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JIm Pfiffer

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Everything posted by JIm Pfiffer

  1. I love trees. They are pillars of strength, patience and longevity. They help clean the air and water and build our homes. When I need to ponder problems or recharge my batteries I do so beneath the peaceful shade and comfort of trees. They do so much for us. The health of Earth and our lives depend on them. That’s why I share the following letter from a tree regarding climate change. Dear Humans, Hot enough for you? It’s going to get worse. You’re shattering record high temperatures around the world leading to droughts, wildfires, floods and rising sea levels like never before. Why? Because of global warming. You’re doing little to nothing to stop it. Worse, many of you insist that it doesn’t exist. Wake up and smell the pine needles. We can help you. We’re taking in and storing the global-warming carbon that you exhale and produce by burning fossil fuels. Get this. When we die, we release much of that stored carbon back into the ever-warming atmosphere. We’re your ticket (made of foil, of course) to helping reduce global warming. We grow most everywhere and thrive in some of the harshest conditions on Earth. There are 60,000 species of our kind, but 30,000 of them are endangered. More than 440 of our species have fewer than 50 individuals left in the world. Yikes! That scares the leaves off of me. You think you run the show here on Earth. You don’t. Your legacy is laughably short compared with the more than 370 million years that we’ve been around. Life isn’t easy for us. We’re stuck where we take root. We can’t run from fires, escape gypsy moths or move to a new neighborhood when you send in the bulldozers. We do so much for you. We produce the oxygen you breathe. Your civilizations were built with our wood for homes, businesses, furniture, boardwalks and pine coffins. We give you fruit, nuts, maple syrup, turpentine, medicines and even pine tar for your ash baseball bats. Want to hang a tire swing, build a treehouse for your kids or make a bark canoe? You need a tree. Our roots clean your water, slow erosion and reduce flooding. We provide free windbreaks and snow fences. Our leaves filter air pollutants, provide shade and release water vapor into the air to cool hot streets and cities. We filter the air, pump nutrients into the soil and reduce noise pollution. Birds, animals and insects need us for homes, food and protection. We helped Newton discover gravity, tested Eve’s devotion to God and gave you a diagramed framework for your family tree. Our natural beauty calms your emotions, soothes your mental health and empowers your spirit. We inspire poetry and music and happily sit still for landscape paintings. Done so for thousands of years. If not for the “spreading chestnut tree,” where would the “village smithy” stand. We do all this, and you repay us by polluting the Earth and doing dumb things, like cutting us down to make paper and then writing “Save the trees” on that paper. WTF? Who the hell came up with the brilliant idea to carve your initials in our bark? And why do you guys pee on us? Do you think we like that? How would you like it, if the next time you stood next to us, we squirted sticky sap all down your pant legs? Why the hell are you so puzzled about a tree falling in the woods and making a noise? Do you know what noise I fear the most? A chainsaw. Shakes me to my root hairs. And don’t get me going about Christmas trees. We’ve dealt with Dutch Elm Disease, Gypsy Moths, blight, root rot, wilt, Spotted Lantern Flies, Emerald Ash Borers and more invasive insects than you can shake a stick at. Did you know that every 24 hours, 27,000 of my brethren are cut down to make toilet paper? That’s a real pain in my ash. (Yes, we have a sense of humor. How else, do you think we deal with you? We’re not asking you to completely stop cutting us down. Just use common sense when doing so. Repay us by replanting us. We’re renewable. We have a saying among us: The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second-best time is right now. We can’t force you to take real actions to reduce global warming. Our only defense is paper cuts? That ain’t going to work. We provide you with so much, improve the environment and assure the Earth’s future. Never mind hugging us. You should be taking us out to dinner. Instead, you pollute us, mow us down and slash and burn us into oblivion, when we can do so much to help reduce climate change. It doesn’t make sense. You got me stumped. Bewildering yours, A 250-year-old old oak tree Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  2. As you probably know by now, this year is the 50th anniversary of the devastating flood of ’72. You know this because the media loves over-reporting on the anniversaries of historically terrible events, like natural disasters, wars and the Jerry Springer show. Not everything flood-related was bad. It helped me get a job as a bartender and bouncer. The bar was the Pub, located at the site of today’s Southport Town Hall in Bulkhead. It was owned by a sweetheart of a woman, the late Ann Savino, and was one of a few taverns in the region that didn’t get flooded, making it one of the hottest bars in town. Every night, the place was packed with people drinking 25-cent Miller drafts, grooving to Sly and the Family Stone on the jukebox, eating cheeseburgers and French fries from the grill, and sharing flood stories. Back then, the legal drinking age was 18. The place became so popular and so crowded with young people that Ann turned to me for some help. “Pfif, we’re having a problem with a lot of underage kids coming in here,” she told me. “You seem to know everyone. How would you like a job checking proof at the door for $2 an hour and free drinks?” I accepted the offer and hugged her with “I can’t believe it” thanks before she finished her sentences. There was one small problem. I was only 17 and about to start my senior year at Southside High School. Ann thought I was 18, because I had shown her a fake ID my first time in the bar. Yes, I know it was wrong for me to use a fake ID, but you have to remember, it was the summer of the flood I was only 17 and I had no moral compass. I wasn’t going to let that minor detail get in the way of my responsibility to see that no underage guests got through the door. So, there I was, all skinny 140 pounds of me, sitting on a bar stool, next to the open door, a rum and coke with lime in my hand and ready to proof anyone who looked as young as me. I was on top of the world, controlling who got in and who didn’t at one of the most popular night spots in town — I let in the pretty girls and threw out their boyfriends—while enjoying free drinks and getting paid for it. This resulted in some interesting encounters, like this: Me: “Hold it there, buddy. I need to see ID.” Customer: “You’re kidding, right? Hell, you’re not 18. Let ME see YOUR ID!” Me: “That’s the wrong thing to say to a bouncer. You’re outta here, pal. And don’t come back until you’re of age.” Most of the time, the underage wannabes left without issue. Sometimes they wouldn’t leave without a fight. A good bouncer prevents fights. I wasn’t a good bouncer. When challenged, I stood my ground. I had three things going for me regarding my self-defense abilities. I was crazy. I knew how to wrestle and box. I was crazy. Back then, we settled our differences with fists, not guns, knives or drive-bys. The fights were short and rarely resulted in serious injuries, except for one’s ego. For me, the summer of the flood made my life like that of a razor, always in hot water or a scrape. When I wasn’t checking ID and dodging punches, I was behind the bar, learning how to pour a good draft and mix a tasty cocktail. Back then, mixed drinks were popular and they had crazy names like “Grasshopper,” “Harvey Wallbanger,” “Singapore Sling,” and “Rudy Giuliani.” Thankfully, I had an “Old Mr. Boston” bar book that listed the ingredients for almost every cocktail. During one really busy night, an impatient guy was pounding his fist on the bar for me to get his order. I told him to take a nerve pill and that I would be with him as soon as I could. When that time came, I asked him what he wanted, and replied “I want an American Quarter.” I didn’t know how to make an American Quarter, so I got out the bar book and turned to the “A” section, scanning it for the recipe. “What the hell are you doing now?” he asked with impatient scorn. “I’ve only been bartending for a few weeks. I don’t know all the drinks so I’m looking yours up to see how to make it. So, cut me a break, okay?” “What are you talking about?” he said as he held up a quarter in his fingers. “This Canadian quarter doesn’t work in the cigarette machine. I need an American quarter.” The flood not only got me a cool job but it taught me three important skills: How to make a perfect martini. 2. How to duck a punch. 3. How to do a foreign currency exchange. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, SouthernTierLife.com and Elmira Telegram.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  3. Several months ago, my wife, Shelley, and I lost our best friend and soul mate. Her name was Sammy. She was our pet dog of a dozen years. She had cancer and we had to end her suffering. I’m still grieving the loss. I’ve had pet dogs all my life and I’ve had to decide when to end the lives of five of them. It never gets easier. I’m never sure if I’ve made the right decision. Did I end their lives too soon, when they still had many “good days” ahead of them; or did I wait too long, because I wasn’t ready to “goodbye,” and my pets suffered needlessly? It was more than a dozen years ago that Sammy came into our lives. She was a beautiful brindle-hued Heinz 57 mix that we adopted from the local SPCA. Before that, Sammy had been a stray that animal control officers caught while she was eating from a deer carcass in the grass median of Route 328 in Pine City. I became her adopted dad and she became my best friend, always eagerly and excitedly waiting to greet me at the door every time I returned home as if I had been away at war for years. She would meet me with a smile on her face and her tail wagging so rapidly it wiggled her rear end. Her tail wagged through her heart. Dogs instinctively know how to be kind and share unconditional love. It takes people years to do the same. That’s probably why dogs don’t live as long as we do. They are born with life’s lessons deep in their hearts. She shared those lessons with me. I learned so much from her. She was my constant companion and a respite of happiness and stress relief at the end of a difficult day. She loved to be loved and petted. She would lie next to me on the couch with her head on my lap, as I read or watched TV. If I stopped petting, she would gently nudge me with her paw or nose to get me back into petting gear. She was friendly to everyone she met. She taught me not to judge people and to not be too hard on myself when I made mistakes. She loved car rides, with her head out the window, ears flapping in the wind, and her nose savoring the countless fragrances that blew by her. Sammy didn’t chase sticks, play catch or do tricks. Instead, she fetched fun and love in everything she did. She showed me how to enjoy life’s little moments of glee and wonder. To love and be loved by a dog is one of life’s greatest pleasures. We spent hours hiking in the woods, cross-country skiing on nature trails or sitting in the grass next to the river on a sunny day. Often, while hiking, she would run ahead of me, and I would duck behind a tree and hide. When she would look back and see that I was gone, she would stop and perk up her ears, before darting back to find me. I would jump out from behind the tree to startle her and send her tail and butt into hyper-wag, as I laughed hysterically. She would tilt her head quizzically and look at me as if to say, “You’re so immature. What am I going to do with you?” Then she was off and running ahead again searching for more fun and adventure. Now, when I hike those trails, I envision her up ahead, glancing back to be sure I was still in pursuit. At times like those, her loss feels unbearable. She was the most lovable dog I’ve known. If I sat down and leaned forward, she would come up to me and rest her head against my forehead, and just sit there quietly, head-to-head, as I rubbed her belly. At night, she lie next to my wife and me in bed, slowly taking over more and more of the mattress as the evening progressed, until I would awaken precariously balanced on the edge, about to fall to the floor, while she comfortably hogged the rest of the bed, snoring, with legs outstretched and head tucked into her chest. Dogs, like all animals, are good a hiding their pain and infirmities, an evolutionary defense that keeps them from being preyed upon by predators looking for the weakest in the pack. After he cancer diagnosis I paid close attention to her behaviors, physical condition and her eating and sleeping habits, looking for signs that would tell me “It’s time, Jim. It’s time.” As her health grew worse and I struggled with making the heartbreaking final decision, I took her to one of our favorite outdoor spots, beneath a quiet stand of shady white pine trees in Big Flats. She laid next to me on a soft bed of pine needles as I petted her, prayed and asked the universe to give me a sure sign that it was time to bid her farewell. Tears filled my eyes, as they do as I write this column. She crawled closer to me and rested her head on my shoulder to tell me that it will be okay and that she would let me know when it was time to say farewell. I hugged her and wept like a baby. Sammy taught me that it was okay to cry. They say that losing a pet is one of the saddest and most difficult traumas we deal with in life. It’s true. Her death was a double whammy because she was my rock of strength and she always made it easier for me to deal with loss and sadness. Her death carved out a hard emptiness inside me that I’m still struggling to fill. Sammy was true to her word about telling me when it was time to say goodbye. One day, in a matter of hours, she started showing signs of a “vestibular disorder,” of balance. To her, the room was in a never-ending nauseous spin. She couldn’t stand up or walk without stumbling and falling over. I knew it was time. I called the veterinarian, who came to our home to help us end Sammy’s suffering. The farewell was painless for Sammy. She died softly and comfortably in our arms, amid our hugs and tears. I try to ease my sadness by telling myself that my deep grief shows that Sammy was loved and had a great life. Sammy, old girl, this one is for you in honor of your life, our wonderful times together and all the love and happiness you shared with us. You made my life more enjoyable, joyful and meaningful. Best of all you taught me to be a better man. And that is one damn good tail-waggin’-and-butt shakin’ Father’s Day gift. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, SouthernTierLife.com and ElmiraTelegram.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  4. Summertime means fishing time on the Chemung River. Mark Twain spent many summers in Elmira writing about Huck and Tom, and most likely fishing the river when he needed to clear his mind of writer’s block. If Huck and Tom were here today, I bet we would witness something like this: The scene: Huck and Tom are sitting on a grassy bank on the Chemung River, the sun warming their backs, long stems of grass dangling from their mouths, straw hats on their heads and cane poles in their hands. Huck: “I sure am glad we played hooky today and went fishin’.” Tom: “Me too. Fishin’ is powerful and more enjoyable when you’re not supposed to be doin’ it, but supposed to be doin’ somethin’ that ain’t a lick of fun, like readin’ and ‘rithmatic.” Huck: “You speak the truth, mostly, Tom, but dang my luck, the catfish ain’t bitin’ today. I ain’t had so much as a nibble. Do you reckon my worm is done drowned by now? Tom: Best way to find out is to lift your hook out of the water and take a look see. Huck (doing just that): “Well, blame it all! Ain’t nothin’ but a speck a worm left on my hook. Them sneaky fish done stole it bit by bit without so much as a tug on my line.” Tom: “It sure ain’t fun bein’ a worm. Have you ever wondered how worms came to be fishin’ bait? They are ugly and squirmy and you can’t tell the head from the tail nor what’s in between. But the fish sure like em. I wonder what a worm tastes like.” Huck: “My pap ate a worm once. Claims he was sufferin’ from the fantads and in need of a drink to settle his shivers and quivers. Said he ate a worm on a dare for two fingers worth of whiskey. Said a worm tasted like a worm and was easy to swallow, being all slick and slimy. Said he’d eat a pickle barrel full of em for a bottle of whiskey. Then he cuffed my ears a few times for askin’ bout such nonsense.’” Tom: “Why would a soul think a fish would be attracted to a worm, all drowned and droppy and hangin’ off a hook like a wet stocking draped over Aunt Polly’s clothesline. What must that man been a-thinking?” Huck: “Never mind what he was thinkin’. I wonder what the worm thought, gettin’ yanked out of his home, impaled mid-body with a hook and then throwed in the river for the fish to have at it, piece by piece.” Tom: “I never seen it that way, but you’re right as rain. The worm just mindin’ his business and he got evicted in a most violent manner, then thrown into a coffee can in a tangled wriggling ball of neighbors, in-laws, strangers and probably some worms he ain’t never got along with.” Huck: “Yeah, and we make the messy hookin’ ordeal easy on our minds by tellin’ ourselves that ‘worms can’t feel a tinge of pain, but we know better, cuz when that hook goes in, they writhe, squirm, wriggle about like water on a hot skillet.” Tom: “Then we toss them in the river, where they try with all their worm worthiness to tread water for as long as possible, but even the most ignorant being known that’s worms can’t tread water for long. It’s a good thing worms can’t talk cuz if they could I dare say they would let out a fiery string of cuss words that could stop a river in its bed.” Huck: “Jim told me that, one time, he found a bewitched worm that could talk. The worm had once been a man, a man who was the grandest and most celebrated fisherman on the Chemung River. Fished it day and night, sun and rain and ice and snow. Said he knew every fishin’ hole, beaver dam and hidden snag. Said a water witch turned him into a worm cuz he trespassed on her island without her say so. Jim was about to hook that worm when it started begging and pleading with him to spare him. Promised he would tell Jim about the best fishing spot on the whole darned river, a place where the fish are so hungry and plentiful, you have to hide behind a tree just to bait your hook.” Tom: “So did Jim let that worm go free and discover the secret fishin’ hole?” Huck: “Nope. Before he could answer the worm, a big old catfish jumped clean out of the river and swallowed the worm, hook, line and cane pole in one big gulp, and dove back into the water faster than a lightnin’ bolt on the fourth of July.” Tom: “I sure would like to know the whereabouts of that secret fishin’ hole cuz the fish here are especially stubborn and ornery and won’t cooperate. I say we put away this fishin’ foolishness and go exploring on Clinton Island.” Huck: “That sounds like a right good adventure, and maybe we find some buried pirate treasure. What we gonna do with the rest of the worms, toss them in the river, like we usually do?” Tom: “No, I reckon that today we let those worms go free. Find them some good rich river silt where they can start a whole new worm village. You never know, there might be a talkin’ worm in there.” Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, SouthernTierLife.com and ElmiraTelegram.com Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  5. “These rock! I can’t believe how great they sound.” I said that after trying on my Bose audio sunglasses that played music from my smartphone. The glasses were a birthday gift from my thoughtful little sister, Pat. The microscopic speakers in the frames produce a clear and deep sound that rivals any full-size stereo system, and they don’t need an extension cord. How we listen to music has changed drastically since my high school and college years in the ‘70s. Back then, stereo systems were large, cumbersome, expensive and needed a U-Haul truck to move them. Today, that same system fits in the frames of my glasses. Love technology. When I was trying to grow up, my generation’s sound systems reflected our status and coolness. If you wanted to make the sweet stereo scene you did so with speakers like JBL, KLH and SOL if you couldn’t afford a top brand. We rocked the Casbah with stereo components by Marantz, Kenwood, Sansui, Sherwood, Sanyo, Phillips, Technics and Pioneer. These electronics had more knobs, dials and switches than a nuclear power facility. They had something called “Dolby noise reduction,” which didn’t make sense because we wanted more noise. It was supposed to improve the listening experience. I don’t know if it did or what it did. Neither did most of my friends, but that didn’t stop us from pretending that we did know and were forever asking “Does it have Dolby?” “I want Dolby!” “I need Dolby.” “Do me with Dolby!” Big was better. Gigantic was best. We engaged in speaker wars, as they were the most important music system component. We were forever asking, “Who made them?” “How much did they cost?” and “Can they make the neighbors call the cops?” We rocked on to the pulsating pressure waves of speakers that were so tall they had penthouse apartments. The more speakers the better. We had woofers out the wazoos, tweeters ‘tween ten and twenty, and mid-ranges loud enough to be heard in the mid-Atlantic. I had more decibels than common sense. That’s why today I often say, “Could you repeat that? I didn’t hear you.” If you were really cool, you removed the foam fronts of your speakers to expose the beat-throbbing black paper diaphragms pulsing out the tunes with sound waves you could actually see compressing the surrounding air molecules at Mach 1 (Of course, you had to do several bongs to be able to see those compressions). Big was better and more was mandatory. We went from one speaker mono Hi-Fi to two-speaker stereo, four-speaker Quadra-sound, mucho-speakers surround sound and anything more than that was a live arena concert. My stereo system in college took up an entire wall in my apartment and had to be wired into the Tennessee Valley Authority to provide enough juice to pump up the volume. It put the “BOOM!” in Baby Boomers, baby. One time, I played a George Thorogood and the Delaware Destroyers album so loud that the spare light bulbs in the hall closet glowed to the beat. If I stood directly in front of the speakers, it would cause me temporary sterility. (My girlfriend, at the time, loved George Thorogood.) Back then, there was a popular magazine ad for high-end speakers (I don’t remember the brand) that showed a dude sitting in front of his speakers and the sound waves were knocking over his drink, blowing back his hair and pushing back his chair. That was my sound system goal – using acoustics to move solid objects. We equated loudness with good times, good parties and good chances that our ears would bleed. The more we drank, the louder the tunes. Give me more Budweiser’s, more watts, more amps, more channels, more decibels, more mega-hits and more bleeding eardrums. The louder the tunes, the more we drank. The more we drank the louder the tunes. Today, my liver quivers thanks to listening to Thorogood’s “One Bourbon, One Scotch, One beer” with the volume turned up to “rattling windows.” My sound system featured a: turntable, receiver, amplifier, tuner, cassette deck, reel-to-reel tape deck, two speakers, mixers, boosters, pre-amps, post-amps, amplified amps and an extensive collection of albums, 45s and tapes. Today, all that is packed into my sunglasses frame, featuring the “revolutionary Bose open ear audio design” that lets me listen to George and his Delaware Destroyers without destroying my eardrums, and still “hear the world around me at the same time.” An online tutorial explains how they work, how to use them and how to control the volume. But it doesn’t answer my one pressing question. Does it have Dolby? Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, SouthernTierLife.com and Elmira Telegram.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  6. Memorial Day weekend kicks off the summer grilling season, so I decided to grill the old-fashioned way – with charcoal briquettes. It’s one of the few times that I can play with fire and accelerants and not get yelled at. I normally use my cheap Wal-Mart gas grill. It’s fast, convenient and relatively easy to use. But it doesn’t give my steaks that tasty, smoky flavor that comes from cooking over charcoal. The gas grill makes my strip steaks taste like, well, Wal- Mart. Ick. That’s why I used my old Weber kettle-style grill with the rounded top and a half- bag of Kingsford Briquettes that I found in the garage. I followed the standard backyard three-phase/four-step-phase process for trying to light. Phase I 1. Shake my head and say some bad words at the billowing cloud of charcoal dust that enveloped me, blackened my face, hands and clothes, and incited a coughing and choking fit. 2. Pile the briquettes into a pyramid shape that kept collapsing and falling apart until the third try. 3. Douse the pile with lighter fluid. 4. Hold a lighter flame to the briquettes going from one to another trying to get one to ignite, for Christ’s sake! After several tries a corner of one of the briquettes took a flame and began to burn, making me smile and giving me hope. After a few seconds, it fizzled out in a mocking wisp of smoke, making me swear and giving me grief. Phase II 1.Angrily squeeze the lighter fluid bottle emptying it all on the pile. The pile is now primed with accelerants and ready to explode when lit. 2. I stand back several feet, as the strong smell of petrol permeates the air. I use wooden kitchen matches to light the fire. The first few matches don’t light or snap in two. When one finally flames to life, I use the recommended “light it and throw it” by tossing the lit match into the pile, but the match goes out as it arcs toward the petrol pyre. After several tries, a match stays intact and stays lit as it lands on the pile. The backyard explodes in a mushroom cloud of blinding yellow and orange light and intense heat that fries a nearby plate of hot dogs waiting to go on the grill. 