Hostage Crisis

ThinkthoughtI’m one of the few people who roped handsdoesn’t have a cellphone. Not that I can’t have one. I choose not to.  If I’m not home, it’s because I’m doing something. I don’t see the point, I mean at least not for me. As far as I know, I’m not that in demand … unless my answering machine has been lying to me all these long years. Of course I’m sure it’s faulty at times, so it’s not all that bad. And then also, why make my best friend my telephone? Don’t shake your heads, “No,” some of you. If you could get food out of them and deposit what’s left and not digested into them, there would be your whole world I’m sure. Got a question, go to the phone. Need directions, go to the phone. Want to take a picture, go to the phone. Want to play a game or watch a movie? Go to the phone. Want to talk to someone, or not, just text them? Yes, go to the phone. If you want to do ten thousand other things, I’m sure there are apps for those too. Of course some of you might be reading this on your phone … thank you.

What? You calling me a hypocrite? Why? I’m not reading it on my phone. I wouldn’t even know what a good value plan is for one of those things.

Is having a cellphone with gadgets wrong? No, of course not, until we’re certain it gives us brain tumors, but moderation … that’s the key.

With the laptop in the room, I have to admit I’m drawn to it, due to the similarities of some of those phones, but when I spend days away from it, I feel rejuvenated. I almost feel like climbing to the highest mountain top and proclaiming, “It’s been three days since my last internet search.” And I feel proud like a recovering alcoholic … but one who will fall back into it again. But I’m more sober than not, when “not” is my face in a computer screen. Granted a lot of people have to work in front of computer screens. That can’t be helped. I do my writing, staring myself at a computer screen. Guilty as charged.

So why am I talking about this? I don’t know. I just see more people’s faces stuck in these hand-helds and wonder why? Or more specifically: Why so much? Why all the time? Can they not help themselves? And wonder … if I have the patience and dexterity to push all those cute … little …… buttons.

Roger McManus

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An Exercise in Writing

RogerandOutJournal log entry – Roadkill can be disgusting, and what is worse than that? Roadkill that makes its way to the sidewalk, that’s what (and scary if you think too much into it). I was walking my son to school and there it was. I’d recognized it before in the street, when it still had hair. But now it was on the sidewalk, barely noticeable for what it was, something dead, and completely unnoticeable for what it had been, a groundhog. It might have been a squashed eggplant if it weren’t for the guts coming out of it … and the flies eating the guts … and the guts smelling … and the claws. But I made sure of my footing, because if I’d stepped into that, there would be no drug powerful enough to pull my brain out of that fetal position, and looked away, not wanting to scar my eyes for life.

How does a crow even look at that and say, “Yum?” God blessed them with little brains and no nose I gather would be the answer. And taste is ninety percent smell, so that’s almost covered. They can’t feel anything with their beaks, so that’s a plus in their corner too. But it’s still that ten percent taste thing. I’m going out on a limb to say they don’t have a gag reflex (The other day my son made one of his dessert creations, and I thanked God for my gag reflex. He usually does well with them, but this one he’d used milk, and it’d been sitting on the counter for the past six hours … just a side note … on the importance of it …… a gag reflex I mean. Heaven only knows what would have happened if it had reached my stomach.).

Well I got to a point, looking away and walking past the carcass on the sidewalk, when I feared the corpse having an ounce of zombie life in it and it leaping from its puddle and attacking me. It chilled me to the bones. Damn those horror movies. And then, on top of that, further up on the walk there was a flat mat of hair, with a hairless tail sticking from it … a demented Daniel Boone’s cap for your dolly? It must have been a large mouse … or a small rat. Maybe the crows and flies had finished with this one, so that it was neater than the other.

“Caw! Hey, Jim, you want the tail?”

“No, I don’t like tails.”

“Me either. You want the fur?”

“No, it gives me hairballs.”

“Yeah, I know … me too. Then I guess we’re done?”

“Yep … caw, caw … we’re done.”

Note: When I start talking about roadkill, I can’t think of anything to talk about.

I just saw a crow pecking away and tearing at the abdomen of a dead squirrel. The squirrel in rigor mortis was almost sitting up, and had its arms out, staring at the bird as if wishing to give it a hug. How the hell does it do it … the bird I mean?

