BaconPalooza — Our Urgent Call For Way More Bacon Holidays


We are well past time for new National Public Holidays honoring bacon.

And we don’t mean like the lame-o Dec. 30 alleged “Bacon Day” that nobody knows about.

We’re talking about the need for major, urgent changes to the United States of America’s Public Holidays.

And it’s no harder than adding bacon to a cheeseburger.  Here are our ideas:

Day                                                                        Date     

  • New Year’s Bacon Day                                 January 1
  • Martin Luther King Day                              January 19
  • Presidents National Bacon Day                 3rd Monday in Febr
  • Memorial Day                                               May 25
  • Bacon Independence Day                          July 4
  • Labor Day                                                     1st Monday in Sept.
  • Crispy Columbus Bacon Day                    2nd Monday of Oct.
  • Bacon for Veterans Day                             November 11
  • Thanksgiving (for Bacon Day)                 4th Thursday in Nov.
  • Day after Bacon Thanksgiving                 4th Friday in Nov.
  • Christmas Day                                             December 25

How will these MUCH IMPROVED holidays be celebrated?

We’re so glad you asked.

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Real Men Have Wolverine Toenails



I have a hole new kind of writer’s block.

I thought I would write something all clever, if not hysterical, while the Missus is grocery shopping.

But I can’t think of anything except the fact that my left big toe is poking through a hole in my sock.

This has occurred because a) the blog has midget feet and has to buy cheapo kiddy socks and b) we have not trimmed our toenails since Obama was re-elected.

This is not a grass-roots protest or anything.

It’s more to do with winter and our stuck neck.

When the blog does cut our toenails, it’s normally just before getting into the bathtub to soak our aching neck. And our aching back. And pretty much all of our moving parts.

And that procedure works just fine when it’s warm.

But in wintertime, like nowadays Down Under in New Zealand, we cannot recommend sitting buck nekkid on the bathroom floor while cutting your toenails.

The Hiney Zone

This is because a) the blog’s bathroom heater sucks so b) there is every chance one’s hiney could freeze to the tile and c) in all fairness, we think b) is a good enough reason to avoid this.

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Backyard Olympics — High Jumping Against Dick Fosbury

High Jump

Back in 1968, when I was 12 years old, I spent hours and hours in a grueling high jump competition with Dick Fosbury.

Okay, technically, Dick was winning gold at the ’68 Olympics in Mexico City, jumping an insane 7-4 1/4.

But in my mind, Dick was doing his revolutionary Fosbury Flop in my back yard.

He and I had a deal.  If I could jump my height that summer — 4-ft-4 on a good day — the gold medal would be mine. 

But before the competition could begin, great effort had to go into construction of an Official Olympics High Jump Pit.

As you can see in the photo, a worn white rope that stretched between the tether ball pole and the nearest tree was the “bar”.

Dad’s WWII Navy mattress was not quite Olympic-sized, but it worked well enough, unless your approach was a bit too fast and your rump landed on the rock-hard ground.

I had to teach Mr. Fosbury the ins and outs of competing in my backyard. Like, to get the best angle and speed for your approach, you had to push back against the fence. 

It would slingshot you away, unless the galvanized wire snagged your cut-offs or, occasionally, your flesh.

Your jumping technique was absolutely critical. 

If you missed a jump while competing in the Olympics, you simply knocked down the aluminum bar. No big deal.

If you missed your jump in my back yard, you either got a rope burn or were flipped upside down and landed on your head.  Dad’s skinny Navy mattress wasn’t much help for the latter.

Over the course of that summer’s grueling high jump competition with Mr. Fosbury — in between biking and baseball and wiffle ball and battle ball and football and water balloon fights and “skateboards of death”, and conspiring with my neighbor to make his little sister cry — I worked as hard as I’d ever worked in my life to clear 4-ft-4.

Tragically, at summer’s end, I had failed to unseat the legendary high jumper.  He took gold.   

It was  the first real failure of my budding athletic career, and it made me so mad that I cried.

But wait! There was an official challenge.

My Mom used the above photo to convince me (and the Olympic judges) that I had won.

If you look closely, my butt is sitting right on top of our fence, which, Mom assured me, was exactly 4-ft-4.

So Mr. Fosbury had to settle for silver.

