Category Archives: Humor

MilesTones-Growing Old is a Better Option

by Rev. Austin Miles
The problem with growing old is that just when you get your mind straightened out, your body falls apart.  Growing old can be hectic but it’s still the best alternative.
One thing I have especially learned is this: AGING is like living in the body of an old car that shakes, rattles and rolls; needs a tune-up, the spark is out of the plugs, hard to get started, getting rusty, exhaust pipe pops and erupts from time to time, difficult to switch gears, has slower speed, gas problems (since gauge doesn’t work), a noisy rumble seat and many times, it is discounted–not worth much.  An overhaul would be great, including a new engine. Yep, some of us seem to have a lot in common with that old car.
It appears that my get up and go has got up and went. I once had a photographic memory and could memorize a full half hour TV show script in an hour.
Now, there are only two things I cannot remember, only problem, I can’t remember what those two things are. It is somewhat of a challenge but there are solutions. For instance, my wife and I wear name tags.
There are benefits to getting old. You can take your teeth out to brush them without having to jam that toothbrush in your mouth.
I remember when social security was first implemented. F.D.R. started it in 1935 and began paying benefits in January of 1940. In the late 1940’s when I was in school, many very young girls still in their early teens were marrying old men, which perplexed those of us in high school. We young studs could not figure this out.
Here is the true story. The reasoning was, since the old codgers would die soon, these kid brides would get a pension (which passed on to the wife), setting the young chickadees up for life.
One problem: We were told that immediately upon marriage, the young brides felt old age creeping up on them. But we suppose the old codgers died happy.
Health problems seem to be part of old age. This writer just came out of three years of severe illness…so sick that my life insurance man came and took his calendar back. I did come through it and am still on this side of the ground. Cheers!
There are four natural seasonal changes that govern our life on earth–spring…summer…fall…and winter, each of which invoke distinct memories that stimulate specific moods within us.
We are deeply affected by each of these seasons as those memories are ignited and identified by the particular time of year they took place. The memories can be good, bad, or sad. We are deeply moved by all of them. It is like music that has been part of each season of life.
The spring is a time of new beginnings, like a new birth, when the barren trees sprout buds that become leaves; plants and flowers grow as the mild weather gently caresses them. It is a season that compels one to go on day trips to find new insights and adventures to explore. It is a feeling of constant renewal of youth.
The summer brings warm temperatures to hot weather, casual clothing, outdoor activities, barbecues, baseball games, swimming, picnics, sunburn and pesky mosquitoes. It is a time when days are longer and a time when you feel mature and settled.
The fall enters with refreshing cool air subtly announcing that winter is on its way. Leaves become bouquets of magnificent colors as they blend into a symphony of ‘fall foliage’ in dazzling shades before falling to the ground. New energy is felt as the sights and sounds of the approaching holidays begin to emerge.
The winter sweeps over what had become a barren landscape with leafless trees that become re-activated, as mother nature upholsters them with radiant white snow transforming the world into a winter wonderland. It is bundle up time, snow tires, skiing, snow-boarding and ice skating, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years parties where family and friends gather.
There is a similar four seasons in the personal lives of each of us.
Our spring is when we are birthed. During that time we are wobbly as we learn to walk while feeling somewhat top-heavy, reaching for something with not much coordination to back up the effort, knocking things over, spilling something from a glass and falling down. We need help getting dressed, eating and getting ready for bed. Sometimes that is a bummer since everyone tells you what to do.
The plus side is that it is a season of beginning, curiosity and discovery. It is a time where everything is done for you since you have no responsibilities.
Our summer is a time of growing, development, personalities, beginning to learn basic skills, discovering music, with the most important activity, playtime.
Our fall is adolescence…going to school, testing the limits, making friends…finding a path in life, which can be good or bad…learning who we are, what we are, and who we might become while dealing with raging hormones that we don’t know what to do with.
We often run into obstacles that seem to thwart our ambitions or anything that might be fun.
The cause of these obstacles might be someone in authority or even a bully who seems determined to make your life miserable. This is a bummer.
The plus side is that the mystery of life gradually disappears as everything becomes clear with an inkling of what could lie ahead, accompanied by the excited anticipation of accomplishing a goal.
The winter, or fourth season, is young adulthood where we put into practice what was learned in school, college, university…and instinctively following the abilities accomplished as we prepare for a career.
The bummer is the stress of preparing and passing the final exams and those who are jealous and stand in your way. It is a time when the years accumulate.
The plus side is that this fourth season leads to maturity, becoming older…a time of reflection…kicking back in retirement or determining to find something productive and useful with which to occupy ourselves or maybe even a new career.
There are exciting aspects to every season…along with real bummers to deal with. And this….is life.
At this time in my own life, I am in that fourth season even though there are many reflections of that first season, which I partly am still in, meaning Spring, where I am a bit wobbly (due to a stroke), use a cane, have fallen down, and often require assistance in everyday things that are no longer simple. The upside is that I actually have no responsibilities. I can kick back in retirement or follow an enduring passion, writing.
The main thing to have learned is to stay with God and He will take you through every new season of your life. Never lose the joy of anticipation of new things to see, learn and enjoy.
You may be wondering how old I am…the answer, 84. I would have been 85, but I was sick a year. Even so I eagerly look forward to the years ahead and the new adventures to come.
This is an original story. All the words above were put together through the mind (?) of the author.