I have a growing respect for my butcher … believe you me … the man who makes my food not look like dead animal and who calls it pork and beef instead of pig and cow. Though for some reason saying chicken instead of poultry is not as offensive, but I assure you if there was one feather in the package … gag reflex! Think about it: How today’s society would crumble without the butcher … seriously.

I’ve strayed … sorry … back to the road.

We have the strangest birds around here. They either have that youthful perception that they are invincible and can’t die, or they’re terribly depressed and yearning for that eternal kiss. They like flying out in front of moving cars. It’s crazy. They must be hiding in the bush saying, “Okay, okay, here it comes. Let’s see how close you can get.” And then they pop out, right in front of your bumper and windshield. Most don’t get hit, while others have you imagining that when you finally get to your destination, you’ll be picking beak, feathers, and leg parts out of your grillwork.

And don’t you love those animals that run across the road, and you say, “Oh good they made it.” but then they turn around as if they’re thinking this is a good day to die, or I’ve forgotten my acorn, and you have to swerve to keep from assisting in their martyrdom?

Note: It’s painfully obvious I still don’t know what to write.

Animals are more communal than we thought, and live in a society that is less forgiving.

“Mr. Squirrel, you have been found guilty, by a jury of your peers, of eating Tweedy bird’s birdseed. You therefore have been sentenced to death, your means of execution … the road. And may God have mercy on your soul.” Most of these executions are done at night, so that they can remove the leg shackles from their due process of law, leaving us none the wiser of the part we’ve played.

And we’re also under protest. Did you know that? Some animals, those without the shackles, and possibly during day, are sacrificing themselves to make a point, to deter our car driving (Note: I have to admit, the deer in the headlight look is more deterring than others. Two hundred pounds of venison in your windshield speaks volumes over two ounces of chipmunk under your treads.), while less brave animals, specifically the older birds, sensing their mortality, and able to stitch a nest together but not make diapers, just poop on us. There’s the whole world out there, acreages of it, and they find our cars … coincidence? I think not.

If the insect world had brains enough to know how many of them we’ve killed by cars alone, they’d rise up and exercise their vengeance, making our species a blip on the historical timeline while they dominate the world for another million years (Note: Without much brains, they’ve done very well.).

That’s our downfall … we’ve got too much brain we’re not using, and are too water-based like some paints that are not rich enough in color for me.

What the hell am I talking about?!

A writer should always write. It’s a good exercise, which keeps a writer in shape. So I’m writing, and exercising my ability to write … but the question is: Am I using the 20 pound dumbbells at this moment … or the 1 pounders?

Signing off,

Roger and out

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Making No Currents

ThinkthoughtThere was a school of fish, and at school school of fishthese young fish were taught how to find food, outmaneuver predators, and swim with the currents. The school gave out awards to those who excelled in these learnings, to celebrate their achievements, but then some someones somewhere decided that it wasn’t fair to those fish that didn’t get any award. And they thought, “Wouldn’t it be nicer if the playing field was leveled and no one felt left out?”

So instead of awards for those who had an “A” in outmaneuvering predators or the fastest food finders, they had awards for being a fellow classmate, and for all those who could open their eyes. Well on awards days it became all too common to have no students looking on at their fellow students accepting awards on stage, because all were on stage, getting theirs. Yes, no one was left out, and the someones somewhere were content to see that no one’s feelings were hurt.  Yes, there was a great celebration for mediocrity.

Well graduation day came, and these less younger fish left school with their humble awards, and left their smaller pond for the greater ocean, where they then were either gobbled up by larger fish, or beached, where they dried up in the sun while trying to suck on a piece of sand for nourishment.

Yes, another success story. Perhaps those someones somewhere had been overly praised for their mediocrity too.

Note: Of course some schools have not disallowed competition all together. Of course not, they’ve invested much money in important things like football fields (Those rebel rousing guppies). And you know what? The day after their graduation day … looked just as unpromising as the others. daedfish



Roger McManus

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No Tools Required

poolrealenoughThe pool broke. It was sometime probably in March when I walked to the backyard and noticed the pool cover drawn like a funnel down towards the center, like the vortex into a black hole. I had the urge to roll a penny and watch it go around and aroundpenny till it dropped through the middle like an interactive display in some science museum … this was due to shock. Afraid as I was to see it though, I still undid the edge of the cover and peered under. There I found a large doughnut of ice, but a doughnut far less than one which could fill the pool, and the lining shredded beneath it as if a tiger had tried to polish it with its claws out and no rag. I could see sand. I felt like a beached whale. A day or so later, adding salt to my wound, I then noticed a break in the metal pool wall. “Oh no.” I’d just mentioned about the busted liner to a friend, who said he could help me with a new one, and that it was an easy job … that is … unless the wall was cracked. “No worry,” I’d assured him. “It wasn’t,” and I’d been relieved to think that too … but there it was now like a crooked smile on a corpse resting on its side … a crack.

