JIm Pfiffer

Age plays mean on the mind. It makes me more forgetful and scatter-brained. I’ve lost the use of the area of the brain that remembers where the hell I left stuff, like my truck keys, my phone, my wallet and my way home. It’s a three-fold problem. First fold: I forget where I put things, because my mind doesn’t pay attention to what I’m doing and make a note of it. Second fold: Ummm. . . it’s when I . . . ummm . . . what was it I was writing about? Third fold: What’s with all the “folds,” anyway? Weird. My typical keys search begins under the couch cushions, a black hole that sucks keys, TV remotes and potato chips deep into its bowels. I hate sticking my arm down into the “crevice of crap” where the couch back meets and seat. If you’ve seen photos or videos of veterinarians sticking a gloved hand and arm into the bung hole of a dairy cow, you know how I feel when I do a couch rectal exam, worrying what disgusting thing I might grab hold of. Ewwww! After the couch search, I check counter tops, dresser top, the key slit in the door lock, the driveway and sidewalk and the interior of my truck, coat pockets, pants pockets and sometimes Hot Pockets. You never know. If that fails, I get desperate and look in places, where I know 100 percent, that I won’t find the keys, but I look just in case, because I really don’t know what else to do, right now and I’m already late for my appointment! Thus, I search the fridge, freezer, bathtub, the junk drawer and anywhere else where I loiter about. If that fails, I enter the “WTF phase?” where I do a second search of the places I already searched, thinking that the keys may have somehow crossed the space-time wormhole continuum and reappeared under the cushions. I do this, because I once patted down all the pockets of the pants I was wearing, and no keys. I was sure of it. But 10 minutes later, when I searched those pockets a second time, out of desperation, they mysteriously appeared in one of those pockets. As I run out of places to look, I reassure myself by saying things like “They gotta be somewhere.” “As soon as I find them, I’m going to get them copied (Yeah, right). “Maybe the dog ate them.” As my search continues, I grow more frantic, until my wife notices. That’s trouble. “What did you lose this time?” she asks. “Nothing,” I lie reply as I attempt to slink out of the room. “You lost your keys again, didn’t you? I told you to put them on the key rack by the back door, but you wouldn’t listen.” She is correct, but because I’m immature, I don’t acknowledge it. Instead, I start a pathetic whine hoping she take pity and help me. “I’ve looked everywhere,” I plead, almost in tears. “No, you didn’t, or you would have found them, wouldn’t you?” she matter-of-factly replies. (Damn it! She’s right again.) She then asks the obligatory question that every key searcher has been asked throughout history: “Where was the last place you had them? “If I knew that I’d have them, now, wouldn’t I?” I wanted to retort but think better of it. If the two of us, can’t find them, I go into the “knees phase,” and pray for dear life. “God, I know I don’t always obey or know all of the Ten Commandments, but if you help me find my keys, this one time, I promise to go to church every Sunday. Plus, I can’t drive to church if I don’t have my keys.” He sees through my thinly veiled ruse, and I get no divine assistance. But I do get another red check mark on my soul’s permanent record. Eventually I give up and realize they are gone forever, so I do what I must do. I buy a new truck. I lose my cell phone more than my keys. The remedy: Ask my wife to call my cell so I can find it when it buzzes. “Shhhh. Listen,” I say to my wife, as I put my finger to my lips while we stand in the living room straining our four ears for that tell-tale “buzzzz” vibration. “I hear it,” I shout. “It’s upstairs.” I bound up the stairs and begin the childhood of game of “You’re getting warmer, you’re getting colder.” The warmth leads me to my bedroom and toward the bed. I’m getting warmer, almost upon it, when the buzzing stops “Damn it! Dial it again,” I shout down to my wife. By now I’m tilting my head, like our dog listening for the can opener, the buzzing resumes and I follow its trail that leads beneath a pillow, where it fell out of my pocket, while I was reading. Lost keys are a hassle, but a lost wallet is a calamity. “Do I cancel my credit cards or wait, because I know I’m going to find it as soon as I cancel the cards?” I try to recall everything in the wallet that will need replacing: license, library card, health insurance card, vaccination card (thanks COVID), shoppers club cards and “Oh shit! I just remembered. I have a $100 Amazon gift certificate in there! Damn it all!” I expect these losses to mount as I age and more and parts of my brain shut down. Hopefully, by then, it won’t matter, as I will have lost my mind. 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.

Russia is at it again, threatening to invade another country. This time its Ukraine. This happens whenever Russian “President-for-eternity” Vladimir V. Putin, feels that the world doesn’t fear him enough. He threatens to invade and take over some smalltime third world country that you and I couldn’t find on a map. Vladi (that’s what all his friends call him, both of them) likes to shoot selfies of him going bare-chested and riding around on a horse or engaging in other manly activities like hunting, fishing and poisoning political opponents. To prove that he’s serious, about Ukraine, Vladi recently shot selfies of himself riding atop a tank, while not wearing a shirt or PANTS! Whenever Russia threatens the world, it brings back frightening memories of my childhood at Ridgebury Elementary School, in Ridgebury, Pa., in the early 1960s. I was taught that the Russians were our enemy and a threat to world peace. Back then, the Russians amassed armies all over the place, including outer space. Vladi was a child at the time, but that didn’t stop him from riding around on a toy Russian tractor, while not wearing diapers. We were in a “cold war” with Russia, which I thought meant fighting in Alaska and Siberia. They Russians replaced the Nazis as bad guys in our culture, from movies and books to TV shows. Even our cartoons featured evil black dressed Ruskie’s, like Boris Badenov and Natasha of Bullwinkle fame. (Loved that cartoon. Still do). Our fears of these warmongering devils reached a fevered pitch when they moved into Cuba with nuclear missiles. This sent America into full-blast, red alert “there goes the neighborhood” mode. This occurred in 1962 or ‘63, I’m not sure, because, like I said, I was in second or third grade and had trouble remembering my lunch money. The cold war suddenly got hot which resulted in a paradigm shift in American education. We went from multiplication drills to “duck and cover” drills, in case one of those missiles was aimed at Ridgebury Elementary School. We jumped under our desks, covered our heads with our arms and got our pants dirty, resulting in a nuclear scolding by Mom when I got home. The desks were supposed to protect us from flying glass. Hell with flying glass. I worried about the 5,000-degree shock wave and bone-melting radiation? Those drills, and the howling sound of the air raid sirens, scared the hell out of me. I had seen too many of the grainy black-and-white film clips showing nuclear explosions reducing houses to molecules and making pine trees sway back and forth before bursting into flames. The Civil Defense Corps. produced a PSA cartoon to teach the duck and cover. It starred, Bert The Turtle, a seemingly slow-witted bowtie- and pith helmet-wearing character that ducked into his shell at the first sign of a mushroom cloud. It didn’t make sense. I didn’t have a shell to crawl into, and if I did, I probably get yelled at for ripping out the knees of my pants while doing the crawl. As I cowered under my desk, I remember thinking, “How in hell (kids swore a lot back then) is this flimsy gum-wadded desk going to save me from a nuclear blast?” Hiding in a fetal position under my desk raised several questions: “Why would Russia want to blow up Ridgebury Elementary school? Are there missile silos hidden under the playground?” “Why isn’t my teacher under her desk? Probably because if this was a real nuclear attack, she and the rest of the s—thead teachers (see what I mean about swearing?) would run to a secret faculty bomb shelter and leave us kids to fend for ourselves. Bastards!” “Maybe if I tell Mom I got my pants dirty when I fell on the playground I won’t get yelled at.” But back to the Cuban missiles. From what I can remember President Kennedy and Cuban Leader Fidel “patchy beard” Castro decided to settle the issue like real men, by standing face-to-face until one of them blinked, making the other man the winner. They were originally going to play “rock, paper, scissors,” but Castro said he wasn’t good at it, because rocks, paper and scissors were among the many supplies that Cuba never had enough of. Castro blinked first and lost. He later claimed it was because his cigar smoke got in his eyes. (Lyin’ commie!). Today school kids have it just as bad. The A-bomb drills have been replaced with “lockdown drills,” were frightened kids huddle in a darkened corner behind locked doors because an armed intruder is in the school shooting people. Such fears should never be a part of a kid’s life. We live in troubled times. Covid hasn’t made it any easier. We need a hero to make life safe and fun again. I have the perfect candidate. Rocky the Flying Squirrel. 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.

