I PRAY. YOU PAY.

I've read a couple of times that Catholic organizations here in
America are outsourcing prayers to India. People donate money to have
the Church pray for them, but they have so few priests nowadays, they
turn around and outsource the prayers to some Indian monks who pray
really cheap. I guess it doesn't matter. But I was thinking this
might be
a good thing for an old retired guy to do. I could pray for people.
Since I get Social Security I wouldn't have to charge a lot. And I
have a perfect place to pray on my backporch overlooking beautiful
Lake Sheila...a Heavenly view if there ever was one.
Actually I already pray for quite a few people that I don't know
personally. I pray for Zsa
Zsa Gabor. She's 93 and recently had to have hip replacement surgery
after she fell out of bed. I saw her on TV being put into an
ambulance.Her husband, the Prince, was taking her home from the
hospital because he thought she could recuperate faster at home with
the friendly faces of her staff. She had hospital hair instead of a
wig...no jewels...no make-up. I wouldn't have recognized the poor
thing. I don't ask her to pay me. The prayers are complimentery at
this point.
I'm very organized with my praying, too. I have various
sections...the Extreme Elderly, where I pray for Zsa Zsa and others
that are over 85...Those In Need of Healing...Loved
Ones...Soldiers...Road Warriors, those who make their living driving
around. I also have a section for animals. Mainly dogs. I don't
know that many cats. I pray for Tallulah. a black poodle that travels
with my friend Elwyn who drives for Federal Express. She's seen more
of America than I have. Elwyn takes her to Dog Parks when he can find
one in the
town they are visiting. It's very thoughtful of him, but I suspect
that he takes her there thinking he might meet some nice women for
himself. (He's looking for a wife in case anyone is interested.)
I'm aggressive when I pray. I'm not a Whiner. If you whine when you
pray, I think they put you through to a recording.
So? You need any prayers?
Let Us Pray.

Saluda Lifestyles Article for August

THE BINGO BOYS

The Bingo Boys of St. Peter's are having a reunion. This is a group
of guys who worked at St. Pete's Bingo games back in 1950's. We were
teenagers then and it was a great way to make some extra money and
learn to charm older ladies. Most of The Bingo Boys
have passed on. I think there are only three left. I'm not going to
the reunion.

St. Pete's is in Washington, D.C. They had bingo games on Monday
nights and, at first, they charged one dollar a card. Then they got
raided by the Internal Revenue Service. It
was against the law to make people pay for bingo gambling. But then
they continued to have bingo games. Instead of collecting at the
door, people entered and found their table.
Then they had a cadre of handsome young teenagers that would go around
to the people
as they sat at the tables. We would ask how many cards they wanted
and hand them out.
Then we would shake a basket at them to get their "donations".

I was flabbergasted at how often they tried to shortchange me. They
would take l0 cards
but only put in a couple of one dollar bills. I was told to watch
carefully and if they didn't
put in the proper amount of one dollar per card, I was to keep shaking
the basket at them
although I couldn't actually ask for more.

We made our money by being charming...running to get sodas or hot dogs
for our table
guests. If they won, they often gave you a tip. If they won big, you
could make some real money. Gratuities were our income. Or so I
thought.

Two years ago I was with some of The Bingo Boys and we were talking
about the good old days. One guy said, "I would never have been able
to get by financially without stealing that money at bingo every
week."

"Stealing?" I asked. I was shocked. I never stole a penny. But all
the others admitted that they stole regularly.

I said, "You stole from your church?" They claimed it wasn't really
the church...it was bingo money.

I was the only Bingo Boy that wasn't Catholic. I was a Methodist who
ran around with Catholics. But I was the only one that wasn't
stealing.

I envied my Catholic friends because when we went out on Saturday
nights, they would run into the church and go to confession. I always
wanted to know what they confessed
but they were vague about it. Whatever they confessed, we went out
and did the same things they had done the week before. And they could
confess again.

When you are a protestant, you talk directly to the Lord. I could ask
for forgiveness but
you never got an answer back so you had mounting guilt. I wanted a
voice to come back
and say: "You're off the hook, kid.". But it never did. I didn't
have a lot to confess anyway
because I certainly didn't steal at bingo or even know that the other
boys were doing it.
I have a feeling that a lot of them are still in Purgatory, burning
like a 3-hour log. That's another thing about the Catholics that I
liked...the idea of Purgatory. A place to go for a while short of
Hell. I think I read that they don't believe in Purgatory any longer.
That's a shame. It was an attractive part of their religion. Almost
as good as confessions.

Do You Have a Shy Bladder?

Well, according to doctors who specialize in these things, 7 percent of adult males have Shy Bladder.  Basically it means you can't go wee-wee in public toilets

 

How do professional trained medicine men come up with this crap?  I'm sure if they cross checked their research, they would find that 7 percent of adult males have tiny penises.  That's why they have a Shy Bladder.  If they had one the size of a pork loin, they would have no trouble in poppimg it out at a urinal....maybe even outdoors. 

