Super Bowl Rioting Fun For All!

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Humor, Super Bowl Rioting, Super Bowl XVI, writers, writing

It is an age-old, time-honored tradition. Your team wins the Super Bowl, World Series, or Stanley Cup. Or, Athletic Cup. Or, your 6-year-old daughter’s soccer team wins their first game.

What’s next up on the agenda? Why, rioting and looting, of course!

The Super Bowl is upon us. Note to Police Departments in San Francisco and Baltimore . . . dust off the riot gear.

Years ago, when the San Francisco 49ers beat the Cincinnati Bengals in Super Bowl XVI (that is 16 for you non-Romans), my husband and I lived 20-ish miles from downtown San Francisco. We watched the game on TV and after the heart-stopping win we hopped in the car to celebrate the victory with our fellow crazies Niner fans.

There was dancing in the streets, one air horn per male, and joy and jubilation throwing up spilling out of every bar. San Francisco knows how to party.

The frenzied fans shouted, “We won! We won! Now let’s turn over a city bus!”

And they did.

I kid you not. My husband and I took one look at each other and, as my mother would say, with head up and tail up like a bedbug going to war, got the hell out of there.

The news reports were embarrassing. If my timeworn brain remembers correctly, cars were set on fire, storefronts were vandalized, and the drunk-tank had a waiting list.

I don’t understand it.

My idea of a celebration is popping open a bottle of champagne and having my husband drink Moet out of my shoe, not wracking a police officer over the head with said stiletto.

My husband and I have close ties to the 49ers of old.

~ My husband played under Coach Bill Walsh (stop giggling, you know what I mean) at Stanford.

~ Ronnie Lott’s uncle lived across the street from us.

~ Ray Wersching, the 49ers famed kicker, became an insurance agent after retiring from the NFL. He sold my husband’s company insurance until he was charged with four felonies for embezzling millions of dollars. Ray, not my husband. The charges against Ray were dismissed, but his business partner was sent to prison. Ol’ Ray is now a CPA. Charges dismissed or not, imagine hiring him to do you taxes.

~ We are proud owners of a regulation football signed by the 49er team that beat the Bengals. Too bad you can’t read any of the signatures, otherwise we could retire.

~ One last way we are best friends with the 49ers . . . my girlfriend once saw Jennifer Montana (Joe’s beautiful wife) at a shopping mall.

Don’t get me wrong here. I am not a football fan. I don’t hate it; I just don’t like it. However, I do watch the Super Bowl. I look at it this way  . . . why read a whole book when you can read the last chapter to find out what happens? Why watch hours of grown men banging into each other, game after game. And they wonder why their head hurts?

I am one of those annoying women who talk during the game, walk in front of the TV on the way to refill the guacamole bowl, and look at my guests funny as they work their way through a keg of beer.

Sorry, football fans.

And yes . . . I watch the game for the commercials. You knew that was coming.

That is one super bowl! (Photo credit: sinosplice)

Click here for my famous bean dip recipe to put in your super bowl. Go Niners!

Funny Signs

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Funny Signs, Humor, writers, writing

I have a thing for signs. Not signs as in harbingers or black cat omens, but more like, well . . . signs. Weird that I am, I take pictures of signs that amuse me. I also snap shots of signs I want to edit. A writer’s work is never done.

Here is a sign I want to edit.

Have you heard this cardinal rule? “Never use a big word when a diminutive word will do.”

I think the sign should read, “Trader Joe’s not responsible for damage caused by inconsiderate people who leave their shopping carts in places where they are likely to roll into the side of your car.”

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This store is not familiar with a commonplace punctuation mark.

My children objects are very heavy too. Don’t tell my girls I said so.

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I saw this sign at a rest stop along the verdant Bonnyville Salt Flats in Utah. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

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Some signs make me chuckle. I love dog humor.

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This sandwich shop was in Kilkenny, Ireland. I told you Irishmen have a grand sense of humor.

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I used this sign in a recent post about typos.

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Nothing says, “I love you, Mom” better than taking her pole dancing.

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I should have used this sign in my now famous (or should I say infamous) Freshly Pressed post about cursive writing.

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And finally, no post is complete without a second mention of beer.