Born Salesman With Best Fish Story Ever

by Rev. Austin Miles
A young guy from Idaho moves to Florida and goes to a big “everything under one roof” department store looking for a job.
The Manager says, “Do you have any sales experience?”
The kid says “Yeah. I was a vacuum salesman back in Idaho.”
Well, the boss was unsure, but he liked the kid and figured he’d give him a shot, so he gave him the job.
“You start tomorrow. I’ll come down after we close and see how you did.”
His first day on the job was rough, but he got through it. After the store was locked up, the boss came down to the sales floor.
“How many customers bought something from you today?” The kid frowns and looks at the floor and mutters, “One”.
The boss says “Just one?!!? Our sales people average sales to 20 to 30 customers a day.
“That will have to change, and soon, if you’d like to continue your employment here. We have very strict standards for our sales force here in Florida. One sale a day might have been acceptable in Idaho, but you’re not on the farm anymore, son.”
The kid took his beating, but continued to look at his shoes, so the boss felt kinda bad for chewing him out on his first day. He asked (semi-sarcastically), “So, how much was your one sale for?”
The kid looks up at his boss and says “$101,237.65.”
The boss, astonished, says “$101,237.65?!? What the heck did you sell?”
The kid says, “Well, first, I sold him some new fish hooks. Then I sold him a new fishing rod to go with his new hooks. Then I asked him where he was going fishing and he said down the coast, so I told him he was going to need a boat, so we went down to the boat department and I sold him a twin engine Chris Craft. Then he said he didn’t think his Honda Civic would pull it, so I took him down to the automotive department and sold him that 4×4 Ford Expedition.”
The boss said “A guy came in here to buy a fish hook and you sold him a boat and a TRUCK!?”
The kid said “No, the guy came in here to buy tampons for his wife, and I said, ‘Dude, your weekend’s shot, you should go fishing!”

Thanks to Laurence Craig who alerted us to this story and let us know that the young man who is the subject in this story is a second cousin of Donald Trump. Figures.

A Short Primer on the Hierarchy of Identity Politics

Satire By Jim O’Neill
The other day I decided to rank the hierarchy of liberal victimhood and it turned out to be a thornier process than I thought it would be.
It is common knowledge that male privilege and white privilege automatically places white males at the bottom of the identity politics pile.  It stands to reason that, simply by default, black females must be at the top of the heap.  So, simple enough – black females are at the apex of the identity politics pyramid.
But then I read an article that threw that simple answer into question.  The article claimed that people of average or below average intelligence are victims of “cognitive privilege.”  That is, people of average or lower intelligence are victimized by people who are smarter.  This new insight meant that I had to go back to the drawing board and rethink my whole victimhood paradigm.
There are many kinds of privilege besides white privilege: cognitive privilege, for example. We now know that intelligence is not something we have significant control over but is something we are born with. We are living in a society in which success is increasingly linked to one’s intelligence. …Thus, the accident of having been born smart enough to be able to be successful is a great benefit that you did absolutely nothing to earn.
Dan Williams, quoted in “Check your ‘cognitive privilege,’ all you smart people!” by Thomas Lifson
Personally, I believe that wisdom is much more important than intelligence, but we won’t go there just now.  To return to the topic at hand — if smart is bad, then ipso facto dumb is good. If given the choice between a smart black woman and a dumb black woman, the dumb black woman is obviously the more aggrieved party, the greater victim, and therefore beats out the smart black woman in the race to the top of the victimhood pyramid.  So, new winner – dumb black women.
Not so fast – what about transgender men.  Shouldn’t their victimhood supersede woman chauvinistically flaunting female gender privilege?  Of course it should.  So, the winner of the identity politics battle is not stupid black women, but stupid black men who want to be stupid black women.  It’s a no-brainer really.
But that begs the question — what about stupid black women who want to be stupid black men?  Now there’s a conundrum for you.
Who is at the apex, the pinnacle of liberal identity politics, the summum bonum of victimhood – stupid black men who want to be stupid black women, or stupid black women who want to be stupid black men?  I believe the jury is still out on that one.
I hope this short primer has helped to clarify things.  I hesitate to mention this, but there are more contenders than I have mentioned vying for the crown of “Biggest Loser in Identity Politics.”  I honestly don’t know how liberals keep track of all of their victims.  Kind of impressive in its own weird way.