I did a search on the web for the means of fixing an above ground pool wall, and stopped at the first one I found. I mean it’s like putting on a shirt and asking someone what he thinks and he says it’s ugly, so you ask someone else, and she also says it’s ugly, so you ask someone else, and he says he likes it, so you keep the shirt on. It makes sense … right? Well once I found someone who said it could be done, what need had I to look any further … or to check his credentials for that matter? So … what was the suggested means of fixing a pool wall? Use aluminum flashing and rivets.

Okay … aluminum flashing … okay … I could take a guess of what that looked like, so my son and I headed for the hardware store (Of note: It had taken me days to work up the courage to get to this … no, no … yes, I knew what I was doing).

“Look at that,” I said, once I’d found an aisle in the hardware store with something shiny. Metal can be shiny … right?

My nine year old son pointed. “That’s it?” he asked.

It looked like a crushed pie tin or something whose edges could be folded up to roll paint in, but it was aluminumnum … mum … num-ish.

“Yes … yes, that must be it,” I said … but then I thought about my wife when I’d initially told her that I was going to fix the pool and she’d said, “Why don’t you ask for help?” Well the easy answer to that was obvious … because I don’t want to admit I don’t have a flipping clue what I’m doing. And so, having not read the sequel to the book “Failing To Get Out Before You’re In Over Your Head,” I replied, “I can do this.” I don’t think she bought it. It might have been the quivering in my voice. I’ll need to learn how not to do that.

Of note: My wife doesn’t repeat herself too often. I believe she has an idea of how much rope she can allow me before I hang myself.

Well anyway, her little voice was on my shoulder like that little being that sits there telling you what is right and wrong. “Okay, I’ll listen to her,” I thought, just to prove myself right, and told my son standing next to the aluminumnum … mum … num-ish … thing, we’d ask a store attendant where the aluminum flash was, so that we’d know for sure this was it … and then stepped away from the item and the aisle. I didn’t want to come across as a fool when the man came over and told me it was right there in front of me and would have bitten me if it had had fangs. These guys know handyman stuff. I didn’t want to come across as wet behind the ears, though I knew with those drippings I could fill the pool, probably even with the lining missing from it, but I didn’t want them to know that. So standing there in the main aisle with the flattened trays behind me and down an aisle off to my right, and not really believing I needed to do it, though reminding myself that it had taken days for me to get this far, I asked an attendant, and lo and behold, he said, “Aluminum flashing? Sure,” and took me off to somewhere in front of me off to my left.

“All right …”

There were a few rolls of this stuff, but fortunately they all seemed to be the same except for quantity. I was pretty sure I could handle that.  I bought the cheapest and smallest … and went home.

Now I’d ordered a new pool liner, further committing myself to this headache … I meant project … and it had taken me even longer getting to do that than it took getting to make the trip to the hardware store. I’d bought it online, and you might have thought I was contemplating the fallout of a nuclear detonation the way my finger procrastinated over the “Place Your Order” button. But I clicked it … eventually … and then peered out the window for a mushroom cloud, and realized I was still standing. “Okay … baby steps,” I told myself, “I just have to take little baby steps … put on the kid gloves … and … diapers? No … no, I could do this without the latter.”

Note: Do you realize you do a lot of talking to yourself when you really don’t know what you’re doing … or … or when you do know … like … like me?

So what else was needed? Rivets … okay, what is a rivet? Isn’t that what holds pockets on your denim pants? Well I didn’t own rivets, and that’s probably why I had and still have holes in my jean bottoms, just at the corners of my pockets. Either that or it’s because of my fat wallet I shove in them, and no, and yes it would be nice, it doesn’t have money. What it does have is a yearly collection of store receipts I always put in, but never take out. Oh look, a China King receipt for sesame chicken, 2012. What? You don’t like sesame chicken?