As we stumble into a third year of COVID we are more confused, uncertain, worn out and frustrated than ever. We think we’re beating the virus, then we’re not, then we are and then a new one comes along and we’re back to square one, we don’t pass Go and we don’t collect $200. We’re living our own “Groundhog Day” movie. As for helpful COVID information and advice, we might as well use a Ouija Board or Magic 8 Ball, instead of listening to the alleged experts. Who do we believe? Should I take advice from the CDC, FDA, AMA, WHO, WHAT, WHERE or WHEN?Why do the recommendations keep changing and contradicting each other? I expect the CDC to soon release this message: “Do the opposite of whatever we told youthe last week, but it really doesn’tmatter, because no one pays attention, anyway.” COVID has turned our lives into an eternity of questions. Do the kids go to school or doremote learning, and what if we can’t find the remote because it fell down between the couch cushions? If I send my kids to school, will I have to drive the school bus? If I have to isolate at home cooped up with the kids, like last year, I’ll go insane and need rabies shots tocalm me down. Do I need to test every time I get a cough or get a headache? Are the tests accurate, and if so, which ones are the best? Where do I get them? What about a “false positive?” or a “little white lie negative?” Which vaccine is the best: Moderna, Pfizer or J&J? How about a PB&J? Right arm of left arm? (At least I don’t have to drop my pants). How many shots do I need? Can I mix them? Damn, my arm is sore. Can I still get the virus if I get my shots, and do I need to wear a mask? I heard that the vaccines containmicrochips, potato chips and poker chips. Is that true? Are we going to be dealing with a new variant every few months, how the hell do you pronounce “Omicron” and who named it? It sounds like a company that makes robots. Its slogan: “We’re Omicron. Spreading around the globe and never going away.” Mask advice is the worst. Cloth, paper or plastic? Homemade, store-bought or picked up off the street? How many layers? What about those plastic face shields that make you look you’re going to weld something? Should the mask cover my mouth and nose? I read on Facebook that the virus can enter your body through your ears, eyes and evenyour butt. (Do I have to wear a mask there, too?) We don’t have to wear masks in private unless we’re with several people or doing a home invasion. Can I use the virus as an excuse to stay physically distanced from people because I hate their guts? What about restaurants and bars? Why do we have to wear a mask when we go in, but not when we sit down? Maybe the virus can’t infect seated people. (Probably because it can’t enter through their butts). Is it OK to sneeze into my mask or should I sneeze into my elbow or the elbow of the person nearest me? I found this observation online: “Masks are like bras: they’re uncomfortable, you only wear them in public and nobody notices until you take them off.” Do I have to stand 6 feet away, or 3 feet away and I don’t want to stand on some stupid footprint stickers on the floor. Have you heard of the “15-minute rule, where you should not talk with anyone face-to-face for more than 15 minutes? Does that mean you can end the conversation in 14 minutes, leave, return and continue the conversation for another 14 minutes? How often should I wash my hands? Do I use soap or hand sanitizer and why do they put those useless hand blow dryers in public bathrooms that turn off before your hands are dry, so you have to wipe them on your pants? What about wearing latex gloves, L.L. Bean winter gloves or boxing gloves? If I wear boxing gloves? If can I punch the guy in the airline seat next to me who isn’t wearing a mask and keeps breathing his stinking alcohol and cigarette soiled breath on me? Can I get COVID from touching stair railings, doorknobs or myself? Is it OK to touch elbows, do fist bumps and mimed handshakes? Will I ever be able to hug people again? Should I wear one of those plastic Queen Ann-style dog collars so I can’t keep touching my face? What about kerchiefs, plastic face shields, coffee filters, panty liners, holding your hand over your mouth or wearing a Darth Vader facemask and helmet? I can deal with what we’re calling the “new normal,” but not when it keeps changing. That’s not normal. This uncertainty is the new normal, because we are not going to completely wipe out the virus, but must live with it indefinitely. Of that, I’m certain. 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.

When I was young New Year’s Eve was a big event, celebrated with gusto, daring stunts, mischievous capers and too much alcohol – and that was before I left the house. Not now. I’ve circled the sun 67 times and each time I make the trip there is less drinking and partying, and I’m glad of it. That’s because I’m old. My mind may want to Wang Chung tonight, but my body wants to go to bed tonight. The last time I saw 12 a.m. on New Year’s Day, phones had dials and cords. Now, when the ball is falling at Times Square I’m falling into REM sleep. When I was young most everything we did involved alcohol. We could drink at age 18. It was during those early years that I pickled most of my brain cells. Yes, they were fun times. I just wish I could remember them. I remember some of them: “Hey you guys! Look! Pfif’s up on the snowy roof. He’s trying to climb up to the chimney to get that plastic Santa Clause. He’s almost there. You got it Pfifs! Oh s—t! Wow! didn’t know a person could slide down shingles that fast and fly that far.” I’m relieved at how age has tempered my wild side, daring vitality and internal organs. Take hangovers, for example. As a young man I could wake up with a wicked bad hangover and recover quickly enough to be quaffing cold ones by noon and out on the town at dusk. Today, if I have more than three drinks in one night, I need dialysis, hydration IVs and three days of bed rest. It’s my body’s way of saying to me “WTF is your problem? When are you going to grow up and act your age, Grandpa!” In college my New Year’s Eve celebrating began around 6 p.m. with friends getting “primed” (i.e., a card game where losers drank shots of Jack Daniels). Then it was off to the parties and the on Elmira’s two bar strips. The Northside had Washington Avenue, home to the Branch Office, Michael’s, Stein Haus, Mario’s Pitstop, Harry Reagan’s, Rybak’s, Benny’s, Bald Mouse and several other watering holes that I can’t recall, or I got thrown out of. South Main Street was lined with Good Times, Old Pioneer, Water Works, Carl’s Revolving Bar, The Arch, Bernie Murray’s, The 9th Ward, Boathouse, Mac’s Tavern, Lamplighter and others too numerous to list. One year we tried to have a drink at every bar on the Southside strip, a foolish crawl that resulted in most of my brain damage. Back then drinking and driving wasn’t a big issue. I should have been, but society had not yet woken up to the dangers. I was once pulled over by the police for a broken taillight, speeding or driving on the sidewalk, I don’t remember. The cop knew I was DWI but didn’t bust me. Instead, he instructed me to park the car and walk home (at least I think it was my home). Today, we all realize the dangers of drinking and driving. It’s dumb. It’s wrong. Don’t do it. There was so much drinking on New Year’s Eves of old, that I did the necessary prep work for my celebrations, like checking to see which friends had my blood type in case I needed a liver transplant. That’s because back then some bars got temporary alcohol licenses to stay open until 4 p.m. Just what we needed as shown by the following thought process: “Ok, I’ve been drinking since I lost those stupid card games, been to two parties, hit dozens of bars on both strips and stopped at a buddy’s apartment to catch a buzz. I’m probably a 3.9 or 4.0. I don’t know where my car is, which is good because I lost my keys hours ago. What should I do? Let’s see. . . I got it! Let’s go to Lib’s. They’re open ‘til 4. I call ‘shotgun!’” I’m not bragging about or condoning my irresponsible New Year’s Eve shenanigans. Yes, they were fun and memorable, but they could have resulted in my being maimed, impaled, killed or imprisoned. I was damn lucky. I learned a lot from those exploits. That knowledge has served me well as an adult. I know my limit, I don’t drink and drive and I still can’t believe how slippery wet shingles are. 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.

