a clear path to spread warmth and light through the blue sky.

Today is January 16, 2026. 60 is our projected high, kicking off a week of days in the low to mid 60s. We’ll see if that holds, given weather’s changing ways.

Whatever the temperature, Papi is in good spirits. Patio sunshine glows off his white and orange as he grooms after breakfast.

After a night of a long series of dreams, I’m in a very good mood. One had me with Jerry Seinfeld and George Constanza going to a small, intimate open-air comedy festival. I was with Jerry, who was driving, while George followed in his own car. Although an interesting time, I lost my sunglasses. I kept thinking I’d lost them in the water but consoled myself, it’s only a dream.

I also feel very good with where my health is — today. I’ve kept my lost weight off and still run and exercise. My feet, legs, and ankles stay almost pain-free, with twinges sometimes remarking on what I’m doing. Aided by supplements, my abdominal discomfort and bloating have diminished. I remain careful about what I eat and always give myself time to digest before thinking about eating something else.

While I continue to percolate with dream details, feeling healthy and peaceful, I’ve avoided looking at the news. Trump has a habit of making a good day bad, and a bad day — worse. I’ll eventually scan headlines, hoping that ICE violence isn’t climbing, the U.S. hasn’t attacked another nation, or measles aren’t spreading.

Looking at Trump statements over the last several years, remarks made by him counter history or demonstrate a weak grasp the government. I calculated that Trump has been alive for about 32% of the United States’ age as a nation. You’d think he would’ve picked up that information by now. He is college educated.

Now, for no particular reason at all, The Neurons are playing “The Passenger” in the morning mental music stream. Iggy Pop wrote, performed, and released it in 1977. As it plays, I think, here we go, off on another daily journey.

Hope your journey today is happy and carefree, graced with peace and hope. Cheers

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