Make Fun Of Life! - Essays

A Definition of Man

10/5/2018

A Definition of Man

Man is a self-balancing, 28-jointed adapter-base biped, and electro-chemical reduction plant, integral with the segregated stowages of special energy extracts in storage batteries, for subsequent activation of thousands of hydraulic and pneumatic pumps, with motors attached; 62,000 miles of capillaries, millions of warning signal, railroad and conveyor systems, crushers and cranes, and a universally distributed telephone system needing no service for seventy years if well managed, the whole extraordinary complex mechanism guided with exquisite precision from a turret in which are located telescopic and microscopic self-registering and recording range-finders, a spectroscope, etc. . . . the turret control being closely allied with an air-conditioning intake and exhaust, and a main fuel intake.

by R. Buckminster Fuller

Richard Buckminster ‘Bucky’ Fuller was born in 1895. He was an American architect, a designer, an inventor, a philosopher, a futurist, a writer of more than 30 books, and a poet. He popularized the geodesic dome. The carbon molecules known as ‘fullerenes’ were named by scientists in his honor for their resemblance to geodesic spheres. Richard Buckminster ‘Bucky’ Fuller passed on in 1983.

Big Mud Puddles and Sunny Yellow Dandelions

9/28/2018

Big Mud Puddles and Sunny Yellow Dandelions

When I look at a patch of dandelions, I see a bunch of weeds that are going to take over my yard. My kids see flowers for Mom and blowing white stuff you can wish on.

When I look at an old drunk and he smiles at me, I see a smelly, dirty person who probably wants money, and I look away. My kids see someone smiling at them and they smile back.

When I hear music I love, I know I can’t carry a tune and I don’t have much rhythm so I sit self-consciously and listen. My kids feel the beat and move to it. They sing out the words. If they don’t know them, they make up their own.

When I feel wind on my face, I brace myself against it. I feel it messing up my hair and pulling me back when I walk. My kids close their eyes, spread their arms, and fly with it, until they fall to the ground laughing.

When I pray, I say thee and thou and grant me this, give me that. My kids say, “Hi, God! Thanks for my toys and my friends. Please keep the bad dreams away tonight. Sorry, I don’t want to go to Heaven yet. I would miss my Mommy and Daddy.”

When I see a mud puddle, I step around it. I see muddy shoes and dirty carpets. My kids sit in it. They see dams to build, rivers to cross, and worms to play with.

I wonder if we are given kids to teach or to learn from? No wonder God loves the little children!

Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things. I wish you ‘Big Mud Puddles and Sunny Yellow Dandelions’!

by Author Unknown

If I Had My Life to Live Over

9/27/2018

If I Had My Life to Live Over

I would have talked less and listened more. I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained, or the sofa faded.

I would have eaten the popcorn in the ‘good’ living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.

I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.

I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.

I would have burned the pink candle sculptured like a rose before it melted in storage.

I would have sat on the lawn with my children and not worried about grass stains.

I would have cried and laughed less while watching television - and more while watching life.

I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren’t there for the day.

I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, wouldn’t show soil, or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.

Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I’d have cherished every moment and realized that the wonderment growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.

When my kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have said, “Later. Now go get washed up for dinner.”

There would have been more “I love you’s.” More “I’m sorry’s” . . . but mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute . . . look at it and really see it . . . live it . . . and never give it back.

Stop sweating the small stuff. Don’t worry about who doesn’t like you, who has more, or who’s doing what. Let’s think about what God has blessed us with.

And what we are doing each day to promote ourselves mentally, physically, emotionally, as well as spiritually. Life is too short to let it pass you by.

We only have one shot at this and then it’s gone.

I hope you all have a blessed day.

by Erma Bombeck

The essay may have been inspired by a 1953 work by Don Herold (1889 - 1966), titled, “I’d Pick More Daisies,” which in turn may have been inspired by an essay by Jorge Luis Borges (1899 - 1986), titled “Moments.” A similar and more recent essay, also titled “If I Had My Life to Live Over,” was written by Nadine Stair. All of the essays were written in answer to the question, “What would I do differently if I had my life to live over?”