Sorry … back to rivets … um … okay … so I thought, don’t you need rivet toolsomething like a hole puncher or pliers to get those things on? Yeah, I think you do. But how do you do that in the middle of a wall? This is insane.

Okay, I’d made a change of plan … I decided I was going to go with nuts and bolts, or screws … but I needed a drill. That was a problem. The only electric tool I owned was a weed Wacker. Well this granted a stay of execution for another two weeks.

Note: I should get a job in government. I think it’s clear by now that I fit all the criteria required.

The new pool liner arrived. “Install liner when it is at least 80 degrees Fahrenheit outside,” the directions said. The weather was up and down, so I figured while I contemplated the crack that needed to be fixed, I would place the box with the seventy pounds of liner in it, from inside the house, out on the deck and into the sun to help the cause. I thought I was clever. I was committed, perhaps that’s why I didn’t concern myself with the onslaught of rain that followed and how the box lost its edges and corners and had become … what might someone say? … malleable like wet papier-mâché … or flushed toilet paper.

Well I finally tracked down someone with a drill. Not that I’d been looking too hard. He’d actually just come out and said that he had one … and I don’t know why. But when he did, you’d have thought I’d have jumped at it, but no, my decisiveness in that I could do this job did not ask him if I could borrow it until two days later when I called him on the phone … and when I asked … he laughed. I said, “What?” He said, “I just remember the other day you saying you were going to fix your pool, but you’d never done it before.”

(I ask, “Do we fail to see the red flags in our lives?”)red flag

Well he said, “Sure you can borrow it.”

And I said, “Great.”

(Okay maybe they’re not red, but look more like yellow, you know, like a yellow light where you slow down, preparing for the red light … or you go faster ………… preparing for the red light.)

I went to the pool supply store to get a new gasket for the skimmer, a little last tidbit, and to the clerk there, casually expanded upon my need for my purchase and the lack of wall to put it on, but how I was remedying the situation. “Does that sound good to you?” I asked, wanting it to be rhetorical, but lacking the confidence for it to be. His jaw dropped open as if he wanted to smirk at the head on collision, but realized I, who was watching him, was one of the fatalities. “Um, we used to fix pool walls that way until one busted, and we were liable, so we don’t do it anymore,” he said.

I wanted to smirk.


Isn’t that what stupid people do when they once again feel stupidity creeping up on them? I mean was I stupid, or was I just failing to see the inspiration my wife kept feeding me with her kind words, “I don’t know about this.”

Well since the drill was coming and my work was about to begin, I thought it would be good to check on the step by step directions to fixing the pool wall … and suddenly before me I had all these links, other than the one I’d previously read from, asking what to do, and having responses like, “If you don’t mind 40,000 gallons of water rushing into your basement, use aluminum flashing.” and “Send that pool out to pasture in the old pool graveyard.”


My son had had his heart set on me fixing this pool for him. I didn’t want to let him down, but I had the image of a plane, in flight, whose side has cracked open and everyone being sucked out, and then the image of the pool and thousands of gallons of water ripping through my patch job, and sucking my son likewise through it. There … there was a red flag. I just wouldn’t do it.

My son was disheartened that we couldn’t fix it, my wife relieved, probably telling herself, “I told you he wasn’t stupid,” and I had a two hundred dollar pool liner in saggy cardboard I couldn’t use … but nothing was worth the chance (Now I had to see if the company took returns … and if they did, if they took returns in a soggy, semi-degraded box. The sun finally came out, and the box is drying, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed).

In the end we didn’t think we could afford the twenty-seven-footer we had had, but we compromised with a sixteen-footer and my son was happy. My son was happy, and my wife was happy, so I was happy. In life there are red flags … but there are green flags too. I knew this final decision was correct, and how? green flagBecause in the instructions that came with the new pool, it read, “No tools required.”

They were speaking my language.