3. I go in the house and have a beer while waiting 10-15 minutes for the briquettes to turn into that perfect cooking heat of glowing orange-red embers with white and gray ash trim. 4. Return to the grill to discover that the briquettes are still black and as cold as the beer I go get while telling myself to “stay calm” and “be an adult.” Phase III 1.Pour copious amounts of lawnmower gasoline, paint thinner and tiki torch fluid on the smoldering pile. It sends a thick column of white chemical-laced smoke into the air that causes passing birds to fall from the sky. 2. Do the light it and toss kitchen match routine until I get so frustrated, that I throw the whole damn box into the grill. Still no flames. I crouch down to blow on the smoking briquettes hoping to raise a flame. My wife shouts from inside the house “When are you going to learn? I’m calling the fire department!” 3. The pile explodes into a conflagration that burns my face, singes my eyebrows, and sends me falling backward on my butt. 4. I hold the top half of the grill by the handle and use it as a heat shield while I use the extra-long-handle spatula, in my other hand, to push around the flaming briquettes to reduce the flames to a forest fire and show the now- arriving firefighters that I have everything under control, and they can return to the station. I stay by the grill tending to the steaks until they have a nice charred crust and are a pink medium-rare inside. I remove the steaks and let them rest for several minutes to trap the tasty juices and maximize their full flavor potential. I plate the steaks cut off a tender piece and place it in my mouth-watering maw in anticipation of the first taste of summer. “Damn it! Tastes like a can of gasoline!” I shout. From inside the house, my wife shouts “When are you going to learn. I’m calling for a pizza.” Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, SouthernTierLife.com and Elmira Telegram.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  7. I’ve had pet dogs all my life. They are loyal, playful and great companions. I’ve learned a lot from my canine friends and discovered that they have their own set of social rules and norms. Below are some of those rules: Toilet bowl cocktails should never be served before 4 p.m. and always remember to put the seat up. Never wear those silly dog sweaters. If your owner insists that you do, run away. Run Spot, run! If you unexpectedly pass gas, blame the cat. When walking on a leash and you see a squirrel, always wait until there is no traffic before violently yanking your master’s shoulder out of the socket and pulling him into the street while giving chase. During social gatherings, refrain from talking about your “bad case of worms.” Bad dog! It’s never acceptable to say, “It’s a dog-eat-dog-world,” even in jest. When riding in a car, bring paper towels to wipe your nose prints off the window. If you stick your head out the front passenger window to enjoy the rushing air, make sure no one sits in the rear passenger seat with the window down because your slobber will splatter all over their face. Remember, all breeds of dogs are created equal – except those annoying yapping poodles. If your wagging tail accidentally knocks over someone’s drink, it’s acceptable to use a cat or poodle to wipe up the spill. Good boy! Pointing is acceptable when hunting pheasants or grouse, but not in social settings. Never lick yourself and then lick your master’s face. After your master bathes you and brushes and trims your fur, it is acceptable to find some stinking garbage or dead animal to roll in. When on a date, the male dog should always let the female dog select the rotting and festering dead animal carcass. It’s okay to run away if you hear your owner spell any of these words: “b-a-t-h, v-e-t and n-e-u-t-e-r.” To not embarrass your master, when on a walk and you have to poop, wait until your master is looking the other way and pretending that he has no idea what you are doing. Good girl! When out on the town with friends, don’t act like a pack of wild dogs. Remember, we’re domesticated. Sit! Stay! If you accidentally soil the carpet, blame the cat. Blame the cat for everything. When a human scratches your belly, be sure to respond with that cute and allegedly uncontrollable “rapid leg thumping.” It will likely get you a few biscuits. Rollover! When your master tries to hide pills in your food, it is acceptable to spit them out, but be sure to cover your mouth to avoid spreading germs and bad dog breath. No matter how mean your master may be, seeing eye dogs should never ever walk them into utility poles, not even on a double-dog-dare. Don’t race to the door barking every time the doorbell rings, because it’s hardly ever for you. Stay! When in doubt, sniff it, pee on it and walk away. When your master comes in the house, even if he has been away for a few minutes, excitedly wag your tail, bark, jump around and lick his face like you haven’t seen him for seven dog years (It may get you a belly rub and a biscuit). Your bark may be worse than your bite, but your farts are lethal. Go lay down! If you are in obedience school, never use the excuse “I ate my homework.” When on a dinner date, and you’re not sure which fork is your salad fork, don’t worry. Real dogs don’t eat salad. Never ever attend a flea market. Duh! Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, SouthernTierLife.com and ElmiraTelegram.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  8. When is technology going to invent an easy-to-use garden hose? I’ve tried them all: flat, round, expandable, indestructible, flexible, steel-coil, rubber, polyurethane and even pantyhose. They’re all difficult to use, heavy, stiff, cumbersome, kinky and a big pain in the grass. A hose full of water is heavy and stubborn. It fights me like an angry anaconda, wrapping its coils around my ankles and tripping me. I have to tug, lug and slug it around the yard to water my spring-planted grass seed. It retaliates by getting stuck under vehicle tires, knocking over flowerpots, sweeping toddlers off their feet and pinching itself around the corners of the garage. I respond by whipping it up and down, sending angry shock waves undulating along its length, trying to unkink the kinks and showing it who’s the boss. Instead, I knock over more flowerpots and occasionally my wife. The water-stopping kinks are always at the far opposite end of the hose, where I can’t see them. So, I have to backtrack along the hose until I find the kink, unkink it and help my wife to her feet. Meanwhile, because I forgot to turn off the nozzle, the unkinked water flow resumes, sending the nozzle bouncing around, careening off vinyl siding, a picnic table and spraying water through an open window, and all over my wife, who by now, is angrily marching to the garage to get a shovel to smack me in the head. Nozzles aren’t much better. They break easily and leak after a few uses, because their cheap washers are obviously made of sugar or some other water-soluble material. Nozzles have many settings, from “mist” to “biblical flood.” I mostly use the powerful “jet” setting that produces a laser-like stream that can blow grass clippings from sidewalks, destroy sandy ant nests in the cracks of my driveway and shoo away neighborhood dogs that are pooping in my yard. That’s why I own a Yardman 44-caliber, heavy-duty, orbit 10-pattern nozzle that’s so powerful it comes complete with a 10x power scope, holster and silencer. I could use it to dig a Panama Canal in my backyard. Worse than unruly hoses are cheap hose caddies. I must hold mine down with a bent knee, turn the spool crank with my right hand while struggling to neatly guide the hose onto the spool with my left hand, but it ends up being a mess of knots, crossovers and crossunders that will take me until next spring to unravel. Meanwhile, at the other end of the hose, the nozzle is being dragged across the lawn and driveway, bouncing and popping along, as pieces of it snap off and fall in its wake. When I try to unroll the hose, I get one-third of it off, before the lightweight caddy falls over and plays dead. I let out a streak of cuss words that causes flowers to wilt and leaves to fall from the trees. By the time I get the hose unrolled, unkinked, lugged around and the leaking nozzle screwed on tightly, the birds have eaten the grass seed. Several years ago, I bought one of those “magic hoses” advertised on TV, which shriveled up like an accordion when not in use, and guaranteed to never kink, bend or pinch. If I left the water on while not using it, it ruptured with a loud pop and sent water shooting into the air. I tried several others and they all ruptured. Magic hose my butt. Technology has given us cordless phones and computers. It needs to invent a hoseless nozzle that provides water flow without a hose. In the meantime, I have to go water the lawn and do it quietly, cuz my wife has that damn shovel again. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, SouthernTierLife.com and ElmiraTelegram.com Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  9. Do kids dance anymore? When I was a kid, schools and churches held teenage dances almost every weekend, featuring live bands, chaperones and underage kids puking from drinking Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine. If you are a Boomer, you remember Boone’s Farm wines, or maybe not, because Boone’s Farm wines contained formaldehyde, for real. If you drank it, you’re lucky if you can remember your name. Fortunately, I only drank enough to forget my last name (I have it sewn into tags on all my clothes). Anyway, what the hell was I talking about? Oh, yeah, dances. Dances were as much a part of growing up as pimples, skipping class and after-school detention. We never had DJs at our dances. Hell no. We grooved to live music by local bands with totally hip and cool names like Ma’s Apple Pie, The Puzzle and The Boone’s Farm Boomers. (I made up the last one, but wouldn’t that have been a great name for a groovy Boomer band?) Dances provided us the opportunities to work on our social skills, meet girls and get beat up. Every dance, in every grade, had at least one oversize bully who had flunked so many times he was dating the female teachers. Every dance also had at least one big mouth wiseass who got punched by the bully. That wiseass was me. My friends and I didn’t go to dances to actually dance. Hell no. “Dancin’ was for nerds” was our motto. It was a great motto because we didn’t know how to dance, even though some of us, after our second or third bottle of Boone’s Farm, tried to dance, but we always ended up looking like nerds stricken with a neurological disorder that made us jerk about like fish flopping around on shore. There were always a couple of guys who were good dancers. One of my close friends, Tony, was one such guy. All the girls wanted to dance with him. Of course, we made fun of him, for it, to compensate for our dancing disabilities and to make us feel better because we knew he would be holding hands with a pretty girl as he walked her home after the dance, while we would be stuck holding hands with a National Geographic magazine. So, if we didn’t dance, what did we do at a dance, you may ask? I’ll tell you what we did. We practiced dance segregation. We spent the entire dance standing around on one side of the gym, punching one another in the arms and making farting noises with our armpits, while secretly watching the girls, on the other side of the gym, and wondering why it was cool for them to dance together and go to the bathroom together. I still don’t get it. One time, I tried dancing with a guy, as a joke. Got punched in the mouth. Slow dancing was a different story. Every guy can slow dance. Put your arms around a girl and move from side to side, hopefully in time with the beat and without kicking her ankles. “Hey Jude” by the Beatles, was my favorite slow dance because it lasted nearly as long as eighth grade (the first time). I was never sure where to put my arms around a girl while slow dancing -- her neck or waist, hold her hands or grab her by the shoulders like she was in for a good shaking. So, I stood there with my arms limp at my side and let the girl position them (usually tied behind my back). It was during these slow dances that I realized I was the closest I was going to get to kissing a girl for a long long time and I wanted the song to last a long long time. I tried to impress the girl by softly singing along, in her ear, to “Hey Jude:” “Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better, better AAAHHH!” I know I impressed her, because she whispered back, “Your singing voice sucks, you’re spitting in my ear and if you don’t get your hands off my butt, I’m going to retie them behind your back.” In sixth grade, when everything in life was awkward, I thought girls were icky. We had to dance with them in gym class. I think we did the foxtrot, cha-cha or some other lame dance we would never again do in our lives. I didn’t hold my dance partner close back then. Nope. I held her so far away that I was in the locker room and she was on the gym floor. In seventh grade, most girls had a growth spurt and were taller than the boys. When I slow-danced, my head was at just the right height to rest on my partner’s bosoms. Got slapped in the face. One time, on a dare, I asked our really hot junior high French teacher if she wanted to dance. She didn’t have time to answer before I got punched in the face. How was I to know she was engaged to the class bully? Que diable? Now that I think about it, I know why kids today don’t go to dances, because those dances make memories that will last a lifetime, no matter how much counseling you undergo trying to erase them. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, SouthernTierLife.com and ElmiraTelegram.com Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  10. Aging slows me down. Everything takes longer, especially my body’s plumbing. It’s leaky, no longer up to code, and a hassle to prime the pump, especially in the middle of the night, when it wakes me up to play “red light green light” at the toilet. Many guys my age have the same problem and will try most anything to be able to pee at will. Some of them talk to it, trying to coax it into action. (Not me. Not my style. Besides, it wouldn’t listen to a word I say.) I imagine that one of those other guys’ conversations would go like this: Some other guy: (Standing in the dark, bare shins pressed against cold porcelain for support, trying to stay semi-asleep so he can quickly fall back to sleep while waiting for it to get flowing.) “What’s the deal? You woke me out of a sound sleep at 3 a.m. mumbling about having to go ‘like a racehorse,’ and now you sit there doing nothing. What’s the holdup?” It: “You’re standing at the side of the bathtub, you idiot. The toilet is behind you.” Some other guy: “Screw you. I’m half asleep? Get a move on. We don’t have all night.” It: “I’m doing the best I can at my age (the sound of a few dribbles that slowly becomes a sporadic stream). Some other guy: “Was that so hard? Why do I always have to threaten you to get you to behave? When are you going to grow up and act your age? It: (Suddenly stops in midstream). Some other guy: “WTF? Why did you stop? You know how hard it is to get going again. Do you want me to really grab a hold of you and give you a good shaking?” It: “Cut me a break, okay? It’s your prostate’s swollen ego that’s causing all the delays. Get in his face, not mine!” Some other guy: “OK, I won’t yell anymore. Here look, I’ll even turn on the faucet and run the water to help you get into the right stream of consciousness.” It: (A tinkle, a sprinkle, a spurt and finally a strong stream). Some other guy: “That’s a good boy. That feels a lot better, now, doesn’t it?" It: (Nods in agreement.) “Yo, dude! Watch where you’re going! Stand closer. I’m not as big as you tell everybody.” Some other guy: “YOU just pay attention to what you ARE doing, okay? You don’t have the mental capacity to do more than one thing at a time.” It (muttering): “What did I do to get stuck with you? I’ll never know.” (Retaliates by suddenly turning down the spigot to “water torture drip” and giggles). Some other guy: “You think this is funny, huh? Keep it up and I’ll slam the seat down on you so fast it will make your head spin. We’ll see who laughs last.” It: (Grimaces and shrinks back in fear, but quickly returns, ready for business. It takes aim, but nada). “Damn that prostate! Looks like he’s in a tizzy again. We’re shutting down again until he takes a chill pill.” Some other guy: (Grabbing the toilet seat and threatening to slam it) “I got you ‘chill pill’ right here, mister. You get a move on, or so help me god, this seat is coming down hard and fast.” It: (lets loose with a powerful stream that would make a firefighter proud, strip paint, and win a sword fight). Some other guy: “Was that so hard? Why do we have to get into a pissin’ match every time we do this? We’re partners, remember? Let’s get some sleep and we’ll discuss this further in the morning.” It: “Whatever, dude.” Some other guy: (Getting back in bad and quickly falling asleep, but suddenly awakened 20 minutes later) “WTF? Now what?” It: “I guess I wasn’t done. I gotta go again. I’m sorry (snickers).” Some other guy: “You can stuff your sorries in a bag, buster. I’m not getting up. You’re going to have to hold it ‘til morning.” It: “Suit yourself, but there’s an old saying, where I come from: ‘Better to wake up and pee than to pee and wake up.’ Looks like I’ll be getting the last laugh. “By the way, I heard, from a reliable source, that the writer of this post not only talks to his plumbing, but he also whines, begs and grovels trying to get it to cooperate. Pitiful. I’d hate to be connected with that guy.” Jim Pfiffer’s humor column is posted every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page ElmiraTelegram.com and Twin Tiers Living.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper.
  11. Technology is great, but I long for the days when I was smarter than my truck. I bought a new 4WD Toyota Tacoma pickup truck two years ago, and I’m still trying to learn the purpose of the scores of switches, buttons, knobs, levers, dials, gauges, meters, lights, vents and portals. The truck’s dashboard is called an “instrument cluster” (sounds like a candy bar, to me), and bristles with more electronics than the Space Shuttle. It overwhelms with flashing lights, buzzers, bells, multi-information displays, and enough menus to open my own restaurant. I don’t know what most of them do. It tells me when I’m due for a tune-up, tire rotation, oil change and haircut, and has more microphones and speakers than a recording studio. There are so many options that I have three owner’s manuals, and some of the pages are written in other languages, requiring me to hire a United Nations translator to help me find the fuse box. One of the manuals recommends that I learn about the truck’s functions by watching a 30-minute Tacoma video or calling my dealer for instructions. See what technology has wrought? I have to take an online course, study with a dealership tutor and spend my spare time reading manuals in order to enjoy my truck. Doesn’t make sense. The manuals require a lot of cross-referencing, repeated visits to the glossary, and fist-pounding frustration when I don’t know the name of the part or function, I’m trying to look up. I tried to find the wattage for one of the two interior lights on the overhead console. It took me 10 minutes to discover that the light is called a “front personal lamp.” By the time I found it, the bulb on the other light had burned out. The truck has radar in case I want to track incoming enemy fighters. I’m searching through the manuals to see if it also has sonar or a Tomahawk missile system. I discovered an automatic “garage door opener switch” on the console. I keep pushing it, but my garage doors don’t open. Maybe it’s because they are “lift-by-hand doors. According to the manuals, the truck also has several functions that I haven’t used because I don’t know what they do: “active traction,” “crawl control,” “slip indicator” and “jettison external solid-fuel boosters.” With all those buttons, I constantly fear that I might push the wrong button by mistake and my transmission will fall out or the passenger seat will eject my wife out the window. One time I pushed the wrong buttons and dimmed all the lights on my dashboard making it difficult to see what I was supposed to see. I spent hours going through the manual trying to discover how to rectify the problem but was unsuccessful. Truth: I had to drive the truck to the dealer, and the manager and a technician spent 20 minutes figuring out how to make the lights bright again. My truck has more warning lights and alarms than a nuclear reactor operations center, and they tell me when a door is ajar, a seat belt isn’t buckled, or my fly is open. My instruments are decorated with tiny stick-figure people and icons that are supposed to be recognizable worldwide. My cluster is decorated with lightning bolts, skid marks, sunbeams, and what appears to be a tiny stick man sitting on a toilet. I will NEVER EVER press that button. I put a piece of duct tape over it. Can’t be too careful. The manuals list all the functions and options available on all Tacoma models. I don’t know which ones I have and which ones I don’t. The manuals list a “brake override system,” a “BSM outside rearview mirror indicator,” and a “longitudinal and lateral inclination indicator.” I’m inclined to believe that I don’t care about my truck’s longitude or latitude, but I do care about its attitude, especially when it gets stubborn and locks the doors without permission or locks one door and not the other, depending on its mood, I guess. When it’s in a really foul mood, the truck makes it difficult for me to use the driver’s seat shoulder harness. I’ll try to pull the harness across my chest, but it keeps stopping short, and I have to play the “yank and tug” game until it surrenders, and it lets me pull it smoothly across my chest and buckled it. I get mad, during this tug of war, and angrily jerk at the belt, trying to show it who is boss, but to no success. By the time I’m buckled in I’m in full road rage mode before I even leave my driveway. Friggin’ technology. I expect it will take me several more years to learn about all my truck’s functions and options. That will give me the rest of my life to figure out how to reset the truck clock back to daylight savings time and program my Sirius radio stations. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column is posted every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page TwinTiersLife.com and TwinTiersLiving.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper.
  12. When it comes to sports, we want more of everything – speed, scoring, tackles, slam dunks and car crashes. Major league baseball has few if any of these. The game is slow, boring and loses fans every day. Baseball is like us Baby Boomers, the older we get the slower we get. If the game gets any slower, it will go backwards. Games will end in negative scores. Today’s average nine-inning Major League Baseball game takes three hours and 10 minutes, and only 18 minutes of that is actual play. Fans like fast-paced action at the speed of light. Baseball is played at the speed of smell. If it doesn’t change soon, it will become more boring than soccer. That’s why Major League Baseball is trying to improve and speed up the game. It can start by ending the big lie called the World Series. This end-of-season playoff doesn’t include teams from around the world, but only teams in North America. That’s one of the reasons that the sport is losing fans, interest and ratings. Here’s an idea, make the game affordable for fans. For a family of four to afford a trip to the ballpark, they must refinance their home, cash in their life insurance, visit a loan shark and win the lottery, and that just covers parking costs. It doesn’t help that greedy owners and players regularly delay the season, like the recent 99-day lockout, demanding more money because they can’t possibly live on mere multi-million-dollar salaries. The poor things are forced to own used Ferraris and Lamborghinis instead of brand-new rides. So sad. The sport is trying to re-brand itself, become more exciting, and stop its waning appeal with fans. The sport is experimenting with pitch clocks, removing the defensive player shift and letting runners use the relief pitcher golf carts to run the bases. (I made up that last one, but wouldn’t it be an exciting game if the baserunners could use a speeding cart to mow down the second baseman and stop the double play?) Here are a dozen more ideas to make the game more exciting: 1. Batters can hit the ball off a tee or toss it in the air and hit it, or just throw it wherever the hell they want. 2. Every fielder has a ball and can get the runner out by throwing it at him and hitting him like kickball. 3. Once a team is ahead by more than 10 runs, all of the team’s batters must stand the bat upright on the ground, put their forehead on the bat knob, and spin around it ten times before batting. 4. If a fan catches a foul ball, the batter is out. 5. Narrow the outfield warning track to 5-feet-wide to make for more fun and exciting player collisions with the wall that can be shown on the “Ridiculousness” TV show. 6. If a pitcher purposely plunks a batter, the batter can stand a few feet away from the pitcher and throw a fastball into the pitcher’s crotch. 7. Each team manager controls the outfield sprinklers and can turn them on when an opposing player is running to make a catch. 8. When the kiss cam points to a player he must immediately run into the stands and kiss the nearest person to him, be it a man, woman, child, usher, mascot or baseball commissioner Manfred (if it is Manfred, he must be kissed on the mouth). 9. Batters can doctor their bats by stuffing them with Superballs, springs and plastic explosives. 10. Baserunners caught in a rundown can use two fingers, to poke infielders in the eyes, ala the Three Stooges. 11. Everyone loves fireworks. Each player gets one bottle rocket that he can use, any time during the game or warmups to fire at opposing players who are batting, running bases or fielding balls. 