Where Is Autocorrect When You Need It?

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Said he was a professional tattoo artist for fifty years. Looked like a trustworthy grandfather. Who knew he couldn’t spell nothing?

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This post is my entry for this week’s Twittering Tales challenge from Kat Myrman. Photo credit: favoritesunfl at Pixabay.com

Manic Monday — Summertime Blues

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Who doesn’t like summertime? Kids love summertime because they don’t have to go to school. Parents love summertime because they can take family vacations. People love summertime because the weather is warmer and the days last longer.

I don’t like summertime. It’s hot. It’s muggy. There is thunder and lightning, which is very, very frightening…to my dog. And to me.

There are mosquitoes. I hate mosquitoes. And ticks. I hate ticks even more than I hate mosquitoes. The grass grows like crazy in the summertime, which is just another chore that eats into my precious blogging time.

And then there are the kids. They’re off school. They’re everywhere. Those damn rug rats run around screeching and making messes with their melting ice cream cones and gooey chocolate candy to step in or sit on. The lines to get in anywhere are longer than during any other season because of all those freakin’ kids who are on their damn family vacations.

And talking about overcrowding, try going to any beach in the summertime. What a zoo!

Because of the laws of supply and demand, gas prices go up in the summertime. The highways are jammed with vacationers traveling hither and yon, making getting from point A to Point B take at least twice as long.

So go ahead, people, and celebrate summertime. I offer you a big, fat bah humbug to this crazy season. I’m just going to sit here, stew, and write a post about how I have a bad case of the summertime blues.


This post is written for this week’s Manic Monday prompt from Sandi over at Flip Flops Every Day.

And for what it’s worth, I don’t really hate summertime. Well, not as much as one might think after reading this post, anyway.

Standard Sub

Henry was watching the guy at Subway prepare his sandwich, a foot-long Italian BMT.

Henry was very particular about the way his sub sandwiches ought to be constructed. He watched carefully as his was being prepared. “More lettuce,” Henry demanded. “More olives, too.”

The sandwich maker glanced up at Henry but continued to work on the sub. When he had finished making the sandwich and was about to wrap it up, Henry told him to stop. Henry looked at the prepared sandwich and frowned. “This sub is substandard,” Henry said. “It’s definitely sub-par.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the guy replied, “but this is our standard sub. I made it the standard way, but with extra lettuce and olives, as you requested.”

“Substandard!” Henry said in a very loud voice.

“Standard sub!” the guy behind the counter responded, in an equally loud voice.

“Who’s in charge here?” Henry demanded. “Where’s your supervisor?”

As if on queue, the supervisor emerged from the back of the store. He walked around to the front of the counter and confronted Henry. “My subordinate should not be subjected to such sub-optimal behavior from you. I submit to you, sir, that your sub sandwich meets all the standards of our sandwich shop. You must immediate cease this subjugation of my subordinate or I will require you to leave this Subway.

Henry hungrily eyed the sub sandwich. He was starving and, in a gesture of submission, he said, “Fine, I’ll take your substandard Subway sub sandwich.”

“It’s not substandard,” yelled the guy who had made the sandwich. “It’s a standard sub!”


This admittedly sub-par post was written for today’s one-word prompt, “substandard.”

Head Case

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“Oh Daddy, Billy shouted. “Come look at this! Hurry!”

Alex came running over to his son to see what had him so excited.

“What is it, Daddy?” Billy wanted to know.

“I’m not sure, Son,” Alex responded. “If only it could talk, it could tell us its story.”

Both Alex and Billy were startled when the head looked at the two of them and asked in a kindly voice, “What would you like to know?”

“Cool!” exclaimed Billy.

“Holy shit,” said Alex.

“Not in front of the boy,” scolded the head.

“What are you?” Alex asked, holding Billy by the shoulder and moving him slightly back from the museum display case.

The head smiled, “I’m a head case.”

“A head case as in a crazy person?” Alex asked.

“Oh no,” responded the head. “I am what I appear to be, a head that resides in a case.”

“Where’s the rest of you?” asked Billy.

“Oh, it’s all in my head,” the head answered.

“Do you have a name?” Billy wanted to know?

“It’s Hedwig Lamarr,” the head responded. “But my friends just call me Hedy.”


this post was written for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction.

Rhymes with…

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“Here,” she said as she pushed a can of Pledge and a cloth toward him. Pointing to the shelves on which they kept their nick nacks, she ordered, “Go dust.”

