It’s been a while. So I’ll keep it short. Captain Catastrophe has been busy. My radio show keeps getting interviews with really exciting guests, German Fest is celebrating 25 years, and I spend hours every night working on the radio show website. (Not the Captain Catastrophe one, which you can visit for past stories at : http://timkretschmann.blogspot.com/ –Hey, I’m adding new people all the time, so this is the best way to catch up.)
Anyway, as you know, I’m still not riding my bicycle because of the hideous implications—and by that I mean the very near death experiences the last times I went out. So tonight, with that wonderful 80 degree weather, I decided to take a walk.
Most people engage in exercise to keep their weight in check. Well, I checked my weight and I’m plenty heavy. I’m not trying to lose weight anymore; that hasn’t been working. My new goal is to grow seven inches. I figure that would proportion the weight a little better. Maybe eight.
So, I leave the house—and computer—behind and go out the back door. I go out the back door because the front door is perpetually locked in position this time of year. The wood swells and it tightens to the point that should you ever manage to open the thing with anything short of a blast of dynamite, you sure wouldn’t get the darn thing closed again.
Who needs deadbolts?
I decided to go on an errand my maid had sent me on. Apparently, I was out of Soft Scrub. I can hardly imagine why. That bottle lasted me darn near seven years with nary a complaint, and now I have to get ANOTHER one? What is she doing with the stuff anyway?
So I start walking and I go past the house with the gigantic dog. Could be a doberman. Might be a dragon. Can’t tell, but it makes a heck of a noise behind the eight foot tall tight picket fence around their yard. And it scares me half to death. See, dogs love to eat German boys. Want to know why?
Taste like pork. At least, that’s what someone told some of the earliest dogs. And dogs are real gullible. Everyone knows that Germans really taste like a spinach/cauliflower dip with a dollop of sour cream, but like I say, dogs are real gullible.
I have a theory that the 1970’s Energy Crisis was simply the panicked conversations of Collies and Golden Retrievers. Y2K bug smells of the Dachshunds and Irish Setters. That has a lot to do with how much time Setters set in front of the computer. They still love to play Pac Man, even though we all know Asteroids is the better game.
I digress.
I get to the grocery store and there’s Jerry from work. Eight o’clock at night and he’s wearing a three piece suit. He just came out of a meeting at an office building nearby. He commenced to tell me about Bruno (that’s another guy at work) and his new diet.
Understand now: Bruno always has a new diet. I’ve known him like three years and he has to have been on two dozen diets by now. He’s a dieting machine. He gets on the diet. Loses 10-12 pounds. Decides to celebrate his success at DiMarini’s or Mama Mia’s or Buca’s or something like that. Return to the start. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.
I really think I may be on the right track. Much better to grown the seven inches. Or eight.