Real: The unfortunate mess

Not Real: The soggy cardboard box being like flushed toilet paper

Roger McManus

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Slanted Definitions 10


Rollercoaster – What a gambler puts his drink on

Robotic – Secret weapon of the bugs when they take over the world

Organic – Like a depressing instrument

Stool Pigeon – Poor man’s clay pigeon for shooting (Of similar interest, see Stool Pots and why they went out of fashion for cooking, but were good for plants)

Capability – What a piece of cloth hanging from a superhero’s neck can do

Pretense – Before you know if it is past, present, or future

Buttocks – The most poisonous of fumes (The word Toxic is derived from it, formerly Tocksick. Mustard gas and pepper spray are variations of Buttocks, and are curiously related to ingested foods)

Quintessential – Needing five of something

Admire – Make muddy

Technological – Describing an invention that doesn’t make sense. E.g. Butt press for incontinence or the Helium inducer to decrease weight


Roger McManus

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Have you had a bite?

FrompartsunknownHave you ever done something stupid, and because you knew it was stupid, you made sure you’d never do it again? Well I keep doing something I swear is stupid, but I keep on doing it. I’m not even sure how it’s physically possible. So being that it appears unmanageable to do, I’m either masochistically gifted, or a complete moron because I don’t want it to happen and it does. That’s like being afraid to drown, so you stay out of the water and suffocate on the sand. I mean you’d have to be really stupid for that … right? And I’m angry to boot when it happens, because it hurts a lot when it does happen (why masochistically gifted) and I can’t blame anyone else but myself. That’s what makes me angry, because I can’t blame anyone else, and that’s what makes me feel stupid (Besides standing there cursing myself) … and then when I’ve done it … (Do you believe this?) … give it a minute and I do it again. What is worse than stupid? Stupiderest?

By now you’re probably wondering, “What the hell is he talking about?”

Maybe this is a good lead into a book. It makes you want to read the rest (I hope). So what the hell am I talking about?

Biting myself, I’m not talking about biting your finger or your arm (But why would you do that?). I’m not even talking about biting your tongue, which is a close second. I’m talking about biting the inside of your mouth.


“Yes, I know. It sounds nuts. That’s why it’s so stupid, but for those who are shaking their heads and can relate, I’m not calling you stupid … I’d never do that … and I’m sorry if you believe I am, but I’m not, really, because I’m sure you’ve called yourself that and far worse, and why add insult to injury?

Question: Do animals do this? I’ve never witnessed that. Note: That can’t be good for us.

Now on top of biting ourselves, we don’t even cover it up either. When the pain and anguish floods our face and someone asks, “What happened?” we don’t cry cavity or the need for a root canal, or whatever we were eating was awful (I mean say it even if you aren’t eating anything … because … well, please continue). We quite honestly state, “I bit myself.” Do you hear that? Even the statement sounds stupid. I mean, think about it. Some smart aleck, and he might not be a smart aleck but just smart and on to something, will say, “Why’d you do that?” And then don’t you feel like an ignoramus when you say, “I don’t know.”


Of course misery wants company, and our open honesty, if not due to the painful shock and disconnected brain tissue, is actually looking for the empathetic response “Ouch, oh I hate when that happens.” And many times we get that, because it is a very understandable stupidity. Most people if not everyone have been there, and done that. But why don’t we learn? Is the food we’re eating so good that we forget our faculties? Can we not have a thought and chew at the same time? I mean I actually think I’d have to poke my finger into my cheek to get a good bite out of the other side, but minus the finger it unexplainably still happens. “But how?” I ask.

These are serious questions of epidemic proportions. Perhaps there is a cannibalistic instinct inside of us, dormant but wishing to get out. It’s so embedded in us that we can’t explain it (“Why’d you do that?” “I don’t know.”). Might we start eating one another?


What I recommend, is after you bite yourself, have someone right away lock you in a room or closet until the fit of feeling how stupid you are is over (This usually happens when the pain ends.) and you’re not dangerous to anyone else anymore. Together we can lick this … if we don’t lick one another. Okay, good luck.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“Honey, you can let me out. I um … I think I’m okay now.” (Now I ask: Would you open a door to someone who calls you honey under these circumstances? Be vigilant.)


Roger McManus

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How old are you?

RogerandOutJournal log entry – Do you have a terrible time judging people’s ages? I see … a few of you who’ve been indicted for statutory rape have your hands up … but … anyone else? Does this ring true to anyone: when I look back to when I was in elementary school, I have to believe that my teachers were as old then as I am now, but I feel younger than what I, back then, thought them to be? Some, if I really consider it, I think were even several years junior to what I am now, and believe me, this took a lot of grinding and sawdust on my part, and smoke out my ears to see this. And it startled me.