He looked at her with disgust.

“And when you’re done with that,” she continued, “grab the wire brush and from the patio table and chairs remove all the rust.”

This whole day, he thought, will be a bust.

“And the dryer is out of balance. Its feet you need to adjust.”

With a sense of resignation, he sighed, “Fine. But as a reward, can you please whip up your famous pecan pie with a graham cracker crust?”

“I would,” she said, “but you know your need to lose weight is something we’ve already discussed.”

“This is so unjust,” he fussed.

She looked at him with distrust. “But these chores are a must,” she said.

And so into his chores himself he thrust, yearning the whole time for his days as a bachelor with lust.


Today’s one-Word prompt is “Lust.”

Blog Snobbery

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Sandi over at Flip Flops Every Day wrote a post yesterday called Snobs in which she discussed, among other things, blog snobbery. I had not really given the notion of blog snobbery much thought until I read her post. Now I’m haunted by it. Thanks a bunch, Sandi.

“My name is Fandango and I’m a blog snob,” is what I imagine I would say when asked to introduce myself at my first meeting of Blog Snobs Anonymous (BSA). By the way, Blog Snobs Anonymous should not be confused with the other BSA (Boy Scouts of America). The BSA I’m talking about would never invite Donald Trump to address our group.

But I digress. I am a blog snob because there are certain types of blogs that I choose to not read. That’s not to say that such blogs are not perfectly fine blogs and that the bloggers whose posts are found on those blogs are not excellent bloggers. I choose not to read them simply because they’re not to my taste.

For me — and probably for most of you who are reading this post — blogging is not a full-time activity. In fact, there are relatively few hours each day that I can devote to blogging. Therefore, I have to diligently manage my limited “blog-time.”

Because time is finite, there simply isn’t enough of it to compose one or more posts a day, to read and respond to comments, and to read and comment on a bunch of other bloggers’ posts.

Hence, I must be a discriminating blogger. I have no choice but to pick and choose which posts to read and which bloggers to follow.

I know what I like and I know what I don’t like. I choose to spend my finite blog-time on what I like over what I don’t.

So yes, I am a blog snob, born more from necessity than from desire. And I bet most of you, if you think about it, are also blog snobs.

Let me know if you want details about the next meeting of Blog Snobs Anonymous.

Bohemian Rhapsody

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It’s hard to find anyone who hasn’t heard the Queen song, “Bohemian Rhapsody.” It’s a true classic and a brilliant piece of music. I love that song so much that when it came to choosing a pseudonym to use for this blog, I chose “Fandango.”

Yes, there is a sexy Spanish dance called the Fandango. And there’s a smartphone app named Fandango that is used to purchase movie tickets.

But my Fandango can be found in these lyrics from the aforementioned Queen song.

I see a little silhouetto of a man,
Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?
Thunderbolt and lightning,
Very, very frightening me.

Bohemian Rhapsody was written in 1975 by the band’s lead vocalist, the late Freddie Mercury. It had a resurgence of popularity in 1992 after it appeared in the movie Wayne’s World.

I’m bringing that song up today, more than four decades after its original release, because, due to recent political events, the verse from which I derived my pseudonym needs to be updated.

The Mooch

Anthony Scaramucci arrived on the Washington political scene barely a week ago when Donald Trump named him as his Director of Communications. Almost immediately, The Mooch has come close to dominating the news about the shitstorm that is going on at the White House.

The fallout since Scaramucci surfaced has been incredible. Trump’s Press Secretary, Sean Spicer, quit almost immediately. Yesterday, Trump’s Chief of Staff, Reince Priebus either quit or got fired, depending upon who’s doing the telling.

But there’s more. Scaramucci’s nickname for Priebus is Reince Penis. Is this guy in the third grade or something?

And to add insult to injury, The Mooch contacted a writer at The New Yorker magazine and called Priebus “a fucking paranoid schizophrenic.” He also told the writer that, unlike Steve Bannon, he, Scaramucci, is “not trying to suck his own cock.”

And so, I propose a few minor alterations to the lyrics of Bohemian Rhapsody to make it more relevant for 2017:

I see a little silhouetto of a man,
Scaramucci, Scaramucci, don’t mess with Fandango.
White House infighting,
Very, very frightening me.

Yes, Scaramucci is, indeed, very, very frightening. But so is everything about the presidency of Donald Trump.

So why would anyone be surprised by the ascension of the latest jester, The Mooch, to the court of King Donald?