Congratulations. You have survived another Christmas. Now, your only holiday responsibility is to start shopping for next year’s presents. As a kid, I enjoyed the day after, when I did important things: 1. Assemble, play with and become acquainted with all my neat presents. 2. Get one of my seven sibs to trade me one of their neat presents (two if they were an easy mark) for a sucky pair of white ring-top socks from Grandma, who gave me socks every year since my first Christmas. (She wanted to give them to me when I was in Mom’s womb, but I hadn’t yet developed feet). Today, the day after gives me time to look back and relive the excitement of a childhood Christmas in a large Catholic family. My holiday excitement began the night before when we kids were expected to do the impossible – go to sleep. My body was electric with “can’t wait to see my presents” energy. I lay in bed with my mind dancing with images of toy cars, bikes, electric trains, cap guns and how I was going to talk my brother into a sock-related trade. For the record, we called them “presents,” not “gifts.” Gifts were for the upper class. Presents went to the middle class. One Christmas eve I was so amped up I tried physical exertion to fall asleep. I did bedside calisthenics, pushups and used my pillow as a war club to beat my bed. My parents used gentle encouragement to coax us into slumber: “If you kids don’t quiet down up there and go to sleep, I’m going to start a fire in the fireplace so Santa can’t get in,” announced my parents. Mom and Dad tried to trick us into sleep, with advice like: “If you go to sleep, Christmas will come faster.” “Santa is still watching for bad kids.” “Your father is going out to get an armload of firewood, better be asleep by the time he gets back.” When I finally did achieve slumber, I would awaken around 3 or 4 a.m., still stoked and pumped. I go from bedroom to bedroom waking up my sibs so we could gather at the top of the stairs, jostling for pole position, eagerly awaiting our parents’ permission to go downstairs. Instead, our parents, who had been up all-night wrapping presents and assembling Schwinn bikes and Radio Flyer wagons told us: “Go back to bed. It’s not even light out! We’ll get you up in two hours.” When you’re a kid-in-waiting on Christmas morning, two hours lasts two weeks. It was like doing hard time in solitaire. By the time the sun rose I had grown a beard and a foot taller. We again crowded the top of the stairs, my parents gave the go-ahead, and we flew downstairs, sometimes two and three steps at a time, and into the living room that was aglow with eight tall piles of neatly wrapped presents. They didn’t stay wrapped for long. We commenced a frenzied hurricane of unwrapping that registered a 3.5 or 4.0 on the Richter Scale and often resulted in injured fingers, deep paper cuts and putting someone’s eye out. Paper, ribbons, bows and name tags whirled about the room in chaos to eventually settle in a massive debris pile. This pile also contained mistakenly thrown out toy parts, batteries and toy instructions. One year, my little brother ended up in the pile and was thrown out with the trash. We didn’t know it until the next day when a neighbor phoned to say that there was a Hefty garbage bag with legs, wandering around our yard. Who knew? Christmas cards were ripped open, turned upside down and shaken to see if any cash fluttered out. If not, they were Frisbeed into the paper pile, which by now was spilling over into the dining room. If we opened a present that contained socks, mittens, underwear or any educational toy, they were flung over our shoulders. Sometimes, in our manic craze, we would grab a present from a nearby sib’s pile and open it. This resulted in Christmas-spirited fist fights. We didn’t care. We had a whole year ahead of us to be good and make up for it. After the unwrapping, we scanned each other’s toy piles to see who had more or less than the others. That’s how you tell how much your parents love you, but the size of your pile, right? We were so overjoyed with our new toys, we often forgot about a second treasure trove of joy: stockings hanging from the chimney with care. My stocking always bulged with a favorite present: A Life Saver display box that opened like a book and boasted 12 rolls of the sweet candy rings (Butter rum is my fav). As an adult, I still get excited about Christmas morning, but the real joy comes in watching kids and grandkids rip into their presents. As I age, I realize that kids have one big advantage over adults. When kids open presents, they don’t like they can remark “This sucks!” or “Grandma needs to stop mixing her meds.”” Adults, however, must pretend to like a bad gift by saying, “Ohhhh. Tube socks. Just what I wanted.” 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, many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper.