Erma Louise Bombeck was born 21 February 1927 in Bellbrook, Ohio, United States of America. She became the beloved American humorist whose newspaper column, “At Wit’s End” grew to such popularity that it became nationally syndicated in 1965, and eventually became a regular feature in 800 different newspapers. From 1965 to 1996, she wrote more than 4,000 newspaper columns. Erma Louise Bombeck passed on at 69 years of age on 22 April 1996 in San Francisco, California, United States of America. Her 15 published books are available from your favorite booksellers.

Where Do Missing Socks Go?

9/26/2018

Where Do Missing Socks Go?

In this critical piece of investigative reporting, we will explore a serious issue: Where do missing socks go? Can they find their way home?

It has happened to everyone. You do a load of laundry. You wash and then dry. When you go to fold the laundry, you no longer have a pair of socks. You just have one lonesome sock. Where did its partner go? You look everywhere. You retrace your steps. You go back to the washer, back to the dryer, scope out the floors, look in the laundry basket - but no sock. Where did it go?

This can be a desperate situation. Studies have shown that if the missing sock does not reappear within the first 31 hours, your chances of finding that sock decrease by 90 percent. Okay, we just made that up, but whatever. You probably are not going to find that sock. Let us attempt to solve this mystery.

The first 31 hours are critical. The best strategy in a crisis situation such as this one is to think like a sock. Imagine to yourself, “If I were a sock, where would I go?” Would you go behind the dryer, or would you get stuck in the sleeve of a sweatshirt? Maybe. But what if your sock is a rebel? Maybe your sock was tired of being part of a pair. Maybe your sock had bigger dreams. Perhaps the other twin sock was hampering that sock’s personal development. Maybe your missing sock had an opportunity to leave and took that opportunity!

You must consider the possibility that your sock is now living the good life elsewhere. Yes, your sock is famous now. Your sock is part of the local sock puppet theater! It happens all the time. Your renegade sock was tired of being confined to the sock drawer or being put on your foot. Would you want to do that? Imagine being worn on a foot all day! Imagine being forced into uncomfortable shoes all the time! What kind of life is that? Can you blame your beloved sock for leaving you and the other sock? Of course not! That sock is living a dream now!

The bottom line is, if you do not find that sock within that thirty-one hour window, your chances are slim to none that you are bringing it back. Once that sock has a taste of freedom, it is impossible to make that sock return to live such a humiliating and boring existence.

Other theories abound, of course. Not everyone buys into the rebel sock theory. Yes, there are always doubters when an incredible new idea emerges. Your friends, family, and neighbors, they will probably tell you not to give up. They will tell you encouraging phrases like, “Maybe that sock ended up wrapped in a set of sheets in the back of your linen closet. Maybe that sock is under the dryer. Maybe your pet grabbed a sock out of the basket and is using it as a chew toy.” The list can go on and on.

On 9 May of each year, we pause and reflect, as we observe Lost Sock Day, in honor of all the socks that have gone missing, and all the socks that have lost a sock buddy. Where, oh where did our little sock go? Will the world ever know how we miss our missing sock so?

by Author Unknown

If I Had My Life to Live Over

9/16/2018

If I Had My Life to Live Over

I’d like to make more mistakes next time. I’d relax. I’d limber up. I’d be sillier than I’ve been this trip. I’d take fewer things seriously. I’d take more chances. I’d climb more mountains and swim more rivers. I’d eat more ice cream, and less beans. I’d perhaps have more actual troubles, but fewer imaginary ones.

You see, I’m one of those people who live sensibly and sanely, hour after hour, day after day. Oh, I’ve had my moments, and if I had it to do over again, I’d have more of them. In fact, I’d try to have nothing else. Just moments, one after another, instead of living so many years ahead of each day. I’ve been one of those persons who never goes anywhere without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a raincoat, and a parachute. If I had to do again, I’d travel lighter.