I love spring except for when it arrives in February just before winter arrives in March just before spring comes back again only to welcome winter again.  I am blaming all this on Al Gore.  Our weather is more schizophrenic than the Republican Congress.
Looking around the landscape, I have a flowering cherry tree that started then froze, several rose bushes the same.  The forsythia, always first to bloom opened up one day and was frozen the next.  The persimmon has little protuberances poking out from the branches that would have become fruit, but now they are little brown twigs with a little round brown ball at the end.  And so it goes around the yard.  The dogwood might be ok, since the buds have not yet popped.  The azaleas look fair, except the antlered rodents ate every early leaf and bud from the side facing the yard.  Does anyone know a good deer repellant that does not include buckshot?  They frown on gunfire inside town limits.  If we manage a few flowers, they’ll all be up against the house.  Buds on the lilac were partly opened for the freeze too.  The lilies were up about an inch and they didn’t make it either.  But don’t get me wrong, I still love spring.
This week, I spent several days doing all of the spring things around the house.  Thankfully, Household 6 volunteered to sweep from the garage the remnants of winter.  “Because it’ll be winter again before you ever get to it.”  I love it when a plan comes together.
Either the mulch bags are getting smaller or I am using too much.  If you are wondering, they are definitely getting heavier.  After buying the same amount as always, I came up a few bags short.  But, after pushing the wheel barrel around the yard and up and down the hill – up when full down when empty – I think I can get those last few bags spread some other time.
I had to haul out the lawn mower a week or two earlier than usual.  The grass has been growing in spurts during the warm spots along with the early weeds.  There was a problem though.  I have a new fangled all wheel drive lawn mowing machine.  It works just great for my hillside, except if I give it too much juice I have to start jogging. I find it is also a good idea to let up when going downhill.  As I was pushing her outside, well I ain’t sure it’s a female but since it’s mine and has no brain of her own I get to pick the gender.  Anyway, her front wheels were locked which is not good thing.  Since she refused to roll, I drug her back into the garage by her limbs and threatened her with a hammer. Being female, that had no effect.  I think she stuck her tongue out at me.
So, I rummaged around the work bench until I found the right sized nut driver.  Straightening out the work bench and putting the pile of tools where they belong is another task awaiting.  Reckon I can con HH6 into doing that too?  “If you had put them away when you used them blah, blah, blah.”  I know, I know but I can usually find what I need in a reasonable amount of time.  Usually.
Anyway, to figure out why the wheels locked, I had to remove the front drive cover, but to do that you must first remove the front baffle beneath and bolted to the drive cover.  All was well, until I couldn’t remove the last bolt as my nut driver jammed against the wheel.  I hear you, go get a little wrench.  Nope, channel locks and if that doesn’t work it’s back to the hammer.  With everything disconnected, I was looking for the best way to pop the drive cover, when I recalled Murphy’s rule.  If it doesn’t work force it and if it breaks you needed a new one anyway.  Instead I decided to first pull the front baffle open. I found it full of petrified grass clippings and what may have once been a squirrel.  Or at least it was his nuts.  You know how squirrels are they’ll put those things anywhere.  I spent some time trying to figure out how this baffle supposedly closed, manage to get filled with yard debris and squirrel parts.  Ivy League trained engineer? I cleaned all of that out.  Yes I did, right in the middle of the garage floor that HH6 worked so hard to clean.  Don’t tell her please.  I reassembled and rolled her outside. Then I swept the floor.  I’m not suicidal.
I did everything one is supposed to do before putting a lawn mower up for the winter.  So she should have started right up after a couple of tugs on the starter handle.  Well, my right shoulder feels partially dislocated today.  I threatened her.  “How would like me to take you to that strange looking lawn mower mechanic down the hill by the pawn shop.  The one with three teeth and an ear ring in his nose.  Or would that be a nose ring.  And, the full length replica of Ms. July tattooed on his forearm?  It’s none of your business how I knew it was Ms. July.”  She started right up and purred like a kitty never missing a beat while I mowed my piece of almost heaven. In honor of Chuck Berry, we were motivating over the hill. I think I’ll name her Maybelline.
The heaving lifting for the spring yard work is over, now it will be a long slog of chemical warfare with weeds and moles and being outsmarted by deer.
It was warm and sunny this morning, nice enough to have coffee on the patio.  It’s peaceful on the patio with steaming coffee and the morning songbird symphony.  But.  That pleasant thought was ruined about the time I opened the patio door.  We have planters out by the door.  Apparently, the squirrel that left his nuts in my lawn mower went searching for them in the planters – all the way to the bottom of each as far as I could tell.  By the time that was cleaned up, my coffee was cold.  Did I ever tell you how much I love squirrels?  And spring?
© 2017 J. D. Pendry