Maybe another’s age is relative to what you are. Of course if you are ninety years old you call someone who is sixty a youngster, and if you are a kid, you call that same person grandpa. But my problem is when someone says, “How old do you think she is?” and I’m not too sure, and in all honesty, I’m afraid of getting hit by the woman if I open my mouth. I tell you, I tend to be shocked, when I discover the age of someone who is as old as me, but who I’ve always believed older (To be more precise, what actually happens is I mumble, “Damn” as my body collapses, and I quickly excuse myself, saying, “I need to go to the bathroom.” and find a mirror to hopefully put my fears to bed.).

Do I not look as old as they do? Maybe it’s a height thing. If I were six feet tall, maybe then I’d feel I looked older. The population is shrinking. Maybe that’s what confounds me. It’s a good thing I’m not a police officer. You can’t believe how many times I would have pulled a driver over and been wrong in asking if their mommy or daddy knew they were out, while checking their safety belt and booster seat. I mean, there has to be some sort of system to figure out ages. How about if I believe someone is too young and add ten years to what I think they are? Then I’ll probably be right or in the ballpark. If I think someone looks old, subtract ten. I honestly believe this might help me … and some women might love me for it … some men too … I guess. You see, people either look too young to me, or too old. I can’t seem to find anyone who looks their age. But you know, it’s the twenty year olds that look too young, almost adolescent, and the forty and fifty years old that seem decades on the other side of retirement. Where are the thirty-somethings? They’re the new forties. Granted there are the exceptions, like those twenty year olds that look like thirty-somethings, but no matter how I turn and twist it, I just can’t find people who look their age. And what goes on in the middle is what I want to know. How do people look too young, but then look too old? They never seem to meet their true age, but are suddenly older. Stress, booze, cigarettes … are they to blame like time warps that have been set to express and miss all the local stops?

Now here is a strange thing about it, and I don’t know if it is the knowing, which tells my mind to believe it, or some psychological mumbo jumbo to help me deny that I’m getting older myself, but people I have known through many years tend to remain in a bubble separated from the rest of humanity. They don’t look older than what they are … with a few exceptions. Holy sugar, I think it was a five year reunion after high school and this one guy came back looking like a stogie-eating dick, who can’t pay his bills and has been through five wives, out of an old detective movie. He wasn’t sick or anything, but I definitely believe he did the stress, booze, and cigarette thing. He’d gone on to Wall Street instead of college. “Ah…” Some of you brokers are acknowledging that.

But maybe it’s an attitude thing, how one carries himself. I know a kindergartner who I have to keep telling myself is not a midget collecting on a pension. He’s right in your face, or rather your knee cap, telling you what is what, and not afraid to do it.

How about provocative dress? How about that? Oh … yes, I see the same fellas from before with their hands up again … right. Well provocative dress does make the younger girls look older … and the older girls look … well … ancient. Sorry, but it only seems to work in that direction.

And how about this: People used to die normally at the age of forty, now the life expectancy is closer to seventy five and eighty. Maybe some people haven’t been filled in on the last two hundred years … now that’s something to be said for history classes. You see, those middle-agers, who don’t know, have subconsciously let rigor-mortis set in prematurely.

Then of course you have those who believe in the motto: Live large and die young, and leave a good looking corpse … but the problem is they’ve forgotten to die, and more or less now mirror the resident of an exhumed sarcophagus. (Note: This might be related to the recent fascination with Zombies.)

I can go on and on and not really have a definitive explanation. Maybe it all does depend on me … but not because of how old my eyes get … but maybe because of how young at heart I am … or then again … maybe because of both. Or maybe it’s because of how hard people hit the world and how hard the world hits them back. See … I just don’t have the explanation … and perhaps … that’s because there is no one explanation … but many.

What about Botox?

No … no, that’s not an explanation at all. It doesn’t make you look older or younger. It just makes you look lumpy.

 Signing off,

Roger and out

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Snack Attack

FrompartsunknownWhat is it with food in the house? I’m not talking about your cereal or eggs for breakfast, or your sandwich lunch, or even your chicken and potatoes for dinner. I’m talking about everything else in between that’s never seen a green leaf … but has been in cahoots if not in bed with at least one number-coded color. I’m talking snacks. Derogatorily referred to as junk food by coreljunkfoodsome, and wooed over like a star-crossed lover by others, and, note: these “others” are not totally exclusive from the previously mentioned “some” … and don’t deny it. We may know it’s junk … but we love it.