If I had my life to live over, I would start barefoot earlier in the Spring and stay that way later in the Fall. I’d go to more dances. I’d ride more merry-go-rounds. I would pick more daisies.

by Nadine Stair

Nadine Stair purportedly wrote the above essay decades ago while she was 85 years of age and residing in Louisville, Kentucky, United States of America. Nothing else is presently known about the author. The essay appears to have been inspired by a 1953 work by Don Herold (1889 - 1966), titled, “I’d Pick More Daisies,” which in turn may have been inspired by an essay by Jorge Luis Borges (1899 - 1986), titled “Moments.” A similar and more recent essay, also titled “If I Had My Life to Live Over,” was written by Erma Louise Bombeck (1927 - 1996). All of the essays were written in answer to the question, “What would I do differently if I had my life to live over?”

Dark Suckers

9/12/2018

Dark Suckers

For years, it has been believed that electric bulbs emit light, but recent information has proved otherwise. Electric bulbs do not emit light; they suck dark. Thus, we call these bulbs Dark Suckers.

The Dark Sucker Theory and the existence of dark suckers prove that dark has mass, is heavier than light, and is faster than light.

First, the basis of the Dark Sucker Theory is that electric bulbs suck dark. For example, take the Dark Sucker in the room you are in. There is much less dark right next to it than there is elsewhere. The larger the Dark Sucker, the greater its capacity to suck dark. Dark Suckers in the parking lot have a much greater capacity to suck dark than the ones in your room.

As it is with all things, Dark Suckers do not last forever. Once they are full of dark, they can no longer suck. This is proven by the dark spot on a full Dark Sucker. A candle is a primitive Dark Sucker. A new candle has a white wick. You can see that after the first use, the wick turns black, representing all the dark that has been sucked into it. If you put a pencil next to the wick of an operating candle, it will turn black. This is because it got in the way of the dark flowing into the candle. One of the disadvantages of these primitive Dark Suckers is their limited range.

There are also portable Dark Suckers. In these, the bulbs cannot handle all the dark by themselves and must be aided by a Dark Storage Unit. When the Dark Storage Unit is full, it must be either emptied or replaced before the portable Dark Sucker can operate again.

Dark has mass. When dark goes into a Dark Sucker, friction from the mass generates heat. Thus, it is not wise to touch an operating Dark Sucker. Candles present a special problem as the mass must travel into a solid wick instead of through clear glass. This generates a great amount of heat and therefore it is not wise to touch an operating candle.

Also, dark is heavier than light. If you were to swim just below the surface of the lake, you would see a lot of light. If you were to swim slowly deeper and deeper, you would notice it getting darker and darker. When you get really deep, you would be in total darkness. This is because the heavier dark sinks to the bottom of the lake and the lighter light floats at the top. That is why it is called light.

Finally, we must prove that dark is faster than light. If you were to stand in a lit room in front of a closed, dark closet, and slowly opened the closet door, you would see the light slowly enter the closet. But since dark is so fast, you would not be able to see the dark leave the closet.

Next time you see an electric bulb, remember that it is really a Dark Sucker.

by Author Unknown

Joy in the Journey

8/20/2018

Joy in the Journey

If you have ever been discouraged because of failure, please read on. For often, achieving what you set out to do is not the important thing. Let me explain.

Two brothers decided to dig a deep hole behind their house. As they were working, a couple of older boys stopped by to watch. “What are you doing?” asked one of the visitors. “We plan to dig a hole all the way through the Earth!” one of the brothers volunteered excitedly.

The older boys began to laugh, telling the younger ones that digging a hole all the way through the Earth was impossible. After a long silence, one of the diggers picked up a jar full of spiders, worms, and a wide assortment of insects. He removed the lid and showed the wonderful contents to the scoffing visitors. Then he said quietly and confidently, “Even if we don’t dig all the way through the Earth, look what we found along the way!”

Their goal was far too ambitious, but it did cause them to dig. And that is what a goal is for - to cause us to move in the direction we have chosen; in other words, to set us to digging!

But not every goal will be fully achieved. Not every job will end successfully. Not every relationship will endure. Not every hope will come to pass. Not every love will last. Not every endeavor will be completed. Not every dream will be realized. But when you fall short of your aim, perhaps you can say, “Yes, but look at what I found along the way! Look at the wonderful things which have come into my life because I tried to do something!”