Up out of the Bunker Archives

It was around 2100.  That’s 9:00 O’clock PM if you’re not accustomed to the 24-hour clock.  Household Six and I were cruising Southbound on Interstate 77 nearing the Virginia, North Carolina border on a grandbaby-spoiling mission.  Stars filled the sky and traffic was light.  I was admiring the view when a bright blue-white streak of light and sparks exploded across the sky.  It’s been a while since I’ve seen a shooting star and this one appeared to streak right through the dream catcher hanging from the rear view mirror.  An amazing site only visible for a fraction of a second.  For all I know it was burning space junk, but it had the power to transport me to a different time.
It was a time before the Internet, cable television, satellite television and radio, cell phones and all the other gadgets of our time.  It was the time of one snowy black and white television channel, two on a good day, AM radio and telephone party lines.  People still wrote letters in long hand, put them in the mailbox, raised the red flag and waited for the mailman to come up the dusty road in his blue Postal Service station wagon to pick them up – hoping he’d also have something to drop off.  Maybe the latest Sears and Roebuck wish book where I spent much time admiring Daisy BB guns.
In the Southern West Virginia hills, the air and night sky are clear.  Go to a hilltop on a night that’s not cloudy and you can count the shooting stars.  Growing up in the hollers (hollows for the not indoctrinated) and hills, I remember night skies blanketed with millions of stars, nowadays obscured from view to most by bright city lights and air pollution.
On a summer night, we’d take our assorted hound dogs to a favorite hilltop, build a fire to break the night chill and turn the dogs loose.  We’d stretch out on a good spot near the fire, rest our heads on a log or something else and look at the star filled sky.  Listening to the dogs chase critters through the woods and up trees, somebody would say, “That’s old Blue, can you hear him?”  Someone else would say, and “Yea, listen to Shortie, he’s a leadin’ the pack.”  Then we’d bury potatoes in the fire’s hot coals to bake.  While the potatoes baked, we listened to the dogs, the crackling fire, and crickets and counted the shooting stars.  Poor kid fireworks, provided on the grandest scale with baying hound dogs as background music.
We’d stay there by the fire in awe of the heavens making wishes and sharing our dreams.  The dogs eventually wondered in.  The fire burned low.  Its warmth replaced by chilled mountain air.  As the night shifted toward dawn, we stowed our dreams for another starry night and headed home before the sun made an appearance.
I’d get home in time to stoke the fire in Mom’s kitchen stove.  She had a wood burning cook stove, which she preferred over the electric one that looked out of place in a corner of her kitchen.  By this time, only my youngest sister and I remained at home.  The older two siblings were chasing their shooting star dreams and the middle brother was in the Army, nearing a Vietnam tour.  I’d go sit on the porch until the sun was high enough to warm things up.  About that time, I’d smell bacon cooking and know that Mom was up and about.  I’d be awfully hungry by then, trying to steal a piece of bacon and getting swatted at by Mom during the attempt.  She never seemed able to hit me.  I don’t think she ever meant to.
Shooting stars are here for a blink of an eye, yet millions see their light and recall it when they’re gone.  Like shooting stars, in the immensity of human history, we too are here for only a blink of the eye.  Our most prominent shooting stars are our leaders.  Their light and its affect, good and bad, remains visible long after they leave leadership.
How will history see your light and recall it when you’re gone?
Genesis 1:2-4   Luke 11:35-37 
Copyright © 2005 J.D. Pendry

Chad Prather, Southern Common Sense


Larry the Lizard

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Currently in recovery from my news junkie and politics addiction…  Secure in who I am.  Are you?