I used to be a competent gift wrapper who created neatly wrapped gifts and bows. But as I aged, I lost patience and my wrapping skills took a bad rap. Today, my gifts look like they were wrapped by vandals on crack. I don’t understand why we invest so much time and effort to wrap a gift when it is going to be torn apart by the giftee. It’s like making my bed each morning. Why do it if I’m just going to mess it up at night? I’m trying to recapture the gift-wrapping spirit I had when I was younger. Each Christmas I tell myself “This year I’m going to get into the holiday spirit and make gift wrapping fun.” So, I set the scene: Put on Christmas music, light pine-scented candles, don a red Santa hat, get our dog to rest comfortably at my feet and lay out all the needed tools and materials on the dining room table. It’s no use. Gift wrapping has become such a hassle that my holly-jolly-Christmas wrapping quickly deteriorates and morphs into “Just put the friggin’ gifts in brown paper grocery bags and be done with it. Hell, ‘Feliz Navidad,’ my ass.” To better understand why this occurs, I offer the following example of my gift-wrapping descent into hell. I pour a mug of eggnog, sit comfortably at the table and hum along with the 12 Days of Christmas. I start by selecting an easy-to-wrap boxed gift. No need to measure the paper. I can tell, just by eyeing it, how much is needed. I’m a pro. I cut a sheet off the roll and get to wrapping. “You got to be kidding me!” I cry. “How can the paper not fit? I eyed it. Must be cheap paper.” Next, I try the “it’ll never work” trick of moving the box around on the paper, hoping to discover just the right spot, which defies all laws of physics, which will allow the paper to cover the box. Wrong. I set aside the paper in my “mistake pile,” for use on smaller gifts. I measure and cut the correct size of paper, place the box in the center and bring the two sides of the paper together on the box top and hold them down with fingers on my left hand, while using my right hand to pull off a short length of Scotch tape, except I yank off six feet of feet of tape that curls over and sticks to itself and my fingers. “Ha. Ha,’ I say. “I sure wish those nine lords a leaping, were here a wrapping. This is sooo much fun.” I refresh my mug of nog with a strong shot of Captain Morgan (Hell, might as well do two shots. It’s Christmas). I pull off a correct length of tape, but I can’t get it to tear on the dispenser’s serrated edge. Now, I have a length of tape, with the dispenser dangling from it like a kite tail, hanging from my fingers. I angrily shake it off, sending the sticky mess sailing across the room where it lands behind a table. Fortunately, I have a second roll of tape for such emergencies. (For the record: Scotch Tape should be called “Botched Tape” and the public should file a class action suit against the manufacturer). I carefully remove several short lengths of tape and stick their ends to the table edge for easy access. I successfully wrap and tape the paper together and then execute that dope little trick where I fold the paper into triangles on the end of the box and tape them down. But the trick goes south when I can’t locate the second roll of tape. I frantically search for it, under the rolls of paper, ribbons and name tags, but find the scissors. I eventually locate the tape and lose the scissors. In end-of-my-rope anguish I shout, “Will someone PLEASE turn down that damn Christmas music? Who the hell thought it a good idea to let friggin chipmunks sing Christmas carols?” I tape down the triangles on the fifth or sixth try and search for the red store-bought bow with the adhesive backing, that I saw here just a few minutes ago. “Where the @#$# could it have gone?” I spew as frantically fumble around on the mess on the table searching for it. I decide, after downing my second mug of The Captain, I make my own ribbon. I cut two lengths of thin red ribbon and do another dope trick where I scrape the ribbons over the edge of the scissors to form them into festive curlicues. I wrap the ribbons around the box and tie them together in a handsome knot at the top (at least I think it’s the top, but who knows or cares, by now?) I hold down the curlicue with my thumb, grab one of the pre-cut lengths of tape to tape down the bow, but instead tape my thumb to the box. When I undo my thumb, I rip the paper. My “mistake pile” of paper continues to grow larger, as the rolls of paper get smaller. “Screw the bow,” I declare, as my Christmas spirit searches for more bottled spirits. I down a gulp of The Captain straight from the bottle. The table becomes more and more cluttered with paper scraps, ribbons, boxes, tissue paper, tape dispensers, markers and several Christmas cards I forgot to mail last year. In aggravated desperation, I use a clear roll of stronger and wider packing tape but nix the idea after spending 20 minutes trying to find the invisible hidden end of the tape to unroll it. (Another class action suit, in the waiting). “Hell with it! I’m using duct tape,” I mutter as I notice that I forgot to put the “To:” and “From:” tags on two wrapped gifts, and I can’t remember what’s inside the boxes or who they are for. I have to unwrap them, identify the contents and rewrap them. The background music tells me of chestnuts roasting on an open fire and Jack Frost nipping at my nose.” “Right about now I’d like to roast Jack Frost on the friggin fire,” I vent in aggravation. I angrily jump up and step on the dog’s tail, sending her yelping and rocketing across the room with several wads of tape stuck to her fur. I go to the kitchen to refresh my drink and discover that The Captain bottle is empty. “’Ho, ho, ho’ if friggin figures,” I mumble as I pour myself a stiff scotch and bourbon on the rocks. I return to the table, which now resembles a landfill (there are even gull circling overhead), slump into my chair and survey the scene. “Why is it so *!@&% difficult to tape a piece of paper to a box?” I ask myself. I finish my drink and do what I should have done hours ago: Go to the supermarket and get a bunch of brown paper bags. While waiting and thinking to myself “It can’t get any worse,” a lady behind me says, “Sir. Do you know you have a crushed red bow stuck to your rear end?” I embarrassingly remove the bow and shake my head in “I give up” resignation, as my brain turns into a sleigh bell jingle-ing, ring ting tingle-ing goo. 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.

Tis the season to praise the pine. I love Christmas trees. We bring the outdoors indoors to fill a home with Christmas cheer and spirit. I love to come downstairs in the morning to the refreshing scent of pine. The Christmas tree is the holiday icon, like the turkey at Thanksgiving, the Easter Bunny at Easter and the blown off fingers on July 4th. I have a forest full of childhood memories of going out and cutting down our family Christmas trees. We didn’t buy from a tree farm or roadside stand. Hell no. We ventured out into nature to hunt and harvest a trophy tree in its natural habitat, like our forefathers, foremothers, forekids and forepets. Mom and Dad loaded us eight kids into the station wagon to begin the hunt, which basically consisted of driving around until we spotted a stand of likely trophy trees near the road. I don’t know whose land we were on, if was public, private or a toxic waste dump. It seems like we just cut trees from most anywhere we pleased -- forests, fields, golf courses and city parks. As the station wagon pulled over, someone yelled “release the hounds!” and we kids poured out of the wagon before it came to a stop. We ran and scattered about in the snow hoping to be the first to find the Perfect Pfiffer Pine (AKA, the “Three Pees.).” Dad carried a hand saw and Mom toted blankets for warmth, Kleenex for runny noses and Valiums in case she needed them if we kids got out of hand with Christmas joy. We enjoyed the winter outing by throwing snowballs, making snow angles and writing our names in the snow, at least the boys did. The girls lacked the balance and agility. Christmas tree hunting was an exciting tradition that tightened the family ties and created sweet lifetime memories. The crisp winter air filled with the sounds of childhood laughter, Christmas songs and my little sister yelling “Mom! Tell Jim to stop trying to put pinecones up my nose!” Mom was too busy downing a Valium and warning us “Don’t eat the snow. It’s got radiation in it.” Apparently, back then, there were so many A-bomb tests that the radiation drifted into the atmosphere and somehow radiated things like snow and milk. Eventually one of us kids would find the PPP and shout the ocean whaling equivalent of “Thar she blows!” by singing out “I found the PPP!” (This was an appropriate bellow, as you will soon see, the Christmas tree was Dad's white whale). We gathered around the tree studying it, walking around it, measuring it, tugging branches and giving it a good shaking looking for loose needles. No Charlie Brown trees for us. If it was the PPP, Dad crawled under it in the snow and sawed it down, a process that apparently was more difficult than we kids imagined. If the tree trunk was especially difficult to get to or to saw, Dad would encourage its cooperation with torrid strings of totally un-Christmas-like words and phrases that melted the snow, while mumbling something about Moby-Dick. I remember the first time Dad let me crawl under the tree with him and saw it down, a proud rite of passage in our family. I’ll never forget it, because, in my haste to topple the mighty spruce, I nearly sawed off his fingers. I also remember it being the last time Dad asked me to saw the tree. We dragged the tree to the station wagon and lashed it to the roof with clothesline. The ends of the rope were slammed shut in the rear doors, with kids holding them tight like straps in a crowded subway car. When we got home, we dragged the tree into the house and discovered that it had magically grown two feet taller. It wouldn’t fit in the living room. Dad called it a “Christmas miracle.” Mom called it “Told you to bring a tape measure,” as she filled a glass with water to help with the Valium. Dad trimmed the tree to interior dimensions, took a few deep breaths and steeled himself for the dreaded battle with the tree stand, or what we called the “mano a pineno” fight to the finish. Science has yet to invent a sturdy and user-friendly Christmas tree stand that actually does what it’s supposed to do: keep the tree straight and upright. Many of our crooked Christmas trees that were held upright by broom sticks, fishing line attached to furniture or simply pushed tightly into a corner for wall support. Dad’s annual holiday battle with the tree stand brought about another recital of adjectives one would never read in a Hallmark card., but are common in Herman Melville novels. If you think about it, the Christmas tree tradition is a bit creepy. Let’s pretend that an alien lands on Earth and witnesses the Pfiffer family tree hunt. This is what he would see: A herd of swarming Earthlings hunt down and surround a helpless tree that can’t run away. They saw it off, at its only foot, and let it bleed out. Next, they unceremoniously drag it through mud and snow, insult it further by roping it to the roof of a primitive internal-combustion conveyance, exposed to the elements, propel the vehicle and take the tree to their home base, drag the tree into the domicile, saw it and cut it some more, only to then place it on a pedestal to be brightly decorated and honored for weeks WTF? While it may be an unusual custom, I still love it. I can honestly say that all our Christmas tree expeditions were fun, exciting and memorable, except for one time when we had to take my sister to the emergency room because she somehow got pinecones up her nose. 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.