It is in the digging that life is lived. And I believe it is joy in the journey, in the end, that truly matters.

by Author Unknown

I Resign

8/6/2018

I Resign

I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult. I have decided I would like to accept the responsibilities of an eight-year-old again.

I want to go to a fast food restaurant and think that it’s a four star restaurant. I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle and make ripples with rocks. I want to think chocolate is better than money because you can eat it. I want to lie under a big oak tree and run a lemonade stand with my friends on a hot summer day.

I want to return to a time when life was simple. When all you knew were colors, multiplication tables, and nursery rhymes, but that didn’t bother you, because you didn’t know what you didn’t know and you didn’t care. All you knew was to be happy because you were blissfully unaware of all the things that should make you worried or upset.

I want to think the world is fair. That everyone is honest and good. I want to believe that anything is possible. I want to be oblivious to the complexities of life and be overly excited by the little things again. I want to live simple again.

I don’t want my day to consist of computer crashes, mountains of paperwork, depressing news, how to survive more days in the month than there is money in the bank, doctor bills, gossip, illness, and loss of loved ones.

I want to believe in the power of smiles, hugs, a kind word, truth, justice, peace, dreams, the imagination, mankind, and making angels in the snow.

So . . . here’s my checkbook, my car keys, my credit cards, and all of my responsibility. I am officially resigning from adulthood. And if you want to discuss this further, you’ll have to catch me first . . . ’cause, “Tag! - you’re it.”

by Author Unknown

To Be Young Again

8/5/2018

To Be Young Again

When we were kids . . . for those of you who lived as a child in the 1950’s or the 1960’s, or earlier . . . looking back, it’s hard to believe that we have lived as long as we have . . . As children, we would ride in cars with no seat belts or air bags. Riding in the back of a pickup truck on a warm day was always a special treat. Our baby cribs were covered with bright colored lead-based paint. We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors, or cabinets, and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets - not to mention hitchhiking to town as a youngster! We drank water from the garden hose and not from a bottle. Horrors! We would spend hours building our go-carts out of scraps and then rode down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem. We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on. No one was able to reach us all day. No cell phones. Unthinkable! We played dodge ball and sometimes the ball would really hurt. We got cut and broken bones and broken teeth and there were no lawsuits from these accidents. They were accidents. And no one was to blame but us. Remember accidents? We had fights and punched each other and got black-and-blue and learned to get over it. We ate cupcakes, bread and butter, and drank sugar soda, but we were never overweight . . . we were always outside playing. We shared one grape soda with four friends, from one bottle and no one died from this! We did not have video game devices, or any video games at all, 101 channels on cable, CD movies, surround sound, personal cellular phones, personal computers, internet chat rooms . . . we had friends. We went outside and found them. We rode bikes, or walked to a friend’s home and knocked on the door, or rung the bell, or just walked in and talked to them. Imagine such a thing. Without asking a parent! By ourselves! Out there in the cold cruel world! Without a guardian. How did we do it? We made up games with sticks and tennis balls and ate worms and although we were told it would happen, we did not put out very many eyes, nor did the worms live inside us forever. Little League had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn’t had to learn to deal with disappointment. Some students weren’t as smart as others so they failed a grade and were held back to repeat the same grade. Horrors! Tests were not adjusted for any reason. Our actions were our own, consequences were expected, no one to hide behind. The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke a law was unheard of - they actually sided with the law, imagine that! Our generations have produced some of the best risk-takers and problem-solvers and inventors, ever. The past fifty years has been an explosion of innovation and new ideas. We had freedom, failure, success, and responsibility . . . and we learned how to deal with it all. And you are one of them.

by Author Unknown

The Owl

2/24/2018

The Owl

The bird I am going to write about is an owl. I don’t know much about the owl so I am going to write about the bat. The cow is a mammal. It has six sides, right, left, an upper, and a lower. At the back it has a tail on which hangs the brush. With this it sends the flies away so they don’t get in the milk.

The head is for the purpose of growing horns and so that the mouth can be somewhere. The horns are to butt with and the mouth is to eat with. Under the cow hangs the milk. The milk comes and there is never an end to the supply. How the cow does it I have not yet realized but it can make more and more.

