If you dare!

Hot Pockets.

Quick. Enticing. Dangerous.

I’ve had them once.

I prepared them as directed.

I took a bite and it burned the hell out of me.

My tongue. My lips. And worse, the roof of my mouth was inflamed.

They should come with a warning label.

I haven’t had one since.

It took over a week for my mouth to repair.

No more Hot Pockets for me.



Oh no. Not that.

The dreaded laundry mat.

The least favorite place I’d rather be at.

Is the God-forsaken laundry mat.

Not a soul wants to be there. You see everything’s territorial, from baskets to chairs.

You can’t be certain of the rules that apply. As everyone bears a suspicious eye.

This blend of factors makes for a dangerous game. One breach of protocol could tarnish your name.

If you remove something from a dryer that sat too long. You run the risk of bodily harm.

So don’t be surprised if one day you hear. That someone went postal up in there.

I’ve owned three houses because of that.

I just can’t be going to the laundry mat.



It's where it's at!

Radio Shack.

In the early days of my electronic exploits, I could always count on Radio Shack to provide an answer.

They had a coupler for everything. And a battery for anything you brought in.

There were cables dangling and flashlights of every shape and color.

Radio Shacks thrived before there were cell phones. If you needed a gadget they could help you with it.

During a power outage my young son and I were stranded downtown in a Radio Shack store.

It was Christmas Eve.

We got to use the remote controls for everything that moved. Robots we’re flashing in the dark.

Radio Shack had turned into a wonderland.

The world was a better place with a Radio Shack in the neighborhood.

I think of it especially during the holidays.



Oh no. Not me.

I’m glad I’m not a white man.

I like my side of life’s equation. Being that I am of the sworn persuasion that doesn’t want to dominate. With whom does that not resonate?

I kinda like my end of these affairs. I’m not in to filing if-you-dares. Or evoking fifths for what I’ve done. Or promoting hatred with a gun.

I’m perfectly comfortable where I’m at. I’m not ladened with regret. Who am I to decide right from wrong, or telling others where they don’t belong?

I’ll keep the seat I’ve got. I have more to say about that. You see, I don’t want to sit in the first row.

Because if there’s a fire, I’ll be well positioned by the door.



No thanks.

Thanksgiving no-no’s:

  1. Green bean casserole.
  2. Ambrosia.
  3. Anything else with marshmallows.
  4. Creamed corn.
  5. Cranberries however presented or disguised.

What’s on your no-no list?

Btw: Vegans should make an exception for turkey. It’s just one day.

Gobble gobble gobble.



Use white Q-tips or black cotton swabs?

I was about to rave about the advantages of black cotton swabs over the standard white, Q-tip.

I was about to tell you how they won’t leave you disappointed. That they’ll pick up the slightest bit of ear crud that otherwise would go undetected by the traditional method.

I was going to share my elation when the coarser black cotton swab didn’t fluff up after a single use.

I was going to share how it kept its head when it was dampened.

How its shaft was more brittle and didn’t curve or bend.

And then the black cotton swab snapped in half into my ear canal.

And then I decided not to press the matter any further.



You’ve got to use the word.

It’s a useful word. It will save you keystrokes.

Insert it here. Add it to your jokes.

I made up a word. It’s what you’ve got.

When you’re all-in on something or something like that.

I’ll give you your Amen! I’d know what you mean. I’d say


without having to scream.

That leaves me to say that it is a duty. To

put Trump in jail




Flimsy Lindsey Graham

What’s up Lindsey Graham’s ass?

I’m trying to figure out what’s up Lindsey’s ass. His misogynistic opinions about abortion are why I ask.

I think Lindsey likes his toast buttered on both sides. He’s made it his mission to put forth hateful lies.

But still, I’d like to know what’s up Lindsey’s ass? I think behind it we’d find out why he keeps passing gas.

And once again I see Lindsey plopped down on his knees, there must be a reason he’s chosen hot dogs over cream cheese.

Did Lindsey sit on a hot dog? No. I think it’s worse.

Lindsey had that hot dog up his ass first.

I call him Flimsy Lindsey.

Flimsy Lindsey Graham.



My brother told me: “Steve Bannon looks like a guy who doesn’t smell good.” I saw the sense in that. I heard one from another just now: “Money laundering is the only laundry Steve Bannon does.”

I thought of my brother.

Steve Bannon is a piece of shit and odds are he doesn’t smell good!

…And that’s all I have to say at the moment.



Anthony (Tony) Pretlow

Avid reader. Baseball enthusiast. Devoted father of five. Sound money advocate. Happily married/ retired. Being right is overrated.