 

I would be embarrassed to be a doctor that specializes in Shy Bladder.  Can you imagine being at a cocktail party and when someone asks you, "And what do you specialize in, Doctor?"  Then you have to tell them "Shy Bladder".  And then everybody in the room laughs out loud as you explain how you have to take your patients by the hand into public toilets.  Come on!  Nobody would want to shake hands with you after that.

 

The medical profession seems to be overrun with strange maladies.  Think about it.  We read nowadays about Irritable Bowel Syndrome.  It's just a spastic colon which has been around forever but now they call it Irritable Bowel Syndrome to give it a modern name.  Your bowel is yelling, "I am pissed!  I mean it.  I am angry and I'm not going to let you go more than two feet from the toilet today."

 

I'm sure it's not funny if you have either one of these maladies....ooops, I've got to go.  My bowel is growling.  I hope there's no one in the toilet.  I'm shy.

 

 

Adopt Me, Sandra.

Sandra Bullock's got rid of her sleazy husband, Jessie James.  Now she has adopted a little 2 l/2 year old boy.  Sweet.  But I just wonder why these movie stars always adopt little kids.  Why can't they adopt an old guy like me?  If she adopted me and Betty White, we would keep her laughing all the time.  I wrote to her on her Facebook page.  It already had more than 2,000 messages.  All of them  were probably asking to be adopted.  I should be faster; get in line first.  She wants her new son to learn about every corner of New Orleans so I

gave her the name of a neat cafe called Seimolina's, a place that makes 50 different kinds of pasta....including cheeseburger pasta and a macaroni and cheese pie.  I miss going to New Orleans.  I used to know most of the "corners" as Sandra calls them.  I'm sure I could find them again if they are still there after the big flood.  They might be covererd in oil this time.

 

Chatty Carl the Talking Dildo

Now there's a dildo that really knows what a girl wants...it talks.  It's like a Chatty Cathy Doll...it has a string to pull and it says things like:  "You want to just cuddle tonight?"

Or, "Have you lost weight?"  They come in various sizes and colors....from Finger size to Humongous.  You have a choice of languages as well.  There's a big South American style that asks, "Que pasa, Baby?"  What won't they think of next?

 

 

Fatty, Fatty. Two By Four. Can't Get Through the Smokehouse Door.

; Obama visited Asheville recently. His first stop after the plane landed was at 12 Bones Bar-b-que Smokehouse to get some ribs. They should have named the place 12 Bones and a Million Flies. It's an indoor/outdoors kind of place and the flies do love the ribs. My wife said she doubted if the President and the First Lady ate any ribs since they are so opposed > to fat...and fat people. She thinks they stood at the door and chanted, "Fatty, fatty. Two by four. Can't get through the Smokehouse door." Maybe, but they probably would have been beaten up with naked bones by the Smokehouse loyal customers. I can attest to the fact that they are good ribs even if you have to share them with lots of flies. When you order and get your silverware, you also get a fly swatter. But these savage flies don't just buzz around your face...they land on your lips and try to eat the meat off the bones before you can. So you really need to smack yourself in the face with the fly swatter, and who knows where the flies go? The Obamas moved on to the Grove Park Hotel, a luxury place where no flies are allowed. Before they left Asheville, they went to see Billy Graham who > lives not far away at Montreat. He's 91 now...he greeted Obama with "Did you bring me any ribs, Boy?" Billy's too old to worry about fat. Or calling "tan" people "Boy". They prayed for each other, Billy's son said. > > Billy has been chums with a lot of Presidents, mainly Republicans. I remember a couple of years ago, my wife and I were listening to an interviewer talking with Billy Graham. The interviewer said, "You're getting up in years, Reverend Graham. It won't be long until you are sitting in Heaven with God." But Billy objected. He said, "I'm not sure I have done enough to sit with God." I turned to my wife and said, "We are in deep doo-doo, honey. If > Billy doesn't think he's getting in upstairs, we'll never make it." But she said Billy was probably worrying because he was palsy-walsy with Richard Nixon...probably afraid he will go to Hell and have to play golf with Nixon. Besides, she felt confident that she would make it because she polished brass at church once a month and thought there's probably a lot of brass in Heaven. I told her I was not interested in going if there was work to do, especially polishing brass.

Lifestyle Article for May

YOU CALL THIS A SPA?

I wasn't born yesterday, but apparently the Spa Movement in America was. It seems like there are spas everywhere...but they are girly things where people go to have facials...mudpacks on their faces with cucumbers on their eyes.

When I think about Spas, I think of The Greenbrier Resort and Hot Springs in

West Virginia. To my mind, those are real spas and not just because George

Washington came to The Greenbrier and drank that awful sulfur water. It tasted

so bad, I spit mine out. They assured me it was the smell and not the taste that

turned my stomach. But how are you going to get the water past into your mouth

without going by your nose?

A friend and I took the famous "treatment" at Hot Springs. We signed up one afternoon for an appointment the next day. I had the attendant "walk" us through what we would be doing because at that time I had a hearing aid and wanted to make sure I would know what was coming next since I would have to store my hearing aid with my clothes. He was kind enough to give us a tour.

The next day we arrived on schedule and the woman at the desk asked, "You boys here

for the Treatment?" We told her we were so she buzzed a mountain man from the back.