Christmas season is a time of unending parties, celebrations and social gatherings. It’s a perfect time for me to try and do something I’ve wanted to do for most of my adult life. Become a socialite. It goes back to 2004, when I watched a no-talent, marginal-IQ Paris “Hotel” Hilton become mad wealthy and insanely famous by just standing around and looking good, toting a tiny yapping dog and over-using the phrase “that’s hot” to describe anything that’s cool (she actually copyrighted the phrase. True). Then came the Kardashians, an entire family that became wealthy and famous by being spoiled, whining and doing nothing more productive than changing their nail colors and revealing their boobs. They all became famous by being famous. “I could do that,” I told myself. “I’m retired and adept at doing nothing. I don’t have the good looks or big boobs, but I can make up for that with my skills at partying and standing around. My dog, Sammi, is too big to carry, but maybe I could ride her around. My cool catch phrase would simply be “That’s chilly most!” Now that I’m retired and holiday parties are booming, I’m going to give it try. H ang with the fashion elite, wear outrageous eye-catching ensembles, get invited to all the must-attend gigs, clubs, soirees, openings and closings. If successful, I can get paid for it. There is a major downside. I’ll have to make a scandalous sex tape, leak it to the media and then defend myself on the talk show circuit. Hope my wife is cool with that. What is a socialite, anyway? According to Google, it’s “a person, usually from a wealthy and aristocratic background, who plays a prominent role and is very frequently involved in high society and spends a significant amount of time attending various fashionable social gatherings, instead of having traditional employment.” I’m not sure of how much fashionable society exists in Elmira. If it does, I doubt it is as sophisticated and expensive at it is on a national level. Think about it. High society in Elmira means meth, bongs and rolling papers. That’s why E-Town is such a great place to start climbing the social ladder. There’s little competition, the rungs are easy to hold, and you don’t need a private jet. I call it becoming a “Social Lite,” because it’s less filling and has fewer caloric requirements than other socialites. You can become one too. It’s not that difficult. That’s why I offer the following list of one dozen online tips on becoming a Social Lite. With each suggestion, I’ve dumbed it down, to include tips on becoming a Social Lite in Elmira: 1. Online: Wear expensive fashions, jewelry and shoes. Elmira: Don’t wear pajamas in public, sport homemade tattoos and plastic Dollar Store clogs. (Bonus tip: make sure your fly is zipped). 2. Online: Build a social media platform on Facebook, Twitter, Spotify, Instagram, etc. Elmira: Build a social media platform with hand-written flyers stapled to utility poles and community bulletin boards at the bus stations. 3. Online: Dye your hair blonde, lose weight and cap your teeth. Elmira: Wash your hair xxx and remember to put your dentures in when you ge t up in the morning. 4. Online: Wear fashions by Dior, Balmain, Celine, Hilfiger and other famous designers. Elmira: Wear camo clothes designed by Carhartt, Duluth Trading and John Deer. 5. Online: Be class conscious. Elmira: Just be conscious. 6. Online: Become involved in community fund-raisers. Elmira: Become involved in random drive-by shootings. 7. Online: Be seen in public with an expensive and annoying purebred lap dog. Elmira: Be seen in public with a ferret or boa constrictor. (Bonus tip: Do not go out in public if you have pending arrest warrants). 8. Online: Be sure the paparazzi follow you wherever you go. Elmira: Be sure to avoid bail bondsmen following you wherever you go. 9. Online: Sit in front-row seats at all public events. Elmira: Bring a lawn chair and sit wherever you can until security throws you out because you don’t have a ticket. 10. Online: Get invited to A-list parties. Elmira: Dress like the caterer to sneak into A-list parties. 11. Online: Gain social media clout and be and influencer. Elmira: Get busted for driving under the influence As you can see, becoming a local social lite is easy. But I still need your help in making my high society dream come true by inviting me to your holiday parties and swarming me in public for photos and autographs. It would be really nice if you paid me to attend your events. That would be chilly most. 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.

Look at this photo of me, at 6- or 7-years old Protruding forehead. Widespread nose. Ears so big they looked like dish antennas sticking out of the sides of my head. I looked like BoBo The Monkeyboy. The doctor didn’t slap me when I was born. He gave me a banana. My head was large it got stuck during birth. The doctor had never seen anything like it. He couldn’t believe my mom endured it without sedation. I can’t believe she still talks to me. But she got her revenge. She cut my hair as a kid. Did the same for my other seven sibs. When you have that many offspring, home hair cutting, saves enough money to buy a low-milage station wagon. Mom had one hair-cutting style. The buzz cut, shaved so close to the scalp that the clippers often cut away the top layers of my brain. (Explains my demented sense of humor). Her barbershop was the middle of the linoleum kitchen floor. Her barber cape was a plastic-coated tablecloth clipped together in the back with a clothes pin. Her cutting utensils consisted of scissors and an electric hair clipper that my grandfather used to shear sheep. They buzzed, rattled and clanked louder than a chainsaw, pulled the hairs on the back of my neck and smelled of warm 3-in-1 oil. Mom employed the clippers with the deft efficiency and speed of a U.S. Marine barber. She used the wide comb attachment, manufactured by International Harvester, to make a few quick passes over my scalp, leaving me with the stubby and prickly BoBo The Monkeyboy look. I fought against the buzzcuts most of my childhood. Protested them as inhumane and mean. Cried, stomped my feet and even threatened to run away. You know what Mom did? Packed my suitcase. It’s tough growing up, fit in with your peers and attract girls when you look like one of the Three Stooges. By seventh grade my classmates regularly entertained themselves by clamping me in headlocks and rapping my skull head with nuggies and knuckles. Eventually, I snapped. After one of mom’s combine cuts, I stomped up to the attic and declared that I was going to stay there, and not come down for anything, until my hair grew back. In my haste to rebel and make a point, I forgot it was summer and the attic was hot as a kiln. I lasted about 20 minutes before I slinked back downstairs, put on a baseball cap, and sweatingly declared that I was going to wear it, and not take it off for anything, until my hair grew back. By eighth grade mom stopped cutting my hair. By my sophomore year, my hair was down to my shoulders. It was bone straight and featured stubborn springy cowlicks on all four corners of my head that had to be held down with Krazy Glue. As I grow older, and my hair grows grayer, my haircuts grow shorter, by choice, and are done by a barber, by God. As I write this post, my hair is nearly as prickly and stubby as it was in my baboon days. (Kids love to rub balloons on my head and stick them to the wall). You know what? Mom was right. I do look better in short hair. Only took me a half century to realize it. Better a late learner, than a never learner. I think I’ll celebrate by having a banana daiquiri. 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.

