So it’s Friday night and I’m holding two $5 bills in my hand.

They were burning a hole in my pocket and I couldn’t think of a better thing to spend it on at that late hour then a run to McDonald’s for hot fudge sundaes.

Have I mentioned before that anything with chocolate is at the top of the food pyramid?

The wife is sacked out on the couch but getting her up for something this delightful is not difficult.

So she wanders off to do whatever it is women do before they are seen in public.

This is ignoring the fact it’s 10 pm and we’d be hitting the drive through.

I suspect she wants to look good in case we’re in an accident.

Mother’s tell their son’s to wear clean underwear for that reason.
I suppose the makeup thing is what they tell their daughters.

Anyway, I head over to close the front door so the burglars stay away.

Crash.
Down I went as my left knee gives out.

It has done that before but it’s been maybe 9 months since the last time and I thought that stuff had ended.

Apparently not.

I have no idea what happened but it appears a metal strip along the bottom of the front door got back at me for all the times I slammed it on the way out.

My doc looks at it the next morning and said something that sounded like “eeewwww.”

She pulls in a surgeon to share the view.
He apparently was overjoyed at what he saw.

He kept saying I almost amputated my small toe and it’s going to take a lot of stitches.

I’m not sure if he meant I was lucky or I should have tried harder.

I have a picture of all this but you don’t want to see it.
Trust me, it’s gross.

If I were a dog this is probably what everything looks like now.
Sort of.

He was really happy about all those stitches.
Maybe he had a car payment coming up.

He spent more than an hour sewing everything back together.

All the time explaining how suturing in that area was like breast surgery.
Something about the folds in the skin and curved needles.

I’m not sure if I needed to know all that but I took it all in case I needed small talk at the next cocktail party.

Three hours later I leave the doc’s office and hobble to the car to head home.

He said don’t walk on it so I headed out to the daughter’s birthday night that night.
Yeah, I’m stupid.

So I’m now home gobbling pain pills and floating in la-la land.
Life is good.

I couldn’t be grumpy if I wanted to be.
I’m sure that will change soon.

I have a song stuck in my head.
It’s driving me crazy.

To make thing’s worse, I hate that song.
How’d you like this echoing through brain all day?

“Your lipstick stains on the front lobe of my left side brains”

Huh?
What the hell does that mean?

So – this stuff is the secret to a million-seller hit song?

Given my scatological tendencies I have scores of platinum records rolling around in my head just waiting to burst forth on the Top 40.

Come on baby show me glean
I want to watch you strut and preen.
Gimme poom, lemme toon, my nose is a big balloon.
My toes are brown and I’m going to town
Skipping and strutting all around.

Whataya think?
Yeah, Billboard 100 maybe.

Anyway, this thing won’t go away in my brain no matter what threats I make.

It’s like when the party is over and there’s always one person who’s still there and won’t take the hint: GET OUT !

I have studied this and the scientific term is earworm.

How appropriate and how unusual.
Normally they give this stuff some sort of Latin name nobody can pronounce.

This is why doctors go to school for a bazillion years.
Learning the words is tough but then they can talk to each other with no one else knowing what they’re saying.

Today, some docs call it “repetunitis”.

I’m sure they did that just to bring calm to the medical universe.

“My heart is bound to beat right out my untrimmed chest”

Good grief.

Let’s study this for a moment…

Researchers at Dartmouth say when they played part of a familiar song to people, their auditory cortex automatically filled in the rest.

In other words, their brains kept “singing” long after the song had ended.

Sounds like what I got.
It’s also called a brain itch.

Great.

Now I got earworm and brain itch.

Scientists say the only way to scratch it is to repeat the song over and over in your mind.

That’s what’s happening.

Since this has happened to all of us one time or another you know it’s like a mosquito bite.

The more you scratch the more you itch, and now you’re stuck in an unending cycle of…

“Hey soul sister, ain’t that mister mister on the radio, stereo
The way you move ain’t fair you know
Hey soul sister, I don’t wanna miss a single thing you do tonight.
heyyyyy heyyyy heyyyy”

Somebody shoot me.
Please.

I worry about our country.
No, not the NSA peeking in my email or what’s-his-name in the White House.

I worry about Facebook.

I’m not a big fan.
In fact, I have many more important things to do besides social media.

Like nap.
And eat.

For me a computer is a tool, not a life style.
I prefer to call someone or speak to them face-to-face.

I keep it short, though.

I use Facebook to note a new blog entry and then go back to whatever I was doing.
Usually a nap.

But I occasionally look around a bit because almost everybody in the world I know is on it.

It’s a way to learn who’s doing what and find something to worry about.
And what they’re eating.

Yes, I know that’s why most of you think you’re on it.

My wife is always posting pictures of yummy food.

That’s probably as close as I’ll ever get to seeing it on the dining room table.

That’s not to say she doesn’t cook good stuff – just not what’s in the pictures.

I’m not sure why she does that except to torture me.
Mission accomplished.

She’s a busy lady.
She’s on Facebook.

A lot.
I worry about that.

I also learned Miley Cyrus has a half-brother.
I worry at night about the genetic makeup in that family.

I worry about where her tongue has been recently.

I worry this is how Justin Bieber will look in a couple of years.

Yeah, I prejudge too much.
I have to cut that out.

What I really find worrisome is what some people post.

Some guy updated his page while standing at the altar getting married.

Then, of course, there are the pictures of the underage drinking party you were at.

The police like those.
Maybe you should worry.

Bitching about how much you hate your work and the boss is another nice item.
The company that’s about to fire you likes that.

Or the picture you posted messing around with other women.

Your just-about former girl friend sees them 10 minutes later.

Feeling a bit dumb?

Welcome back to the single life.

I worry when the wife announces we’re going out-of-town.

I would think it would be helpful to print a map to our soon-to-be empty house so the burglar knows where to go.

Warning – big time alarm system with video.
Hit another house.

Then my biggest worry are the posts that are so stupid I can’t believe they’re for real.

The sad thing is – they usually are.

I worry this country’s going to hell.

My favorite is the selfie.
Something I have spent some time pondering.

I don’t expect anyone should be what other’s expect them to be, but good grief.

This whole thing makes me grumpy.