In July 99, Suzie-Q and I bought an old house.  One of the first projects was converting the back porch into a sunroom.  It was a concrete slab surrounded by a porch-rail height brick wall.  Brick columns supported the roof.  The prior owners left porch swing anchor bolts and roll-up shades hanging on the side facing the neighbors.  They took the swing.  The shades, I expect, were to hide from view of the neighbors otherwise it only blocked the afternoon sun.  We threw them out.  Not the neighbors, the shades.  Although it remains debatable about which was easier on the eyes.  These days, a nice lilac bush serves the same function as did the ugly shade.
The neighbor’s dog, the one that would chase a cloud’s shadow across the yard barking like he was possessed, liked to steal our flip flops.  The neighbor’s kid always returned them, each time having a few more chew marks.  Squirrels also liked the porch. It was their favorite place to gnaw through mounds of acorns that fell from a giant oak that leaned dangerously over the house.  The remnants of that potential house crusher produced aromatic smoke from the fire place chimney for a couple of winters.  When the leaves began to fall from the small forest that was allowed to grow up too near the house, the porch turned into a catch basket filling to the top of bricked porch rail.  Despite the charm of the little porch, it was not user friendly unless you were a no account flip flop chewing hound dog or a squirrel.
We enclosed it with windows all around and a full glass storm door.  We ripped out the natty indoor outdoor rug and replaced it with faux wood flooring, and added some wicker furniture.  We turned it into our own little Shangri-la where we could sit and enjoy the view of the back yard without concern for the critters, dogs, acorns, leaves, mosquitoes or the neighbors.  Or so we thought.
One day a concerned Suzie-Q called me out to the porch and pointed toward what appeared to be a trail of critter poop.  Now I am not an expert classifier of critter crap, but I do know that it did not resemble what deer leave in the yard nor did it look like a land mine from the neighbor’s dog.  Concerning the neighbor’s dog I can tell you that using a technique I perfected during the cow chip wars of my youth I can scoop his leavings up with my spade and chuck them a good thirty yards effectively airmailing them back to their rightful owner.  It is all in the wrist action and achieving the proper arch – according to my 6th grade basketball coach before the sport grew too tall for me.
I was assigned the duty of depoopafying the porch.  A couple of days later I was again summoned to the porch to view a new trail.  A critter invited him or herself into Shangri-la and then decided it was okay to crap all over it.  This newest poop trail was on the window ledge behind the wicker chairs.  I moved a chair and there sat one of those little blue tailed lizards that hide around the yard in the rock piles and crevices.  When you pursue one of them, he may jettison his wiggling blue tail to distract you while he bolts – if a lizard can indeed bolt.
I made a grab for Larry the lizard or it may have been Laura, but since I am not up on my lizard anatomy I cannot be certain.  Larry fled across the porch to the cover of the wicker couch.  When I moved the couch, he bolted again.  Before I could grab him (you see my intent was to capture Larry and return him to the back yard) he managed to get beneath the edge of the siding.  I could not get my fingers under there and every time I touched him he would skitter away.  Suzie-Q accused me of being afraid of him.  I assured her I was not and that I always wanted to put my hands on a slithering  miniature komodo dragon.  I finally forced him to leave the safety of his hiding spot. By now, Larry was tired.  He was not moving very fast so I knew I had him.  As I was lying out like the great second baseman I once was, it turned into a slow motion replay.  He was within my reach and destined for a return to the wild.  Then faster than Bruce Lee could yell nunchucks, Hiyeaaah Whack!  Suzie-Q ninjaed Larry with a flip-flop.  His jettisoned blue tail was flip flopping around like it had a purpose, but Larry look stunned.  I picked up him and his wiggling blue tail and chucked both into the yard.  Either he would recover or become crow food.
Since then, caulking has been squeezed into every crack and crevice that might permit lizard entry into Shangri-La.  Later I may add motion sensors, but for now we believe we are secure.  Larry and friends are free to roam and eat all the bugs they can find – on the other side of the wall.
The moral of this story is that if you make it into Shangri-la, do not crap all over the place.  Suzie-Q does not play.
© 2016 J. D Pendry






OPERATION – Hillary Clinton Edition