I try to eat right. I do. But do snacks talk to you? I mean I think they have to. Or else, why are we drawn to them like an addiction? Now I say this, because if I don’t have it in the house … I really don’t miss it. But if it’s there … I’ve got to have it … or I have a hard time telling myself I don’t … but … am I telling myself? That’s the question.

What exactly does processed mean? You might have your mind blown by this, but the most technologically advanced industry is not computers … it’s food. The food industry makes all others look stupid. Let me place a bug in your ear … “Nanotechnology.” You thought I was going to say, “G.M.O.” Didn’t you? Genetically Modified Organisms … well I’ll leave that one on the back burner, because this is far more detrimental. How can I put it simply? corelnanobotThere are Nanobots in our food, to be more precise, in our junk food. There’s heavy competition between what should be eaten, and what are edible but should not be, and those responsible for the “nots” have taken it personally. I mean wouldn’t you if you were called junk, or whatever you made was called junk? In a sort of revenge, the greatest geniuses have been paid well by this seedy conglomerate to produce these nanobugs which have been previously only assigned to cigarettes.

Little robots on an atomic level, talking to one another, have invaded our bodies. Like a whistle only a dog can hear, because of its pitch, these minute mechanical demons talk to us on a subconscious level. They’ve remotely hacked into out brain. If you’ve got them in the cabinet, they’re constantly bombarding you with messages such as “Eat me” and “You want me” and “You can’t live without me.” (These little buggers have also shown up in pieces of art … but only those classified as modern).That’s why when they’re not in the house, we are less compelled to desire them. But that’s not to say that there isn’t a smidgeon of desire for something not there. We do have it. It’s just far worse when they are there. But that smidgeon of desire that is there when there is nothing in the cupboard, why is it there? It’s there, because whatever it is that you want … you’ve had it before. You’ve been corrupted. They’ve opened a shop inside you. You eat a corn chip, a chocolate bar, a marshmallow treat, and they’re inside. They’ve already hooked up their little radar systems, doing their behind-enemy-lines communications with their partners in crime on the shelves.

What? You’re saying this is all bunk?

How about this? Nanobots left too longradiator outside a living organism tend to overheat. The reason why food goes stale and gets hard is because the nanobots have taken the liquid from it for their little radiators.

Of further note, a sure sign of a leaky nanobot’s battery is mold and fungus. That piece of something or other left too long, you know what I mean. You’d have eaten it already if the nanobot hadn’t been faulty … leaky battery equals mold and fungus. … Huh?

I know; it fits like a glove and makes horrible sense. And what about this? When you have a migraine, do you feel like eating? … No, you don’t. And why not?  … Static, that’s why. Their signals are disrupted and can’t get through. I could go into further detail, but do we have the time? What to do?

Well don’t wait 45 minutes after eating to go swimming. Those who told you that are in on it. The nanobots have to adapt to the pressure inside you first. If you add the water pressure around you quickly enough, they just can’t compensate completely in such short a time for both. They’ll implode. This is usually expressed in two forms of air release.

What? Do I have to paint a picture for you or do you like a potty mouth?

Chew well, and oh yes … eat lots of fiber … fiber optics that is. This gets back to genetically modified organisms … otherwise known as organics. You say, “No, corelveggiecorelfiberopticthey’re different.” It’s been a long process, but tell a lie long enough and it becomes the truth, or what they want you to believe.

Listen. Organics are loaded with fiber optics to clean out your system. In other words, by eating your vegetables you’ve put out a contract on the head of every nanobot inside you. Sure signs of your involvement in this take down are the previously mentioned two forms of air release. … Okay?

I know it sounds terrible, but there is a lesser of these two evils, corellimabeansthe organics at least haven’t devised an instrument to brainwash you like the junksters. And how can I be sure of that you ask. Well … no one is getting fat on lima beans … nuff said.

Now, without question it’s a mouthful … but good health is a war. Believe me. Anyone who wants it knows it. So from here on out, I’m wishing you good luck … and remember … chew well.

Roger McManus

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The Answer?

ThinkthoughtListen to this conversation:

“Do you like breakfast, Mr. ———?”

