Sunday Squibs (August 7)

  

In the future Americans will be as blended as the Japanese or the Nigerians. Those Americans will romanticize our era as a time when ethnicity meant something. 

We pray continuously to God to let us win the lottery. While God keeps beaming the message: There’s a winning ticket in your pocket.  Go cash it in. 

I don’t tell young people I grew up before the Internet. It only makes me look like one of those dark and alien statues from Easter island. 

Old timers complain about same day surgery. "They used to keep us a week!" But back then there was less surgery attempted, the survival rate was lower, and the hospital held on to you because it needed the business. 

Our once cute baby’s tummy reasserts itself with age; though no one pokes it now to make us giggle. 

After an illness I realize my sunny disposition depends on my feeling well. Let my good health ebb too much and the hulks of sunken ships soon appear. 

Pride without humility: cement without gravel. 

Uncomfortable, disorienting, dangerous: Travel is a form of sickness often self-induced. 

The pious are accused of being cafeteria Christians, in whose food line the order to love one another is as popular as boiled cabbage. 

The spry septuagenarian is still able to be physically nasty. After that, it’s mostly mental. 

A friend is someone who doesn't get mad if you don't read the book he loans you.

But the friendship may be over if you fail to return it. 

My love is like bowl of ripe cherries

I set in her lap. 

-Are they washed?

Of course, my love.

-And destemmed?

Not yet, my love. 

-And pitted?

My love is like a can of cherry pie filling

I poured into her lap. 

Sanity can ruin an artist. If van Gogh had not been a tragic figure, would we pay big bucks now to see his light show?

Eating sugar is compulsive. It feeds our joy not our bodies. 

We and the bees are alike in our love for the flowers. They use them to feed their hive; we, to feed our souls. 

Clean up your mess before you leave or God might go all Hindu and send you back as a dishrag. 

Gringo seniors nip down to Mexico to get their frayed edges snipped. 

The wounded warrior should certainly receive help from the non-combatants. But the non-coms these days are in rough shape too.