Our first stop once we got naked was to the soaking tubes. And they were tubs literally.

The water there is a constant temperature. The tub looked close to full...when I stepped in I could feel the water rising...and as I sat down, the water really rose...right over the top. I

yelled "My goodness, the water is going out of the tub." But before I could panic, the attendant said it was suppose to. The tub had fresh spring water coming in constantly so one's body temperature didn't cool the water too much. They had not told me that part the

day before so I was greatly relieved because it was like a waterfalls once I got all the way in the tub.

Our next stop was into a steam room. The attendant gave us each a wash cloth and, at first I thought we were going to have to wash one another. I was planning to draw the line

there, but the steam was filled with eucalyptus so as the room filled up with steam, he said we might have to put the wash cloth over our faces. (Did I mention that we were paying handsomely for this?). The room filled rather rapidly with steam and I told my friend, "If you have anything to say to me, say it now because I'm not going to be able to read your lips once the steam rises." I was about to break out of the room from the smell just when the

attendant told us our time was up.

Next we went to have a rub down with rock salt...we were stretched out on a marble slab that seemed like what they might use for dead bodies. Actually the attendant was rubbing

(and not gently) dead skin off our freshly steamed bodies. After he got us rubbed down, we went around the corner to a huge tiled room. He had me stand against one wall and he was on the other side with a fire house. He was yelling something to me, but I couldn't read his lips across the room...then he started doing hand-signals by putting his hands across his crotch. Finally I realized that he was saying, "Cover your privates." When I did, he turned on the firehouse and the power of the water almost knocked me down. He was rinsing off the rock salt and the dead skin but there must have been a better way to do it.

My friend was laughing...but his turn was next.

Finally after these ordeals, we were ready to towel off and get dressed. The female attendant out front asked cheerfully, "You boys want to sign up for another treatment

tomorrow?" I said, "I've had all the treatment I can stand in this lifetime." She said that

some people have the treatment every day.

Real spas are in the Black Forest in Germany...palatial buildings with extravagant pools,

etc. And needless to say, extravagant prices. These are where Kings and Queens and rich South Americans come to relax. We had planned a trip there one year with some friends. Normally I would have felt too fat to get naked in one of these places. But in

Germany, the richer you are the fatter you are. Rich industrialists, you know, so I was

actually looking forwrd to parading around with them. Unfortunately because of a terrorist

attack (not on the spas), our trip had to be called off. Now I'm too poor to go. But I have a

sweat lodge under my house at Lake Sheila. Close your eyes and it feels like a European

Spa.

April Lifestyles Article

Learning to Budget

Back in the days before credit cards, people had to learn to budget. It's a good lesson to learn.

When my wife and I got married more than 50 years ago, we really had no choice. We had to

budget. I was in the Army in Germany. I only got paid once a month. And my wife got a small

allotment. Together I think we got about $l40 a month...and we had to make it last a month. When we got our checks, my wife had a group of envelopes marked: groceries, rent, gasoline,

entertainment, savings, misc. There was hardly ever anything in the misc. envelope. Essentially we had about five dollars a day.

I know you'reprobably thinking that things were cheap back then. Well, they were a lot cheaper than now, but they weren't that cheap.

We lived in a two-room apartment upstairs in a German family's house. We were lucky. It was a

beautiful house. Their son was learning English in school so a German friend of mine convinced them he could learn faster if they had two Americans living upstairs. He did learn faster and he learned to speak with a Southern accent (which baffled his teacher).

Our budgeting envelopes worked quite well. If we ran out of money in the gas envelope, we

walked. I walked 5 miles to the Army hospital where I worked anyway, so I didn't mind walking.

One month, we ran short of money in all the envelopes. My wife had been at the PX when a new shipment of records came in and she couldn't resist buying an album which took all of our money for 3 or 4 days. We listened to music by candlelight while I considered whether I should

eat her fingers.

When we ran short, we would search the car and our pockets to see if we could find some extra

German coins. Then we would go to a German meat market for some wursts and to a German bakery for some hard rolls. They cost practically nothing because they were the main food that a lot of Germans ate.

I was fortunate because I worked at an Army Hospital and I could always eat for free in the cafeteria. But I didn't dare put food in my pockets to take home to my wife. She lived off of peanut butter and jelly on hard rolls.

I have to admit that I supplemented our monthly income by selling stuff to German civilians.

Every month I would buy a gallon of ketchup at the PX. I re-sold it to a woman that worked in

my office. She took it home and put it in ketchup bottles...then re-sold them individually to her

neighbors. I also bought and sold Jergens Lotion and Old Spice. I don't know what their fascination was with these products. Of course the Germans were eager to buy cigarettes, but

they were rationed and we used our coupons to get smokes for ourselves. I made enough off

my blackmarketing so that we could take a month's vacation all around Europe before we returned back to the U.S. We had a budget of $10 a day...that was for gas, hotel, food, peanut butter and jelly. Some days like when we were in Paris or on the French Riviera we had to use more than ten dollars...but then we made it up when we were in Spain and in Italy where it was so

cheap. It pays to budget.

My wife still pays the bills and I'm fairly certain she still has envelopes for the various expenditures.