Here’s a great way to make dining out exciting, fun and aaah-inspiring: do it with year-old identical twin bonus grandsons. My wife, Shelley, and I recently had a restaurant lunch with the twins, Remy and Leo, and their parents, Allie and Matt. (For the record, I still can’t tell the boys apart. The look identical to me, thus I will refer to them as Remy/Leo in both the singular and plural). Everyone knows that it’s a common curtesy of civilized society, that anytime toddlers are out in public, the public must repeatedly “oooh” and “aaah” over them, and remark how “cute” and “adorable” they are, as if they were the first toddlers every seen in public. (For added effect, you should hold your hand over your heart to indicate that the toddler’s total cuteness is causing your heart to palpitate with sheer joy). As luck would have it, we were seated near a table with another set of young twin boys. When you have that many cute and adorable twins in one place it creates a critical mass of adorableness that causes everyone in the restaurant (and even people in the parking lot and in passing cars) to go into hyper-chronic fawning mode. There was so much “ooohing” and “aaahing” that pictures and posters started falling off the walls. Remy/Leo was on one side of the table. And Remy/Leo was on the other side, sitting next to me. I supported his fine dining experience by giving him sips of water through a straw, spoon-feeding him applesauce and playing peek-a-boo with cucumber slices, from my salad, held over my eyes. (The twins and I hit it off well because we’re all at the same maturity level). When you are seated next to a toddler in a restaurant you must always be alert for incoming pieces of flying food pelting you from many directions. The boys get so excited when dining out that their little arms and legs start flaying about, and food and utensils start flying about. Stupidly, I tried to eat some of my meal, and didn’t pay attention to my surroundings, which were under a foodstuff mortar attack. I suffered heavy casualties. There’s no way the dry cleaners will be able to remove the ketchup stains. Dining with twins is a great way to reduce your caloric intake because you don’t have time to eat. You’re too busy helping feed the boys, laughing, ooohing and aaahing and picking pieces of hamburger buns out of your clothing. And don’t forget pictures. You must photograph every frame of the kids’ every action and save them on your phone where they will be lost forever amid the 10,000 other photos of the kids. Enjoying a meal with the twins is always a rewarding treat. I may leave with an empty stomach, but my soul is filled with laughter and hilarious memories. I wish I could remember back to me carefree highchair days. (Hell, I wish I could remember what I did yesterday). What fun I must have had, because mealtimes for toddlers are some of the greatest times of their lives. Here’s 10 reasons why: 1. Let’s eat. You’re safely strapped into a chair with a tray of food in front of you and a bib around your neck. You’re psyched and ready for some serious consumption. 2. Silverware? As if. You eat with your fingers, hands and feet, and no one yells at you. 3. Unlimited eating surfaces: Who needs plates when you can eat off a tray, table, floor or pick off pieces of hamburger off your forehead and the face of the grandfather next to you. 4. The big swipe: When your highchair tray is full of food scraps, spilled beverages and pieces of drool sodden napkins, you simply brush it all away, with one swipe of your arm, letting the spiraling debris scatter and fall where it may. 5. You don’t have aim for your mouth. Hell no. The food can go anywhere on your person, clothing and the very surprised lady sitting at the table behind you. 6. Within arm’s reach: You can quickly, and without warning, snatch away food, utensils, the waitress’s pen and anything else you can reach. When you get it, immediately put it in your mouth. 7. Center of attention: People at nearby tables are laughing, pointing and taking photos of you as you use your greasy spaghetti-covered hands to snatch grandpa’s glasses off his face and throw them to the floor. “Ha-ha! How cute,” grandpa is required to say as he steps on his glasses and crushes them. 8. Wipe me: When you spill food or smear it all over yourself, someone is always there to wipe it clean with a napkin, towelette or grandpa’s sleeve. 9. You can do no wrong. In fact, if you do something wrong, like knock over grandpa’s glass of expensive craft beer, you don’t get scolded. Instead, everyone laughs, takes your picture, kisses you and never offers to cover grandpa’s dry-cleaning bill. 10. After dinner treats: You don’t have to worry about diving up the bill and how much to tip the waitress who is still combing pieces of French fries out of her hair. And here’s the icing on the cake. Once you are sated, done making a mess and posing for photos, someone drives you home, gives you a warm bath, zips you up in a cozy onesie and tucks you in for a nice eight-hour slumber. 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 and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper.

Here is a generational trivia question: “What is the name of a sandwich made of peanut butter and marshmallow spread? If you answered “Fluffernutter,” you are likely a Boomer reminiscing about your favorite childhood food. The Fluffernutter is a gooey, sweet marshmallow spread layered atop peanut butter between two slices of white bread to produce a “roof-of-the-mouth” sticking treat. Fluffernutter is finally getting the recognition it deserves, as it was recently included in the Merriam-Webster dictionary. You know you have reached the pinnacle of sandwich stardom when you make it in Merriam-Webster. Those 7.5-ounce jars of thick, sticky and sugary “Fluff,” were invented by Archibald Query, who sold it door-to-door in Somerville, Mass in 1917. He later sold the business for $500 to the Durkee Mower Company in Lynn, Mass. Today their factory makes eight million pounds of the white stuff annually, or 1,066,666,666 jars. (Damn! There’s plenty of the devil in that number). Peanut butter is what gives the sandwich its nutter flavor. It’s not surprising, because peanut butter, like bacon, makes everything taste better. You could spread peanut butter or bacon on foam packing peanuts and they would become a top selling snack. You could spread Fluff on bacon, and it would become a top selling source of artery clogging plaque. I wasn’t a big Fluffernutter fan. I didn’t like the texture, nor that fact that “Fluff” was so bright white that it must have been created by a mad scientist in a laboratory and contained some type of plastic polymers. It was so white it hurt your eyes to look at it. Even Elmer’s glue is less white than Fluff. The few times I ate Fluffernutters were at sleepovers or when there was nothing else in the house to make into a sandwich. Some of my sibs ate Fluff directly out of the jar with their fingers. They didn’t want to have to wash a knife. I did enjoy using Fluff for practical jokes, like the time I put some in my sister’s bottle of hair conditioner (She’s still trying to get it out of her hair, today). It also made a great adhesive when we ran out of paste or glue. Fluffernutters reminded me of the unusual sandwiches my seven siblings and I munched on as kids. Back then, there were few, if any, artisan bread bakers. We ate Stroehmann’s sliced white bread that had all the nutritional value of a claw hammer. Sometimes, we cut our sandwiches diagonally, and I swear they tasted better. When we wanted to appear sophisticated, we cut them into four small triangles. I had a few wussy picky-eater friends who didn’t like bread crusts and their moms would cut away the crusts. Those kids got beat up a lot in school. You can tell a lot about people by the sandwich they eat: 1. Wealth: French’s yellow mustard vs Grey Poupon Dijon Mustard. 2. Taste: Hellmann’s Real Mayonnaise vs Miracle Whip. 3. Education: BLT vs GED. 4. Desperation: Bacon or Beggin’ Strips Bacon Flavor Dog Treats. 5. Location: According to Google, Fluff isn’t popular west of the Mississippi (apparently it doesn’t have the right immigration papers to cross the river). My sibs and I created sandwiches with most anything we could find in the cupboards and fridge, including: butter and white sugar, Capn’ Crunch and butter, imitation maple syrup, honey, Hershey’s syrup, jellies, jams and preserves, potato chips, barbecue chips, and when desperate, poker chips. (That’s what happens in a large family with card-playing parents). My dad showed us how to use white radishes and cucumbers, fresh from the garden, to make sandwiches with butter or mayonnaise. I loved peanut butter and banana or apple slices sandwiches. We even made bread sandwiches – a slice of Stroehmann’s between two slices of Stroehmann’s. When we tired of that, we rolled the bread into a ball and kneaded it in our hands to later be enjoyed as a handy snack or a Nerf-like projectile. I’m curious to know what your favorite sandwiches were. Let me know in the comment section below this column. While you are at it, let me know if you have any tips to help my sister get that Fluff out of her hair. 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 and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper.