“I’m glad you asked, and I want to thank you for giving me this time to answer that question. We have to eat, obviously, and I like that sun coming up in the morning. I mean when you think of it, when we have breakfast, in other parts of the world they’re having lunch or dinner. So a meal is only what it is because of what time of day it takes place, which is directly related to what part of the world you find yourself in at that time. With that being said, we are what we eat, and I’d hate to start a day off cranky. I mean I really agree with what’s been said, and to say otherwise, I’m not going to say I don’t agree or do. Many people love that which may be, and I’m all … all for them exercising that right.”

“Okay. And how about you, John, do you like breakfast?”

“… Yes, I do.”

(If a particular occupation has popped into your head while reading this … isn’t that food for thought?)

Roger McManus

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Good Posture

RogerandOutJournal log entry – Good posture creeps away from me like a ghost. Now good-posturethere’s a winning argument for books over e-books. It would be a very expensive lesson in posture with all those Nooks and Kindles falling off of one’s head and smashing onto the floor … but then again, I could see: “The new Nook and Kindle, they give you light in the night and no glare during the day, and now with added straps and a level app to help with your posture too.” Could be … who knows?

But what’s my problem? Am I lazy? I try not to be. I have theories which have forced this habitual battle for a straight back. I mean I don’t have a hump. I just like to lean forward. When I was younger, a kid, I remember this bully in the neighborhood, and he strutted with his chest thrown out and his shoulders back like your stereotypical cartoon character who is going to pummel someone. His name was Paul. I just remember how stupid Paul looked, and traumatized by how stupid Paul looked, I made a mental note, with permanent marker I guess, that I wasn’t going to look stupid like Paul if I could help it. I honestly to this day am conscious of that, and I believe it has hindered me and my posture. Am I bitter that Paul ruined my posture?!!!

Not how a bully usually traumatizes people, I know.

Now I’m not tall at five feet seven inches, but I feel like things are low. Anybody else? Or am I just imagining that? If I’m sitting completely up and the visor is down in the car, visorbecause of the sun, I can’t see the road. I have to lean forward. Some might say, “Recline the seat back.” But that puts me at arms-length from the steering wheel. I like to be close to things, and having my arms straight out like that will have me looking like Frankenstein’s monster. I want to look relaxed, not uptight. Too many people are stressed and uptight, maybe that’s who the car companies cater to.

When I’m washing dishes I feel like the faucet is not high enough, so I bend. Wait, a thought came to me: Dishes perhaps too heavy, try paper. That’s terrible, maybe I am lazy.

If the sink was higher I could rest my elbows when I washed the dishes. Note to myself: Damn, you are lazy.

Oh stop that. I am not. Next.

I don’t care to brag about myself (as if I had something to brag about), and so when I’m walking about, I don’t want to send out a signal that says, “Look at me.” either. But I have this impression that if I lean back, that’s what I’ll be saying. Note: Is that because good posture in itself is attractive, and Quasimodo might have won the girl if he’d only straightened up? Huh … go figure. Well, I don’t want to come across as ugly, even with people not looking at me. But what am I to do?

I mean I start out with good intentions, just like now, when I originally sat to write this post, I was aware of keeping my back vertical, but as I’m typing the word “vertical,” I realize that I’m not. It seems that I have to make a conscious effort to keep a good posture, and so when I get too engrossed in something else other than that, my body forgets. Maybe the cure to my problem is to make the rest of my life really, really … boring. That way I have no distractions. But can I walk and chew gum at the same time? Yes, I can. So, can I walk and keep a good posture? I don’t know how to answer that without lying. It’s something of a mish-mash. I’m up. I’m down. I’m up. I’m down, like a very slow bout with the hiccoughs, remembering, forgetting, remembering, forgetting …


There … sorry.


Oh bother … I meant: but to myself.

A final note: Being “Laid back” is relaxed, so back is not slouching forward, which means there must be a lack of uptightness somewhere at ninety degrees from earth … and if so … then that is my mission … my quest … to find it … and to also try and do it while I’m trying to keep my back straight. Oh Lord, if it could only be as easy as walking and chewing gum. Wait, I’ve got it.

“Roger, imagine your back is chewing gum, and you’re stretching it up to the sun.” Did you ever have an exercise class where they told you things like that? … I did.

… What? You think it’s that hopeless, do you?


Signing off,

Roger and out

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