12. Baserunner must chug a beer and eat a hot dog at each base before advancing to the next base. Bonus idea: Every time there is a player strike or owner lockout, all fans get free game passes, one for each day of the work stoppage. I’m sure you readers have ideas on how to improve the game. Share them on the comments site on this page. If Major League Baseball doesn’t incorporate some of my suggestions soon, it will be going, going gone. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, SouthernTierLife.com and Twin Tiers Living.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  13. Don’t you hate it when you have something simple to do and you think “No sweat. It’ll take but a few minutes,” but it doesn’t because, like everything else, it’s become more complicated? (That wasn’t a rhetorical question. So, if you really don’t “hate it,” you might as well stop reading). My latest “thought it would be easy” task is buying new bedsheets. I discovered that sheets have greatly evolved from the standard white, sorta-scratchy, non-fitted twin bed sheets of my younger years. I think they had a thread count of 14 or 15. Sheets have become high-tech. Bed, Bath & Beyond sells sheets with “Tru Grip technology for a non-slip fit.” I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to sleep in sheets that grip. Who knows what they might grip hold of during the night? Yikes! Thread counts are paramount, with numbers in the thousands. Sheets that “breathe” are popular now. I don’t need them. I have enough snoring, sighing and open mouth breathing in my bed, as it is. I don’t need sheets adding to these respirations and breathing down my neck. Sheets are no longer made of simple Dixie cotton. Nope. Today’s high-end sheets are made of Egyptian cotton. I wonder if you sleep in those sheets when you wake up and get out of bed, do you walk like an Egyptian? (Do they make sheets from Egyptian papyrus? Hope not. You could suffer serious paper cuts while tucking in the corners). They make sheets out of bamboo. Don’t know how or why. They would make me feel like I was in an Asian jungle. I’d never get to sleep worrying about what poisonous vipers and hand-sized hairy spiders were hiding between the sheets at the bottom of the bed. Not putting my bare feet down there. No way Jose! Some sheets are “thermal regulating,” to “regulate your body temperatures, so it will warm you up if you’re cold and cool you off if you’re warm.” Really! How do my sheets know if I’m warm or cold? Do they use a hidden thermometer? If so, I sure hope it’s an oral. My research showed that silk and satin sheets still exist. Don’t like ‘em. They remind me of shiny Hugh-Hefner-porn-pajamas. Worse, I would slide off the bed and injure myself in my sleep. My sheet-buying research showed me that the textile industry is still trying to convince us that there are such things as “wrinkle-free,” “no ironing,” and “permanent-press.” Bullshit. You know it. I know it, even the manufacturers know it, but the lie persists. Same goes for self-cleaning ovens. I was amused to read some of the syrupy and silly copy that is written to describe sheets and to play on your subconscious. Here are a few examples of actual descriptions. The words in parentheses explain the copy’s subliminal images and messages: “Crisp, Cool Percale” sheets that “feel like a lightly-starched dress shirt.” (Gives you that itch to dream of doing office work while you sleep. Great for buttoned-up Type A personalities, go-getters and butt-kissers.) “Egyptian Cotton Butter-Soft Sateen Collection” with “sheets so soft you can’t help but melt into them.” (Like enjoying a warm midnight snack while you sleep or making you dream about adding warm butter to your love-making repertoire, or maybe a pyramid). “Soft Jersey Knit. Like sleeping in your favorite t-shirt every night.” (For people who don’t wear PJs to bed, but don’t want to be completely nude.) While sheet material and manufacturing have improved, one bedding problem still exists the dreaded fitted sheets. The elastic corners make it difficult to determine the sheet’s top and bottom from its sides. So, you must do the trial-and-error spin and tuck method, until you get it right. As for folding them, forget it. You need square corners to fold squarely. Yes, I know there are online videos demonstrating the super-secret-magic method of folding a fitted sheet, but who has the time or the desire to watch them? I have laundry to do and beds to make. How ‘bout you watch the video and then come fold my sheets, you obsessive-compulsive duvet-loving loser. You probably iron your sheets, don’t you? Get a life. Recently, I lost one of my favorite t-shirts. Couldn’t find it anywhere, until I did the laundry and took a folded sheet from the dryer. The shirt was tucked into one of its corners. Friggin’ fitted sheets. Fitted sheets do have one advantage. They’re easy to spot amid the piles of neatly folded bedding in the linen closet. The fitted sheets are balled into a wrinkled, crinkled and ruffled smushed-down pile. Why must our linen closet shelves be neat and look like a Bed, Bath and Beyond Me? We’re only going to unfold the sheets and put them on the bed where they will get wrinkled. A closet is a handy storage space where you hide unsightly things that you don’t want guests to see. I’ve never visited a friend’s home and had him say “Welcome to our home. Let me show you around. I’m especially proud of our linen closet. I think you will be too.” So, after looking at hundreds of sheets online, I selected a set and saved it to my laptop. But I can’t remember where I put it. There’s only one thing to do. Order some memory foam pillows. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, SouthernTierLife.com and TwinTiersLiving.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  14. It’s the slap felt ‘round the world and discussed ‘round the clock. Will Smith’s roundhouse smack of Chris Rock during the Oscars reveals one of the hazards of being a humorist. What Will did was wrong and inexcusable. Yes, Chris cracked a bad joke, but it didn’t deserve him being sucker smacked on live TV. I worry that this incident will encourage others to go slap-happy on comedians and humorists if they don’t like the words they say or write. I don’t want to have to wear a mouthguard and Everlast protective headgear when I’m out in public. Hell, I’m lookin’ over my shoulder enough, as it is. I’ve never been slapped, hit or otherwise assaulted for anything I’ve written. What comes out of my maw, is another story. I’ve been slapped, punched, kicked, hair-pulled and doused with assorted cocktails for many of the dumb and wise-ass words I’ve voiced. It taught me the number one hard rule of comedy: It’s ALWAYS at the expense of someone or something. Humor pokes fun. It insults. It harpoons life with lampoons. To do so ALWAYS requires a goat. That is the essence of the sense of humor. Even the simple groan-inducing pun has a goat, and that’s the listener. Humor is a complex phenomenon that can’t easily be explained. We laugh because we feel superior during humorous or unexpected situations. That’s why we laugh when we see someone trip and fall or get hit in the crotch with a baseball. We know it hurts and is embarrassing because we’ve probably experienced the same gaff. The laughter brings needed levity and stress relief to an otherwise serious situation. It's all based on one’s sense of humor. Unfortunately, not everyone has the same sense of humor. Some poor saps have none. They are easy to spot as they are forever proclaiming that they possess “a great sense of humor.” Your sense of humor is like your sense of taste. I don’t like garbanzo beans. You may love them. It doesn’t mean that you are or I am any less of a person because of it. We just have different tastes. But that doesn’t stop people from believing that there must be something terribly wrong, for example, with anyone who eats raw oysters. “How can you eat that crap?” they ask with such incredulous disdain that they infer that the mollusk lover eats shit. Will Smith has a sense of humor, how else could he have done the “Wild Wild West?” But his sense isn’t as expansive as Mr. Rock’s. It has limits. Its boundary, the line you don’t cross, ends with making fun of his wife, who lost her hair due to a medical condition. Those property lines are where humor runs into trouble and morphs into “I don’t get it,” “I don’t think that’s funny,” “I’m getting pissed” and “KER-SMACK!!!!” The joke goats will laugh as long as they see the humor in the joke. When they can’t, they headbutt. Surveying, understanding and respecting those boundaries affect your sense of humor. Upset readers have told me “You stepped over the line with that last column. You went too far.” I stepped over THEIR line. My comedic property lines extend way beyond those of most people. They’re cosmic in acreage. Those endless boundaries let me find humor endlessly, which is important, given all the dumb things I say and do. I laugh them off. It makes life more fun and protects my fragile and aging male ego. Unfortunately, political correctness, cancel culture and wokeness make it more difficult, and now, hazardous, for us to express our thoughts, ideas, slants on life and sense of humor. You have a right to criticize my writing and my humor and explain to me how and why it offends you. That’s freedom of speech. Most writers and comedians want public feedback, good and bad. But that feedback doesn’t include violence, or a punchline will become just that. If my writing ever makes you so angry that you want to strike me, at least give me a heads-up so I can don my mouthpiece and headgear. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column is posted every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, Twin Tiers Life.com, and Twin Tiers Living.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper.
  15. Raising kids is difficult for parents. Raising eight Pfiffer kids is hell for parents. That’s why Mom and Dad have free-first-class-no-questions-asked-front-of-the-line-all-expenses-paid passes to heaven. Nothing, not even a housefly, can keep their eyes on that many kids at once. Hell, it’s hard to just keep track of all of our names. That’s why Mom relied on all her natural senses as well as ESP and eyes in the back of her head to keep tabs on us. I was most impressed with her long-distance sense of hearing. It gave her our location in the house, who was with whom, who was crying, who was laughing and who was socking someone else? It was the lack of noise that put Mom on red alert. Silence meant that we were up to no good and we wanted to keep it on the down-low. When the sounds of silence reigned, Mom’s antenna popped and did speedy 360s until she locked on to the source of silence. She responded with her famous suspicion-toned “What are you kids doing in there?” We responded with our famous innocent-toned “Nothing!”, which increased Mon’s suspicions because it meant we were doing something we were not supposed to be doing. That caused Mom to race to the scene of the crime, as I was busy trying to get rid of the evidence or somehow pin it on one of my siblings. When I was six, Mom’s early warning systems alerted her to a background noise she had never heard. It came from me and my sister, Sherry, who was five. First, some background info. My Mom, like many moms of the 1950s and ‘60s, dreamed of owning an Electrolux vacuum. It was the Cadillac of cleaners, expensive, well-built and possessed the horsepower to clean up after eight Pfiffers. It could have used this ad slogan “Cleaning up after the Pfiffers sucks. Electrolux provides that suction.” Mom and Dad saved for months to buy an Electrolux canister vacuum with nifty attachments and an extra-long cord. The chrome-trimmed metal vacuum resembled a scuba tank on its side, mounted on pencil-thick wire runners. Its sleek and aerodynamic curves exuded industrial sucking power. One end had the sucking hole and the other end had the blowing hole. The hose was made of thick upholstery-like material. An internal replaceable paper bag trapped the dirt. The Electrolux was in our home for a few days when Sherry and I decided to give it the PPDT or “Pfiffer Product Durability Test.” We attached the hose to the blowhole, stuck the other end in the toilet bowl water, and blew it into a bubbling boil, leaving us giggling with delight. Mom heard the laughter, smiled and thought “Apparently Jim hasn’t started teasing his sister,” and went on with her housework. Our product tests were strict. That’s why we tested both ends of the vacuum. We inserted the hose into the end that sucks and dropped the other end into the toilet water. We fell back and rolled on the Pine-Sol-scented linoleum floor in fits of belly-holding laughter as the Electrolux sucked up the water in swirling seconds. The crazy mixed sounds of howling laughter and sucking liquid caught Mom’s attention and sent her racing to the bathroom. She burst into the bathroom, saw what we were doing, yanked the plug out of the wall, and instinctively hugged us in maternal relief that we had not been electrocuted by the Electrolux. Once she was sure that we were OK, her instincts gave way to irked reality when she realized we had ruined her prized vacuum. She yelled at us and grounded us for so long that I just got ungrounded last week. Really. Eight Pfiffer kids generated a lot of stupid stunts. Mom and Dad suffered way too many “scary/relieved/angry/gray hairs” incidents because of us. We’re all still here, thanks to their keen senses that sensed when we were being senseless. Good job, Mom and Dad. P.S. There was a popular TV variety show back then called, “Art Linkletter,” which featured a segment called “Kids say the darndest things.” Our home version was “Kids do the dumbest things.” Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, SouthernTierLife.com and TwinTiersLiving.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  16. TV remotes are supposed to make life easier. Not mine. The remote in our home causes frustration, stress, marital strife and the throwing of things. The problems begin when we can’t find the remote. My wife, Shelley, and I frantically search for it beneath cushions, furniture, piles of magazines and newspapers on the coffee table and under the dog if she is in the room. You never know. (For the record: Shelley doesn’t actually “help” look for the remote. Instead, she offers helpful verbal support, like “I’m not the last one who used it, am I?”) Shelley: You should see him when he can’t find it. He’ll look under the same cushions several times, just in case he didn’t see it the first three times. The longer he looks the worse he gets, but he won’t use the buttons on the TV set to turn it on. He must possess and control the remote. It makes him feel like he’s in charge. One time he looked for it for 20 minutes. I found it on the top shelf of the fridge where he had absent-mindedly left it when he got a snack. Me: First of all, why is she interrupting my column? I didn’t ask for her “alleged” side of the story. Now I must boldface “Shelley” and “Me,” so you know who is talking. See what I must put up with? And yes, I need to have control of the remote because I watch TV like it is supposed to be watched – multiple channels at once, never spending more than a few minutes on each, and changing it as soon as it gets boring. I have a keen ability to multi-task and do it well. Get this: Shelley watches ONE PROGRAM AT A TIME, including commercials! So wrong. So terribly wrong. Shelley: Multi-tasking, my foot. He has ADD. Me: There is a universal unwritten rule of home TV viewing that states that you must be in the room with the TV to officially be considered “watching” it, like when Shelley yells from another room, “Jim. Why did you change the channel? I was watching that.” Baloney. You can’t claim viewing and remote rights from another room. If you’re not in the TV room, the remote and TV programming control automatically goes to the person closest to the TV. Gotta follow the rules, right? Shelley: We try to find programs or movies that we can watch together, but we have very different tastes in programming. Me: She’s right. We do have different tastes. Mine are good. Hers are bad. Shelley: He won’t watch anything unless it contains: sports, violence, car chases, explosions, John Wayne, people doing stupid stunts, nudity, or the possibility of nudity. Me: We have hundreds of channels and streaming services, and she watches the E Network, Lifetime, or educational and instructional programs. Can you believe it? She watches TV to learn! Shelley: Jim’s hearing is bad because he’s old and he spent his youth listening to loud music on his earphones. So, he must have captions and the volume turned up to “window-rattling.” He gets so frustrated when he pushes the wrong remote buttons. That’s when I usually leave the room because I know things are going to get ugly. Me: Sometimes when I’m switching channels, I hit the wrong buttons and turn off the TV, or worse, change it to the Lifetime channel. One time I hit three buttons at once and my garage door opened. I have all these extra buttons that I don’t need. What I do need is a “mute” button that I can use to make my wife stop dissing me in this column. Shelley: Ladies, I have a tip for you if your husband is being a jerk. The next time he has a day off or plans to watch the big game, get out of the house. Take a walk, go to the movies or visit a friend. And take the remote with you. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, SouthernTierLife.com and TwinTiersLiving.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  17. I’ve always been curious. That’s why I became a newspaper reporter, chasing after the five W questions of life. It’s also why I’ve been punched a lot. I have some feline curiosity in me. I also have a lot of stupidity in me. That’s why I’ve burned eight of my nine lives. I’m trying to temper that ignorance by learning and asking “how” and “why” about things that we don’t think twice (or even once). Here are my top ten. 1. Telling someone to “Bite me.” If you are angry at someone, why would you insist that they bite you? That brings you pain, and the target of your ire will not suffer, unless you taste bad. We should be saying “Bite you,” and then you bite the person, first checking to see that they’ve had all their shots. Even more confounding is “bite the big one!” I’m not sure what the “big one” is, but I have an idea, and I don’t want anyone biting it. Ouch! And I’m not sure it’s as big as you think. 2. Free gift and free estimate. If it isn’t free, it’s not a gift. Nuff said. Have you ever heard of any business, a contractor for example, charging a fee to tell you how much it will cost to do work on your home? Nope. The “free estimate” is advertising double talk, like the phrase “Order now and get a second one for free, just pay an extra fee.” 3. Bad guys love large daylight? Why are daytime crimes always done in “broad daylight?” Every Yin has its Yang, so there must be a “narrow daylight,” and if so, why don’t criminals commit crimes when the light is skinny and there is a slimmer chance that they will be seen or caught? 4. Catdrops and Mud poodles. Who the hell came up with the phrase “it’s raining cats and dogs”? Was it someone who hated animals? Whatever they were on, can I get some? 5. Hiding in low-cal air. When someone disappears, without a trace, they do so into something called “thin air.” Yes, air is thin at 50,000 feet, but we’re talking about folks who go missing at sea level. Where is this lite air? Is there fat air? Is it easier or harder to get lost there? 6. Dis-what? We often hear about a “disgruntled employee,” walking off the job, calling in sick or telling his/her boss to “Bite the big one!” Again, nature’s duality, means there must also be a “gruntled” employee, as in “We have some of the best employees in the industry because they are all gruntled.” 7. WTF was with Franklin and his pennies? Benjamin Franklin, one of the fathers of our country (although he never paid any child support) penned many pithy idioms, like “a penny saved is a penny earned,” or is it “a penny earned is a penny saved? Doesn’t matter because no one saves pennies. Hell, they give them away by the cupful at checkout counters. I think Ben flew his kite one too many times. 8. Kruller to dollars? A friend once bet me “dollars to donuts” that my Boston Red Sox would lose to those damn Yankees. I didn’t take the bet for fear that I had to put up cash to win a glazed donut. Instead, I bet him his dollars to my Ring Dings. He took the bet. Need I say more about Yankee fans? 9. Lost in the middle again. Most of us have been lost in an unfamiliar place with no landmarks or signs of civilization. You may not know where you are, but we’ve all been there. It’s called “the middle of nowhere,” as in “My car broke down in the middle of nowhere”. Nowhere doesn’t exist. Everywhere is somewhere. And if there was a nowhere, how would you know it’s center point and why would you always be lost there? Why can’t we get lost on the edge of nowhere? 10. It never fails. This is another bullshit phrase “failure is not an option.” Oh really? Spend time with me and you will see that I can fail and fail big. But not so big that you have to bite it. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column is posted every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, Twin Tiers Life.com and TwinTiersLiving.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper.
  18. My kitchen throw-rug stinks of pickle juice and “squishes” when I walk on it. Got that way because I tried to do one of the most difficult tasks of modern life: open a jar with my bare hands. I tried both hands. No luck. Got miffed. Ran it under hot water. Nada. Got pissed. Pried it with a spoon handle. Still stuck. Got furious. Got my pliers, clamped them around the lid, clasped the far ends of the handles for max leverage, took a sturdy feet-apart stance and twisted with all my might (I even used my grimacing, “I’m not playin’” face for effect). The lid gave way. And gave me a fright. The pliers flew from my grip and slid under the fridge, pickle juice sloshed from the jar and a pair of pickles ejected and tumbled across the dog-hair-covered floor There is nothing more disgusting than a dirty, hairy gherkin. Why is it everything is so difficult to open? Are jars, cans, bags, boxes, bottles, capsules, pods and pouches sealed with nuclear forces, 1,000-ton presses and NASA-strength adhesives? You need power tools and improvised explosive devices to open a jar of peanut butter. You need an engineering degree to open a prescription medicine bottle. Each one has its own unique entrance procedure. Push down while turning, pull up while pushing, squeeze the sides while turning or push, pull, squeeze and turn while swearing. Yes, there are instructions printed on the cap, but you can’t read the letters because they are quantum size and white on white. Thanks a lot. I worried that opening all these stubborn containers would cause me carpal tunnel syndrome. The problem has become so bad I now worry about getting Holland Tunnel syndrome. The no-open technology goes back to 1982 when someone laced Tylenol bottles with cyanide in Chicago. Seven people, who popped the pills, died. The killer was never found. That caused product manufacturers to do what they do best -- cover their butts from lawsuits. Their solution: “If you can’t open it, you can’t tamper with it.” Then they lie to us with phrases like “Easy to open,” “Peel here to open,” and “Pray here to open.” The side of my box of mac-and-cheese has a perforated tab telling me to “push here” to open. When I push, the box top collapses into itself and a product design engineer, somewhere, is laughing his ass off. Why do I have to get past a series of roadblocks to open an aspirin bottle? First is the layer of clear plastic that is spot-welded to the bottle cap and neck. I can’t get a fingernail or an incisor under it to start the rip. It teases me with a red dotted line indicating where it can allegedly be easily torn. (More engineer laughter). The line is put there to give you hope. In frustration, I grab a steak knife and hack away at it like a psycho at the Bates Motel, until it comes off. Now I must decipher the cap combination to remove the lid. Next, I face the dreaded foil seal, made of an alien spaceship material that can’t be pierced, peeled or pulled. I stab at it with a screwdriver and spit ugly epithets at the Bayer company until I get it half open. “Finally!” I exclaim. “I’m in.” Nope. Still have a wad of cotton to remove. The opening is too small to insert two fingers to pinch and pull the wad. I must use one finger to remove it piece by piece, and use it to blot-up the blood oozing from the knife and Phillips’ head cuts on my hands By the time I get in, I can’t take the aspirin because they are past their expiration date. Truth: There is an online site called “Opening Jars with Arthritis: 21 Tips,” including “start with the correct form,” “hold the jar close to your body” and “whatever you do, don’t ask that Pfiffer dude to do it.” Here are some other common “you can’t open me – nah, nah, nah-nah-nahhh” containers. Disposable plastic bags in a supermarket’s produce section. You can’t tell which end of the bag opens. It’s too thin and adheres to itself. I stand there rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger praying it will open, while the baby onions I want to put in it, grow into adult onions. The clear, thin ridged plastic (used for 2-liter soda bottles) that can only be cut with hydraulic shears, leaving razor sharp edges that can easily sever fingers. (Hint: soda bottle manufactures should include a tin of Band-Aids with each purchase.) Those friggin’ tiny oval-shaped stickers welded to individual pieces of fruit. You can’t remove them with a fingernail or knife edge without gouging out most of the fruit. Snack bags with tiny pre-cut slots where you are supposed to be able to start tearing open of the bag top. My dog loves these bags, because I always end up ripping them wide open and potato chips scatter across the floor for canine pickup. Roll of clear plastic packing tape: The tape is so transparent you can’t find it’s end and if you do you can’t pull it from the roll in one piece without it sticking to itself. I think we should make jar opening with bare hands a summer Olympics event. Better yet, we need legislation that forces manufacturers to give us easy-to-open products. We can call it the opening containers law. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column is posted every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, TwinTiersLife.com and TwinTiersLiving.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper.