I see that Kanye West legally changed his name again, this time to “Ye,” with no middle or last name. For real. He said he did it because Ye is the most common word in the Bible, as in “Yo Ye. Thou art a narcissist.” Most rap and hip-hop entertainers change their birth names, like J-Z, Dr. Dre, 50 Cent, Eminem and my main man Snoop Dogg, whose many monikers helped him go from rap star to Martha Stewart to the pinnacle of stardom, TV beer commercials. Snoop was born Calvin Broadus Jr., and went by prior names of Snoop Doggy Dogg, Snoop Lion and just Snoop. (Truth: His mom called him Snoopy because he loved Snoopy in Charlie Brown cartoons). Why do they do it? According to my Internet research, hip-hop’s first artists were in gangs, which gave out street names to create a bond and protect identities in times of crimes. (I’d need a sick load of aliases to cover-ID all my stupid stunts, capers and pranks). Real names aren’t always catchy or easy to remember. Ice Cube is easier to recall than, O’Shea Jackson Sr., his birth name. It’s not just rappers who name change. Retired NBA player, Ron Artest, rebranded himself “Metta World Peace.” (Metta gotta a lotta work ahead of him). Some stage names are creative and reflect the artist’s desire to quickly roll in the bling, as in “A$AP,” whose birth name is Rakim Mayers. (He could have changed his name to “Rakim-In-The-CA$H,” and it would have been just as dope). Names are important. They elicit images, can make life difficult or embarrassing, reflect your lineage and can just be plain dumb, like Richard Head (real name of a kid I knew in my youth). His parents must have been huffing glue when they named him. I’m happy with being James Michael Pfiffer, although my last name is pronounced “Pie-fer,” not “Fife-er,” as it’s spelled. I’ve been called “Pa-fifer,” “Piper” “Pisser” and “Pie face,” by my good friend, Stoney, when he’s had a few beers. I’m a man of many names, most of them bestowed upon me by schoolteachers. I liked to have fun, create laughter, play the dare devil and generally be the center of attention. My classmates called me “class clown.” My teachers called me “a future drain on society.” Don’t get me wrong. I loved Southside High School in Elmira. It was six of the best years of my life. I found it odd that I repeatedly got sent to see the principal, Mr. Harrigan, for “being smart,” as in “don’t get smart with me, mister!” Isn’t getting smart the purpose of education? When a teacher told me to stop being “smart,” I cleverly replied, in a low and slow voice, “Duhhh. I’ll try to be dumber in the future, teach.” That resulted in a trip to Harrigan’s office, where I was a regular. Had my own desk and chair. The office secretary asked me why I was there, again. I sarcastically explained that I was “guilty of being smart in class.” She glared at me, and even more sarcastically, retorted “Are you, some kind of a wise guy?” So, you see, I was right back where I started from – too smart for my own good. That’s why teachers routinely labeled me: “troublemaker,” “immature,” “instigator,” “incorrigible” and “the F#!@>* reason I’m quitting teaching and joining the F#!@>* French Foreign Legion!” My favorite moniker was “rambunctious.” I thought it meant I was joyful and lively. I looked it up and discovered it means “uncontrollably boisterous” (see: “fidgety loudmouth with ADD”). Bummer. An English teacher called me a “provocateur,” which I liked because it had a savvy French-sounding sassy sound. I even wore a beret to better provoke. A visibly angry and shaking substitute biology teacher told me that I was “waaay out of line.” I replied, “Whaaat line should I be in?” Another visit to the principal. I didn’t know the meanings of many of the labels affixed to me, like pernicious, truculent and insolent. I assumed they all meant bad things, so I didn’t look them up. I’ve had enough given names. Now it’s my turn. I’m considering adopting a hip-hop street moniker. A good columnist needs to keep current and hip to the slangy language of the people. A totally coolio name might attract younger readers. Know what I’m sayin’? I checked online to learn the latest hip-hop lingo. I think I got it down pat and won’t sound like a Boomer when I rip-rap this riff: “I was a high school pranksta’, Not a ballin’ gangsta’. Teachers didn’t know me, Tried to mofoe me. Gotta see the principal again, Rap some more with Harrigan. Don’t matter, cuz nothin’ t phaze me. I’m not lay-Z or cray-Z. I’m flexin for ‘shizzle, Off da hook in da drizzle. I’m stillin’ ‘n’ ‘trillin,’ Cuz I’m willin’ and chillin’.” You feel me? I’m going to initially change my name to “Pfif Daddy.” Has a nice and easy to remember three-syllable cadence. When my column goes viral, I’ll change it to “P. Daddy,” “P. Diddy” or maybe “P. Diddy Daddy.” When I publish my first book, I’ll shorten it to “PD.” When I shoot my first rap video, I’ll cut it to “P,” which is what I must do now cuz I drank too much green tea. Word! 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 and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Elmira Star-Gazette newspaper.