The cow has a fine sense of smell and you can smell it far away. This is the reason for the fresh air in the country. The man cow is called an ox. It is not a mammal.

The cow does not eat much but what it eats it eats twice so that it gets enough. When it’s hungry it moos and when it says nothing it’s because its inside is full up.

The End

by Author Unknown: attributed to a fifth-grade schoolgirl in New England, United States of America

The Milky Way

2/23/2018

The Milky Way

One summer night, out on a flat headland, all but surrounded by the waters of the bay, the horizons were remote and distant rims on the edge of space. Millions of stars blazed in darkness . . . My companion and I were alone with the stars: the misty river of the Milky Way flowing across the sky, the patterns of the constellations standing out bright and clear, a blazing planet low on the horizon. It occurred to me that if this were a sight that could be seen only once in a century, this little headland would be thronged with spectators. But it can be seen many scores of nights in any year, and so . . . the inhabitants probably gave not a thought to the beauty overhead; and because they could see it almost any night, perhaps they never will.

by Rachel Carson

Rachel Louise Carson was born on 27 May 1907 in Springdale, Pennsylvania, United States of America. She became a marine biologist and a writer. She is known for her books “The Sea Around Us” (1951), “The Edge of the Sea” (1955), and “Silent Spring” (1962). Rachel Louise Carson passed on at 56 years of age on 14 April 1964 in Silver Spring, Maryland, United States of America.

In Defense of the Dandelion

2/22/2018

In Defense of the Dandelion

Spring has arrived and so have the dandelions. Here by the porch, there by the drive, everywhere. For years I struggled to get rid of them. One summer I wore out a pair of leather gloves digging them up. Another summer our dog Fred almost died from drinking the weed killer I mixed in the garage.

I’m older now and have learned better. I just sit on the porch and leave the dandelions alone. In fact, we have grown fond of one another.

I have decided that the real American Beauty isn’t the rose but the dandelion. The common dandelion is not a native American. Like most of our ancestors, it didn’t travel first class, and there is no record of its arrival on our shores. All we know is that it seems to have come from Europe, and like those ‘huddled masses’ who sought a better life in a newer world, the dandelion put down roots and thrived.

Grateful for the opportunity to settle, it was content to make wayside and wasteland bloom. Unlike the cultivated rose, the dandelion is, in its stem of stems, a Populist. It generally prefers hard homesteading on barren ground to pampered living in potting soil. The dandelion smiles just as brightly amid backyard tenement clutter as it does beneath the boxwood border of an English garden. In contrast to the formal rose, which makes a sticking point of ceremony and can be prickly with those who do not show proper deference, the dandelion is friendly. It even enjoys the company of children as they weave it into garlands.

The dandelion lives a clean and simple life. It opens and blooms at sunrise and, closing up tightly, goes to bed at sunset. It keeps healthy and respectable hours because it is a family flower. One hundred to two hundred florets compose its yellow blossom. As the florets mature and are finally pollinated, the dandelion’s stem lengthens. Sacrificing its position in the world, the dandelion now lives for its children, closing one last time until the florets have grown into seeds and are ready to leave home. Then the gray globe expands so the seeds can catch a breeze and start out well in life.

No other flower embodies the American spirit as well as the dandelion. When the going gets tough, pansies and petunias wilt. Neither the strong winds nor heavy rains can break the dandelion. When the petals of the dogwood blossoms are scattered and the peony is beaten to the ground, the dandelion still holds its head up bravely.

Unlike the southern Magnolia or sagebrush, the dandelion is not tied to a particular region of the country. It is truly a National flower. Moreover, it is a flower for all months and all climates; from January to December, the dandelion blossoms somewhere. It may be found in Arizona under the shadow of the saguaro cactus, in Florida’s orange groves, or on a ledge in Colorado’s mountains.

Such a flower is a bright sign of hope, and when winter comes and days and nights seem black, remember that somewhere in America, the dandelion is blooming.

-Samuel Pickering, Junior

Samuel F. ‘Sam’ Pickering, Junior was born on 30 September 1941 in Nashville, Tennessee, United States of America. He is a professor emeritus of English at the University of Connecticut in Storrs and a writer of essays and articles.

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