A final note…

My attempt to break the Olympic and World record of 4-ft-6, by leaping off my speeding Deluxe Renegade bicycle, did not end well. 

The effort required significant first aid from Lady Dog, our beagle, who had to lick a lot of wounds. And Mom pretty much soaked me in Monkey’s Blood.


Click HERE to see how my neighbor and I made his annoying little sister cry by mocking her favorite doll, Baby Boo.

Or click HERE to read about back yard wiffle ball and Cyrano, the neighbor’s horny Giant Black Poodle.



Do You HEAR Me Dripping Adrenaline?

Tasmanian Devil

It’s late.

I’m relaxing in the recliner.

Reading. Sort of. Zzzzzzzz.

Hearing aids are out.

Because I do not want to be disturbed.

Happy sigh.

But then I hear something disturbing.

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A Sad Thing Happened Today in New Zealand

It was crappy, cold, rainy weather.

Bumper-to-bumper, rush-hour traffic on Blockhouse Bay Road, my thoroughfare going home.

All I could think about was taking some Panadol, and crashing out with a heating pad on my aching neck.

So much bloody traffic.

Then I saw him.

A really old man, broken down on the other side of the four-lane road.

I could see that his front left tire was flat; that one of those emergency Jap tires was up on the sidewalk.

And the really old man was trying to remove his flat “tyre”, as they say in New Zealand.

Judging by his flustered face and exhaustion, I figured he must have been hard at it for some time.

I thought to myself, “surely somebody is going to stop and help that old man.”

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Toad Strangler Water Biking


When I was a kid growing up on Nebraska Street, I want to tell you, when it rained, it poured.

When the skies really opened up, I remember water gushing out of our house’s downspout so hard that it ripped up the Bermuda grass and turned the yard into a mud bog.

That, or the rain would overwhelm the gutter, and actual sheets of water would come crashing over the side, digging a huge trench in the front yard.

If you ran underneath the sheets — as you did, of course, when you were a kid — it was like having a pitcher of ice cold water poured right down your back.

Both exhilarating and stupid at one time.

After the storm had blown over, the run-off would cause Nebraska Street to overflow its curbs.  After a real toad-strangler cloudburst, the water would reach all the way up to the water meters.

When that happened, we’d quickly put on our grubbiest cut-offs and go water-biking in the dirty street water.  It was pretty cool but hard going, like you were riding in slow motion.

Nebraska Street was fun, but not really dangerous enough, so when our Moms’ weren’t looking, we’d sneak over to the apt-named Flood Street.

The water there would come up to the top of your bike tire, or even over your banana seat, which was awesome.

Riding bikes in “Lake Flood” probably wasn’t the brightest thing we ever did, but it was so much fun.

If you built up a full head of steam on a side street and rode straight into Flood St., it felt like a giant hand had grabbed the back of your bike and stopped it dead in the water.

If you managed to stay on your bike, that was great.  If you flipped over the handle bars, out onto Flood St., it was even better, if you didn’t get run over!  

That sounds more dangerous than it was, since we had “spotters” and  cars had to drive really slowly when Flood was at high tide.  Even so, it was a pretty good adrenaline rush for a 10-year-old.  

Since we weren’t supposed to be there, before riding home we had to get all the incriminating mud off our bikes and ourselves. 

We’d get down on all fours right next to the street and stick our heads into the wall of water cars kicked up when they chugged by.  That was a challenge to do without getting killed.

We got a lot of angry looks, mainly from worried Mom drivers. The Dad drivers would laugh at us. They’d probably done it themselves, and they knew why we had to rinse off the evidence.

Otherwise, we’d have gotten home all muddy and gross, and our angry mothers would have insisted on hosing us off in the front yard, right in front of God and country, while reading us the riot act as they did it.

Moms could be so sensitive about stuff like that. 

The Morning After The Night Before

blog church art

When I was young, the headline above referred to waking up with a monstrous hangover.

Today, it refers to being back in the world after a weekend of immersion in a spiritual retreat called the Eucharistic Convention.

I feel sort of like a sponge whose every pore had been filled with water, and then squeezed dryer than dry.

The hangover cure for me today is the same as way back when – hair of the dog that bit you.

But now, instead of that “hair” being booze, it was spending the morning with a wise, old priest.

I have a thing for wise, old priests. Priests who have suffered. Priests who are holy.

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