Oh goodie! We now have another number to add to our long and growing list of numbers and passwords needed to survive in our electronically connected world. As of October 24, when you make a local call in the 607-area code you must include the area code when dialing. The reason: officials don’t want people mistakenly dialing the newly created 988 national Suicide Prevention Lifeline. I’m all for reducing suicides, but I can’t deal with adding another number to my swirling sea of digits, passwords, pass codes, PINS, logons, WIFI, license plates, phone numbers, Social Security cards, DOBs, zip codes and the points spread in today’s St. Louis Rams game. For security reasons, we’re told to commit all these meaningless, random numbers, letters and special characters to memory. Sorry, but the average person – me being one of them - cannot do that. Hell, I can’t remember my cell phone number, because I rarely call myself. When I do, I don’t answer, because it’s probably another robocall. That’s why I wrote my number on the back of my phone. I try to use a simple, easy to remember password, but the website says “Nope.” It must be at least eight characters long and include numbers, punctuation, upper- and lower-case letters, Hieroglyphics, holograms, gang signs, pi to the 120th digit and that weird symbol used by the artist formerly known as Prince. There is simply no way a person can remember hundreds of unique long and complex passwords. I spend most of my online time clicking “forgot password” links. To make the impossible demand on human memory even more impossible, we’re told not to write down our passwords. Yeah, right. I never do what I’m told. I have more passwords and secret ID numbers than all the James Bonds, Maxwell Smarts and Austin Powers combined. I write them in notebooks, random slips of paper, envelopes, magazine margins, checkbook, the wall next to my computer, my dog’s flea collar, the back of my hand and the grocery list attached to the fridge with a magnet. I signed up for an online service that saves and retrieves all my passwords in a protected file. I can’t access the file, because (you guessed it) I forgot the password. I’m going to use this tip that I found on the Internet: change my password to “Incorrect.” Then when I erroneously enter it, my computer will tell me that my password is “incorrect.” When I forget my password and username, I get nervous while trying to logon because I have only three chances to get it right. Worse, I can’t see what I’m typing because the letters are converted into those silly little stars, in case a snoop is standing behind trying to steal my password. How about this security idea: I spin around, stand up and tell the idiot to “get the **** outta here or you’re going to be seeing stars!” On my first login attempt, I try one of my commonly used passwords and usernames. The computer flashes the dreaded red letter “incorrect” warning. I shake my head and cuss under my breath. I try a different password. It’s correct, buy my username isn’t. The computer slaps me a second time. I cuss out loud. By the third attempt, I carefully search my mind’s memory banks until I shout, “I got it! I remember the password.” I take a deep breath, wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and slowly and carefully type each character, one at a time, but miss the “shift” button on an uppercase letter and its three strikes and “yer out!” (Sometimes, I can actually hear the computer laughing at me). Now I have to reset my password and go through the hassle of checking my e-mail for the reset code, typing it in and creating a new password. By the time I do all that my laptop battery is dead. I get a new code and enter it just as my phone rings. I answer it and by the time I hang up, the pass code as expired. I get so angry that my blood pressure spikes, and I fear that I’m going to expire. I jump up screaming and leaping around like a lemur on crack. (Another snoop standing behind me flees in wide-eyed terror). When I do reset my password, the computer scolds me for not creating one complicated enough. (i.e., One that hackers can’t guess, and I can’t remember). If I do remember my username and password – and type them correctly – I have to answer a security question, like “What was your favorite food as a child?” “Oh shit,” I say. “I think I said ‘pizza.’ No, wait! It’s fried chicken or maybe pork chops? Oh God. Why did I choose that question?” Many times, when asked to create a password, I use one of my old passwords, but the computer tells me I can’t because “It’s been used.” “No shit, Sherlock!” I shout at my screen as I pound on the keyboard. “It’s used because it’s mine. Gimme the $@>+^* thing back!” This is usually followed by my wife shouting, from the other room, “What’s all the yelling about? Are you trying to logon again?” Look, we all agree that the password and ID number systems don’t work. There must be better means of authentication. Why can’t we use our fingerprints, the capillaries in our eyes or dental records as our universal passwords? I’m going to suggest that to Microsoft officials in an e-mail. As soon as I remember my Microsoft password, username and the name of my favorite pet. 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 and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Star-Gazette newspaper.

yes, got it. Thanks

“Rain, rain go away.” “I don’t want to friggin’ mow my lawn again today!” I’ve been uttering that ditty all summer and fall because of all the !@^%$! MOWING I’m doing because of all the !@^%$! RAIN. (Editor’s note: Upper case letters and exclamation points signify that the writer is really @^%$! PISSED OFF!!!!!) My lawn has more mow lines then the outfield at Fenway, and they are deep enough to grow corn. My life revolves around a series of repeated lawn aggravations: Mow. Wait for rain to stop. Mow. Repeat. I have a double lot, and the adjacent lot is nothing but grass. I call it the “North 40,” but of course it’s not really 40 acres. (It’s more like 38-39 acres). It also has a hedgerow that is so long it covers two time zones and takes me four time zones to trim it. My lawn is so large, that when I’m done mowing the last of it, I have to go back and mow the first section, because the grass grows so fast. The high and thick grass hides the gazillion piles of dog poop from my dog, neighborhood dogs and even dogs from outside the hood, who bus in just to do their business on my lawns. It’s a regular poop-o-rama. I mow with a TORO self-propelled push mower. What I need is a John Deer S690 combine and thresher. My TORO is a mulching mower. It cuts the grass into tiny pieces and deposits them back into the lawn. All that mulched grass has increased the height of my lawn so much, that when I mow, I can see the curvature of the Earth on the horizon. I used to reward myself with a cold beer after mowing, but not anymore, because I can’t afford to buy that much brew and my liver can’t afford any more cirrhosis. To get a better idea of my mowing blues, here is the ten-step procedure I endure each time I mow: I search through the garage clutter for the gas can, only to discover that it’s empty because I neglected to fill it the last time I used it. So, I have to go get gas, but first I have to refinance my home to afford the ridiculously high price of gas. I try, but can never, fill the mower gas tank without spilling it over the mower, my hands and my sneakers. For the rest of the day, I smell like a Molotov Cocktail. As I try to weave the mower out of my cluttered garage I clip bikes, a gas grill, a kayak and a recycling bin, tattooing them with dents, twists and scrapes. My mower, like all mowers, is designed to never start until I pull the cord so many times, my arm falls off. (It is during this “yank period” that I unleash my most torrid, raw and venomous string of cussing. Sometimes I kick the mower, stub my toes and dance about in pain.) The triceps in my right arm are three times the size of their left arm counterparts. Once I regain feeling in my arm, I yank away at the starter cord until it breaks (swearing, kicking and dancing in aggravation) or the engine eventually turns over. My mower has a deadman safety lever, on the handle, that I must hold closed while mowing or the engine will stop. As I move the picnic table, lawn furniture or neighbor kids out of the mower’s path, I must lift them with my right hand, because I’m dragging the mower (with lever held tight) behind with my left. My left arm is now three inches longer than my right. (Yes, I know I should move those obstructions prior to mowing, but that’s not how I do it, OK! If you don’t like it, you do it, you snotty-nosed know-it-all!) It rains so often, that the grass doesn’t have time to dry. Wet grass and dog poop clogs up the underside of the mower until it’s too heavy to push and the rpm’s drop so low that the grass actually giggles from the slow-turning blade tickling it. To remove the clogged grass, I turn the mower on its side, gasoline leaks all over the hot muffler until it smokes or bursts into fiery explosions. I have to go to the garage to get a screwdriver, skin my shins on the “who left this damn kayak in the middle of the floor?” return to the mower, use the screwdriver to stab away at the thick carpet of congealed mower grass and leave behind a steaming wet pile of clippings large enough to ski down. At least once, while mowing, I mow over a hidden tree root or rock and the mower blade screams out in a shrill and loud metallic pain or stops all together. (I also mow over the screwdriver that I forgot and left lying in the grass). The blade has more nicks in it than my shins. 10. When done, I return the mower to the garage, leaving behind a trail of wet grass and dog poop skid marks, from the mower’s wheels, on my driveway, sidewalks and garage floor. 11. Wait. I forgot. There is one more step in the process. My once-white sneakers are dyed chlorophyll-green and covered with sticky wet grass clipping, dirt, dog poop and screwdriver fragments. If I forget to remove my sneaks before I go in the house, the remainder of my day will be spent sweeping, scraping and vacuuming up the grass while listening to my wife explain, in minute detail, why I am such a moron. I’ve read about homeowners using goats to maintain their lawns. I’m going to do that. As soon as it stops raining. Jim Pfiffer’s humor column is posted every Sunday on the Jim Pfiffer Facebook page and the Hidden Landmarks TV Facebook page. Jim lives in Elmira with his wife and many pets and is a retired humor columnist with the Star-Gazette newspaper.