  19. I’m glad that vinyl record albums are regaining popularity. I grew up listening to music on records. They were an essential a part of my life, like family, education, sports and reform school. Records are simple to operate. No moving parts. No rewinding. No batteries. No apps or subscriptions. You set the needle in the groove and soon you’re groovin’ between 33 1/3 and 45 rpms. Unfortunately, vinyl records are fragile and easily damaged. You can ruin the acoustics with fingerprints, dust flecks and half a cup of Genesee Cream Ale spilled on my Door’s “Strange Days” album, by an intoxicated gal who was trying to “Love Me Two Times.” You handle records like you would a 5,000-year-old glass museum piece. Gently slip the record out of the cardboard sleeve. Slide it out of the inner paper sleeve. Take a shot of whisky to calm your nerves before you execute the most important final step: grasp it by the edges and hold it gingerly between your palms, like you were indicating the size of the fish that got away. Never EVER touch the playing surface, which is so fragile you can warp it by just giving it a dirty look. All my records were pocked with scratches, gouges, scars, chips and drink glass rings. Often, during one of our many parties, my records became coasters for the “Four Bs”: bottles, bongs and bare bottoms. My Beatles’ “Strawberry Fields” 45, was so badly scratched, that when I played it backwards, it said, “I buried Jimmy Hoffa.” Deep scratches made the needled bounce about, so I Scotch-taped a stack of pennies atop the needle to force it deeper into the groove. Such was my high-tech repairs. My records had a shelf life of a few weeks. But the album covers lasted years, and they too, were an important part of my youth. They made great work surfaces. You could put an open double album cover on your lap and use a credit card to remove stems and seeds from various vegetable matter. Shortly after the vegetable matter was consumed, you could stare deeply at the album artwork, which featured cool photos of the bands, psychedelic drawings, iconic illustrations and freaky things that didn’t make sense, like Zeppelin’s “Houses of the Holy,” cover showing naked children crawling over a mystical rock formation towards a glowing light. Looked like a stairway to hell. Here are some of my favorite and unusual album covers: · “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” Beatles: A colorful and dazzling illustration of modern art (especially if you had just done a dazzling doobie). It featured the Fab Four amid a crowd of 58 celebrities, from Mae West and Lenny Bruce to Aldous Huxley and my main man W.C. “My little chickadee” Fields. The art won a Best Album Cover Grammy in 1967. I suspect that it was designed by artists enjoying “Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds.” · “Bloodshot,” J. Geils Band: The record was bright red, to match the album title. Because I grew up on Elmira’s Southside, one of songs, hit home with these bust-a-move lyrics: “Do you want Dance? (yeah). Movin’, groovin’, slip and slide (yeah). Come on baby don’t you hide (yeah). Do the Southside Shuffle all night long!” · “Dark Side of the Moon,” Pink Floyd: An elegant prism radiating the color spectrum across a black background. One of the most popular albums of all time. Made the Floyds mucho “Money.” I don’t know what a “pink Floyd” is, but I sure would like to party with one. · “Sticky Fingers,” Rolling Stones: Gotta love an album cover that boasts a real zipper on a photo of a pair of tight jeans, holding back what looks like an angry pepperoni trying to get out of its confines while yelling “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking?” Add in the sticky digits and you have a cover that would make Freud’s cigar go limp. · “Santana,” Santana (lion drawing): At first glance you see a marvelously detailed black pen drawing of a roaring lion face. Look closer and you see nine tiny faces hidden in the drawing. The feline’s chin is a hula skirt worn by a “Black Magic Woman” hula dancer. One time I looked so long and so closely at the drawing that I saw God. He wasn’t happy with me. · “Diamond Dogs,” David Bowie: This album cover because it still freaks me out. It’s a creepy air brush drawing of Bowie’s androgenous head and face on the body of a furless and gaunt Doberman. It still brings him “Fame” in his music’s “Golden Years.” · “Big Bambu,” Cheech and Chong: I know every word of this hilarious hippie pot-smoking album by heart. My friends and I played it so many times we wore out the grooves. It was released during the summer of the Flood of 1972, that we spent shoveling flood mud while repeating the album’s best lines – “Dave’s not here,” and telling each other to SHUT UP! ala “Sister Mary Elephant.” Best of all, the album included a double-album-size rolling paper. No, we never used it. If we did, we would still be shoveling mud and looking for Dave. · “You can tune a piano, but you can’t Tuna Fish,” REO Speedwagon: A great play-on-words album title made better by a photo of a fish with a tuning fork sticking out of its mouth. The REOs weren’t on the wagon, and whatever kind of speed they were snorting, sure fueled their creative juices. I hope you enjoyed my records reminiscence. Share yours in the “comments” section. And now I bid you goodbye because it’s “Time for Me to Fly.” Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, TwinTiers Life.com and TwinTiersLiving.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets. He is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper and a regular swell guy. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  20. A year ago, this weekend, I began posting this weekly humor column. It’s been a fun ride, after retiring from writing a twice-weekly humor column for the Elmira Star-Gazette (Motto: “Yes, our news is two days old, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s wrong.”) I hope you have enjoyed my musings. If not, that’s cool. Not everyone shares my disturbed sense of laughter. I hold no ill regard for people who think that my writing “bites the big one.” But, if I run into you in public, I’m going to sock you a big one. Ha! Not really. That was an example of my sharp sarcastic humor. I would never accost a critic, unless he/she/other was small and had their back to me. Ha. Ha. See, I did it again. I’m a riot. You never know when I’m going to get silly like that. Often, I don’t know. Sometimes, while writing, I get into “The Zone,” and the column comes to life, takes over and writes itself. (This is the Column speaking: “I have to take over to stop him when he goes all Jack “The Shining” Nicholson and writes some creepy shit. He’s not typing with a ‘full keyboard,’ if you catch my drift.”) This marks my 53rd weekly Facebook column, thanks to my friend and local Realtor, J.D. Isles, who suggested I start columnizing again, and do it on his “Hidden Landmarks TV” Facebook page. My column also appears on several other sites. Hidden Landmarks is a collection of Twin Tiers related history and content that is, without a doubt, the greatest Facebook page ever. (J.D. said I had to write that, or he would stop running my posts.) (Column speaking: See what I mean about his lose grip on reality? He’s publicly dissin’ J.D., even though J.D. reads this column. Idiot). I like to laugh. It makes it easier to accept all the embarrassing things I do. I was born with the ability to see humor where others cannot. (Column speaking: “All he has to do is look in a mirror.”) I use humor to highlight life’s absurdities. My “laugh-so-I-don’t-cry” philosophy goes back to 1990 when I began writing my Star-Gazette humor columns. By the time I retired in 2008, I had penned more than 3,000 columns. Many of my columns are controversial and irks some readers. But, like they say, “controversy sells,” and “controversy” is my middle name. (Column speaking: “No, his middle name is ‘garbage,’ because that’s where most of his columns end up. Yes, he had a loyal core group of readers, but they gradually disappeared as they were picked up on arrest warrants). I get my column ideas from observing people, life and myself. All three generate silos full of idiotic and “I can’t believe it” column fodder. I use a laptop to turn that silage into entertaining wit. I write most every day, starting on Mondays, when I decide on a topic, craft and outline and develop a theme. If I’m unfamiliar with the topic, I research it or make it up if I’m in a hurry. I write several hours a day, usually in the morning, sometimes at home, and sometimes at the library where I sit in the “humor and satire” section hoping some of it will osmose into my prose. (Column speaking: “Bullshit! He goes to the library to plagiarize from REAL humorists.” What a liar.) Throughout the week, I tinker with the column as it peculates in the back of my mind. I add, subtract and rewrite it a dozen times or more, culling deadwood and polishing the prose until it glows, or at least reflects a relatively sane sense of comedy. It’s difficult to self-edit because humor depends on a surprise punchline. That’s why a joke is funny the first time you hear it. After that, you know the ending. The more you hear the joke the more tiresome it becomes. It’s the same when editing my column. By the second and third time I’ve read it, the punchlines are punched out. I’m careful when editing so that I don’t remove the good lines, because I no longer find them funny. I also don’t let anyone read my column before I post it, because their suggestions, criticisms and disgust could influence my editing. You regular readers share my sense of humor. What someone else may find objectionable, you find hilarious. (Column speaking: “I wouldn’t be proud of that if I were you.”) When I’m confident the column is done, I let it sit for a few hours and then go back and cut it by at least 10%. Most writers write too much. There’s always fat to trim. By Friday, I email my column to my editor, a good friend and talented scholar of the English language. Her name is Marilyn. She weeds out my misspellings, punctuation problems and grammatical garbage. I worry that she may develop chronic headaches from all her “I can’t believe he wrote that,” head shaking. I get the edited version by Saturday afternoon, and it’s posted by 7 a.m. Sunday. You readers take it from there. Thanks for your support, comments, good humor and realization that life is too important to take seriously and is much more fun when you laugh at yourself. (Column speaking: “I wrote that ending. Pretty good, huh? The author’s version was a childish ranting, whining and pouting temper tantrum about how readers don’t ‘understand’ his humor and how hard it is to write every week. It was pitiful. Made me just want to puke.) Jim Pfiffer’s humor column posts every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page, West Elmira Neighborhood, Twin Tiers Life and TwinTier Living.com Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  21. It’s interesting how our changing culture dictates what body part is the sexually attractive appendage de jour, from implanted breasts and collagen-filled Donald Duck lips to six-pack abs, protruding pecs and thigh masters. There is one body part, shared by both genders, which has always been a sex symbol: the two large fleshy halves of the posterior known as the buttocks. Fashion culture decided that it’s time for Americans to shake their booties and enlarge them with cosmetic surgery called a “Brazilian Butt Lift,” or BBL. Here’s how it works: A plastic surgeon uses liposuction to suck excess fat from the patient’s hips, abdomen and lower back and injects it into their butt. WTF? (FYI: “Lipo” is Latin, meaning “ridiculous misuse of a Dyson,” and “suc” is Latin for “WTF?”). Ridiculous and dangerous medical procedures have never stopped Americans from partaking in the latest body marring trend. That’s why the BBL is the fastest-growing cosmetic surgery in the world. It’s also environmentally friendly because the fat is being recycled, and it has turned the phrase, “fat ass,” into a compliment. According to an article in the U.S. Sun tabloid (motto: “We don’t let facts get in the way of our reporting.”) bum size depends on how we’re doing financially. “When there’s financial stability women tend to be happy with themselves and it shows in the shape of their bottoms, which are generally flat and square,” reads the article. “When we fall on hard times — for example during recessions — women tend to focus on balance and symmetry, which means a full, round butt is desirable.” Monitoring derriere sizes may be a clever way to predict the stock market. Buy small. Sell large. It’s no surprise that the BBL was invented by those wild and crazy fashion-lovin’ Brazilians. I guess they figured that after giving us the “Brazilian Wax,” a painful process that rips away body parts, they felt obliged to introduce another trend that adds body mass. Titanic behinds have been hip since the 1980s, popularized by songs like “Bootylicious,” by Destiny’s Child; “My Humps,” by The Black-Eyed Peas and “My Big Bootie Got a Backup Alarm,” by Pfif Daddy and the Rumpsters. (I made up that last song, but I think it would be a hit.) Our gluteus maximus are the largest muscles in the body. That’s why I’ve seen people whose keisters are so large they don’t need a butt lift. They need a forklift. I’m talking about booties so big that they have their own sovereignty. I’ve seen bodacious butts so big that they form a ledge off the side of each hip, where you can easily set a can of beer, cell phone or a Mini Cooper (with turbo). There are plenty of people with enough excess body fat that it could be used to make a whole other person, or two. Call it lipocloning. I’ve seen colossal behinds do some serious swaying, bouncing and jiggling. They could use a lift. But the BBL doesn’t actually lift the butt, it shapes it to the butt owner’s specs. There is one segment of the population that could use BBL. I’m referring to guys who have absolutely no butts. Their backsides are a flat plane from waist to thighs. Truth: Science calls it “dormant butt syndrome” or DBS. Plastic surgery is expensive and rarely covered by health insurance. That’s why we should start a nonprofit butt fat repository where individuals could donate their extra fat to those in need, much like blood drives. Something to think about. (FYI: You can get a do-it-yourself BBL by eating a lot of BLTs). I think it’s unnatural and unhealthy to move body tissue around willy-nilly. What’s next, moving entire body parts? Will doctors in the future be able to transplant your junk in the trunk to your shoulders, creating an actual butthead? (Ha! That’s a good one! Sometimes I make myself laugh.) Listen, I have nothing against curvy and voluptuous buns, when the goal is to achieve tight and symmetrical C-shaped Jay-Lo behinds. But when you romp the rump and that C grows to the size of a municipal parking garage, I get concerned, cuz big booties are unwieldy and can cause a lot of collateral damage. If the caboose owners aren’t careful and are unaware of their surroundings, they knock things over and break them. I once saw an intoxicated and dangerously derriered booty poppin’ man take a stumble and tumble. Fortunately, he landed on a chair to break his fall. Unfortunately, there was a poodle sitting on the chair. It took doctors and veterinarians several hours to safely remove the poor pooch from the man’s cheeks crack. The poodle was shaken up, but uninjured. In addition to lookin’ all Kim Kardashian, there are several advantages to high end hind ends: · Great for sitting on your hands and the hands of nearby people to warm them up. · Built-in cushion for sitting on hard chairs, bleachers and pews. · Your hams continue shaking and baking hours after you stopped twerking. · Great for crushing cardboard boxes, cans and enemies. · Ability to leave people with lasting images when you exit a room. · More square footage for people to kiss it. · Gives you more ass to kick. Most trendy body augmentations are for women. Eventually we ‘ll see a male-only body enhancement. I bet I know what it will be called: Brazil Nuts. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column is posted every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page and TwinTiersLiving.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  22. The fashion fads of aging A humor column by Jim Pfiffer, Elmira, NY I recently found a photo of myself from the 1980s, when I thought I was a fashionable dude. At the time, I was wearing my trademark bright red fake snakeskin cowboy boots with tips so pointed they could poke your eyes out. Totally tubular, dude. Those boots weren’t made for walkin’. They were tight, hot and uncomfortable. But I endured the discomfort because I thought they gave me a radical, edgy swagger. What they really gave me were blisters and deformed pinkies. The boots were narrow, uncomfortable and squished my toes together. That didn’t matter, cuz lookin’ good trumped feelin’ good. It wasn’t just boots that pained me. I suffered with pants that were too tight, shoes that caused blisters, ball caps that were too small and wool dress suits that were too hot. It was a gnarly and modish facade. But now, as I slip and fall into my golden years, fashion has taken a back seat to comfort. To hell with the back seat, it’s locked in the trunk, where it can no longer hurt me. Skin-tight Jordache designer jeans with embroidered butt pockets and ridiculous prices have given way to comfort-fit-baggy khakis with elastic waists, fuzzy-rimmed slippers and roomy farmer jeans with bare but deep pockets Today, when I try on a new pair of pants, I don’t look in the mirror. I look at the waist to make sure I can get a few fingers between it and my belly. I don’t know my waist size. I haven’t measure it since my Levi Docker’s days. I’m sure it’s still a slim 32-inches, although 36-inch pants seem to fit better. Weird. It’s interesting how age affects your sense of style. When I was a groovy and righteous teen, I made fun of old fogies who wore “Father Knows Best” cardigan sweaters. Now, I wear one. My wife says I look like Mr. Rodgers, but not as pleasant. Yes, I look like a dork, but I’m a warm and comfortable dork. My stress to dress for comfort often embarrasses my wife when we’re in public. “You can’t wear your fuzzy slippers to the restaurant, grandpa,” she chides while rolling her eyes so violently, you can hear them. Wearing trendy threads was a big part of my adolescent image as I struggled to grow up. (Still struggling). Fashion fads had me strutting the catwalks of my teen years in bell bottoms, faded jean jackets (with a Magic Marker drawn peace signs on the backs), US flag clothes and two-foot-long loops of rainbow love beads dangling from my neck. Groovy man. Groovy. Unfortunately, that same ‘60s and ‘70s fashion scene featured clothing that was designed by people on LSD. How else did we get Nehru Jackets, beer can pull top chain belts and fishnet stockings? (Plump-legged girls in fishnet stockings reminded me of sausages hanging in a deli window). Bummer, man. I committed some teenage fashion faux pas, like the time I bought my first pair of leather sandals, which, we cool kids, called “Jesus shoes.” I wanted my sacred sandals to fit snugly and comfortably, so I wore them with ankle-high black socks and shorts. Add in my skinny and pale piano legs and I was the ultimate atomic dork-nerd-dweeb was going to get beat-up in gym class fer sure. Real downer. My fashion sense once got in the way of my career sense. I was a cops and courts reporter with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper in the ‘80s, when my red boots were makin’ the scene around town. One day, while covering a murder on the city’s Southside, I wanted to get into the St. Peter and Paul cemetery where the body had been dumped. Unfortunately, cadets from the police academy in Corning were stationed at all the entrances to keep out snoops like me. As luck would have it, a Jewish burial was occurring just inside one of the gates. I slowly blended in with the crowd as we walked through the gate to a nearby burial site. I was about to slink away to the scene of the crime when a cadet, who had been giving me the stink eye since I walked in, approached me and asked me if I was with the burial procession. I came clean (journalist ethics) and slinked out of the cemetery, ushered by the cadet who warned “don’t try that again.” I later learned that he grew suspicious of me because he “didn’t think a Jew would wear bright red fake snakeskin cowboy boots to a burial.” (Damn smart-ass cadets). Today, my callused and ever-expanding feet would require a front-end loader and a can of Crisco to squeeze them into cowboy boots. That’s why I wear comfortable lace-less Skechers sneakers and Dollar Store plastic clogs that I can easily slip into without bending over or using my hands. I’ve grown partial to one-size-fits-all-perma-press-stain-resistant-pull-over clothes sans buttons, zippers, laces, Velcro, clips, clasps and bungees. I was traumatized by clothing closures in the 1990s when button fly pants were trendy. Dumb idea. The last thing a man wants to face, after downing several brews at a bar and is rushing his bursting bladder to the men’s room, was a row of stubborn buttons. It was common to see bathroom floors littered with stray buttons, that had been ripped from their moorings, by frantic fellows seeking fluid relief. Although I’m old, I’m not a total fashion geek. I still swing some swank, when I don my trademark black Kangol flat top wool cap (backwards of course), ala Samuel L. Jackson (who stole the idea from me, BTW, and that’s no pulp fiction, either.) I originally kicked it with Kangols to give myself a cool raffish edge. Now I wear them to warm my head and hide my thinning hair. Eventually my wardrobe will de-evolve into all-comfort-first-elastic-stretch-oversized Tees, roomy hooded sweatshirts, bulky athletic jerseys and maybe a few flower-print moo moos. Dorkified, yes, but cool and loose in summer and warm and roomy in winter. I know there are other Boomers who share my comfort-beats-fashion philosophy. I’d love to chat with you about it. If you see me in public, come talk with me. I’ll be wearing fuzzy slippers and accompanied by an embarrassed wife standing as far away as possible while shaking her head in dork disbelief. If you listen closely, you’ll hear her eyes rolling. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column is posted every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page and Twin Tiers Living.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
  23. Bitcoins are the latest trendy investment opportunity, thanks to viral stories about people becoming overnight Bitcoin millionaires. Bitcoins are one of more than 1,500 cryptocurrencies on the market, with names like Dogecoin, Solana and Ethereum (which sounds like a radioactive element used to make A-bombs or it’s a part of the human body.) You’re probably wondering if you should get in on this speculative mania and invest in cryptocurrency. Well wonder no more. I will explain cryptocurrency in a Q&A format: Q: Just what the hell is a Bitcoin, anyway? A: There’s no need to swear. This is a family column. To answer your question, no one really knows for sure. It’s a virtual currency that is generated by computers (called “mining”), doesn’t exist in a physical form and isn’t backed by a government, bank or individual. It’s a mathematically expressed entity, like Pi, and is not a coin that you hold in your hand. Q: WTF? Then how does it have value? I sure could go for a piece of pie right about now. Apple is my favorite. A: It’s not that kind of pie, muttonhead. A Bitcoin has value because people say it does, like baseball cards, Beanie Babies and non-fungible tokens, or NFTs. (It’s fun to say “non-fungible.” Go ahead. Try it). BTW, don’t think that I don’t see that you are swearing in initials. Knock it off. Q: Dude. Take a nerve pill and chill. I’ll stop cussing, I promise. Just answer my question. Why is it called “Bitcoin?” A: Because Bitcoin exists in virtual reality, it’s a perplexingly, confusing and nebulous entity. It was initially hated by the public, and was going to be called “shitcoin,” but the PR people said it would be best to shorten it to “Bitcoin.” Q: I hear that Bitcoins can’t be traced back to their owners and are frequently used to buy drugs and other contraband. A: That is correct. Are you thinking about online drug dealing? Q: What? Are you, a cop? A: No, but I don’t want my column to encourage illegal behavior. I advise you not to engage in any illegal online activities. Q: I didn’t ask for your advice, now did I, poopy head? (That’s not swearing). How are the coins ‘mined,’ and have any of the mines ever caved in? A: OMG! You’re dumb! The coins are not mined, like gold and silver, you imbecile. Mined is a term used to describe the process of using powerful computer networks and advanced software to solve mathematical problems to create the coins. Q: I’m not dumb. I’m uninformed, but not dumb. So, chill out with the constant dissin.’ Are you talking about math problems like “if a train leaves Chicago going 65 mph and another train leaves NYC going 65 mph on the same tracks, how long will it take before they collide, and is that why no one rides trains anymore?” A: OMG No! We’re talking complicated algorithms and intricate mathematical equations. I have a question for you: when will the van be arriving to take you back to the home? Q: That’s real funny. Haven’t heard that since fourth grade, old man. What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks are algorithms?” A: Again, with the weakly veiled cussing? If you don’t quit it, we’re going to end this column right now. Do you understand? Meantime, why don’t you Google it instead of making me do all the work. Q: I Goggled it, and it said mining involves “validating cryptocurrency transactions on a blockchain and adding them to a distributed ledger, thereby preventing the double-spending of digital currency on a distributed network.” A: There. You have your answer, but I doubt you understand all those big words. People like you really cinch up my BVDs. You’re so quick to go to a “frequently asked questions” format instead of looking up the answers yourself. Jerk! Q: Whatever dude. Get a life. Listen, I need to know if bitcoins are like real coins. Can I hold them in my hands? A: No numbnuts, they’re not. I answered that question several paragraphs ago. Do me a favor and put the bong down until we’re done. Jackass. Q (coughing heavily): Oh-oh! You swore. I’m tellin.’ And how do you know the condition of my nuts? Perv! Tell me, are Bitcoins a good investment? A: For your information, “Jackass” isn’t swearing. I’ll answer your “gotta be kidding me” question with a question: Do you think it’s prudent to invest in a commodity that you can’t see or touch, isn’t backed up by a government or bank, isn’t accepted by businesses and industries, is used by drug dealers, and no one understands how it works, where it comes from or where it’s stored? Q: Why do you have to be such a jerk? I get the picture. I don’t need some dipshit, two-bit writer, explaining it to me, okay shithead? A: That’s it! I warned you. I’m done! Outta here! Q (to you readers): Do you think he’s really gone or is still listening in to hear what we say behind his back? If he is, hear this, you pompous prick: You think you’re some hot-shot writer, well you’re not. My third-grade daughter can write better than you and probably color better than you, too. So, I say good-bye. Good night. Good riddance. A: F—k you! Q: I told you he was eavesdropping. LOL! Jim Pfiffer’s humor column is posted every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page, Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page and TwinTiersLiving.com. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife, Shelley, and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper. Contact him at pfifman@gmail.com.
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