Los Angeles . . . A Foreign Country

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California Health and Longevity Institute, Humor, writers, writing

My husband and I are in Los Angeles right now. To be precise, we are in Westlake Village, which is 30 miles west of Hollywood. My husband is here for a conference and I am here to be his arm-candy.

Westlake is the only village I know of that has 8,000-square-foot cottages with 8-figure price tags, and come with pools, armed guards, and indoor tennis courts. The downtrodden masses here endure glorious sunshine most days, and are forced to bundle up when the temperature drops below 75 degrees. A common side effect of being rich is thin blood. That is why Charlie Sheen loads sweet young things into his mansion, er, cottage, right up the street from our hotel.

I’m a born and raised Californian, but Los Angeles is a foreign country to me. They do things differently here. Let me give you a few examples.

We are staying at the ever-so-swanky Four Seasons hotel. I highly recommend this place o’pampering and celebrity treatment. They treat you like a movie star here because for all they know, you are one. Heck, Britney Spears (not a movie star unless you call the Mickey Mouse Club excellence in cinema) got on the elevator with me when I was on the way to the gym to work out. She was on her way to the bar. Or maybe it was the other way around.

Next to the hotel’s fancy-dancy spa is the California Health and Longevity Institute. The beautiful people of Westwood Village, meaning everyone who lives here, goes to the Institute for personal training, cosmetic and restorative dentistry (read veneers), acupuncture, acupressure, and energy healing, and dermatology and cosmetic treatments (read plastic surgery), etc.

My husband and I took a cooking class in the Institute’s wellness kitchen today. Chef in residence, Paulette Lambert, taught the interactive class. She is a registered dietitian and certified diabetic educator. Paulette was personable, cute-as-a-button, and a wealth of information. She also is a TV star as the dietician for Extreme Makeover: Weight Loss Edition.

Note to self: Robin, you do not need to sauté everything in four tablespoons of butter. Otherwise, you might be the star on the next season of Extreme Makeover.

The Health and Longevity institute was founded/funded by Dole Food Company’s billionaire owner, David Murdock. Coincidentally, I read in the Los Angeles Times today that Mr. Murdock’s 8-acre estate in Bel Air, California held the record for the highest-price home transaction for over a decade, with a price tag of $94-million. Who knew there is so much money in canned fruit? (A home in Woodside, California recently sold for $117.5-million, breaking Mr. Murdock’s record. I hear he was crushed-pineapple over the fall of his record.)

Los Angeles does cars like Debbie does Dallas. Not exactly, but Los Angelinos have a love affair with their cars. Good thing, because they spend half of their life sitting in their cars while stuck in artery-clogged traffic jams. The freeways here look like used luxury car sales lots. The cars here don’t come with mundane names like Ford or Toyota. If you don’t know how to spell Lamborghini, you can’t afford one.

I ran to the grocery store to buy a bottle of wine. Why? I paid $14 for a single glass of wine at the hotel bar. A bottle of El Cheapo at the grocery store was $9. While loading my jug of hooch into the car, one of the checkout ladies got into her car, which was parked next to mine. Apparently, her workday was at an end. Nothing against Los Angeles grocery clerks, but they can afford to drive Jaguars?

Lastly, I cruised around the charming Old Town Pasadena one afternoon. A store clerk said to me, “Don’t you look nice. Are you from out-of-town?”  I said, “Yes, I am. How did you know?”

With a snort, she said, “Women don’t wear anything but jeans and tee shirts in Los Angeles. Ever.”

I guess I shouldn’t have worn my tiara and ermine stole while shopping. It was a dead giveaway that I was a foreigner.

Whaaaaaat? I shouldn’t fry chicken in lard?

Ever Lose Your Point When You Write?

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Dear Abby", Humor, Losing Your Point, writers, writing, writing tips

Do you have a point when you start to write? Do you start out with purpose toward your point, get lost along the way and end up in Peoria?

For a light-hearted way to end the week, check out how an advice-seeker writing to Dear Abby loses his point. Thanks to Sandee at Comedy Plus for this.

Dear Abby Advice Seeker Forgets His Point

Did you know Dear Abby has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame?

I sure didn’t!