Cataclysmic Perverters



My friend KK (please note the words on her T-shirt...and then those on Grahame's corresponding T-shirt.  :o)

My dear friend Grahame lives with his wife KK in New South Wales, which isn’t in (or even near) Wales—which is in Great Britain. No, New South Wales is in eastern Australia. Go figure!

Grahame drives a Mercedes Benz “E 430”; affectionately referred to as a “Benz” for those of us who are lazy typists.

To help some of you place my friend--G is the mate who sent me the bumper sticker that’s in my truck’s rear window, which many locals have commented on over the years. That bumper sticker says “Real Men Like Cats” and EVERYONE has asked who the “real man” is, or why such a bumper sticker is in the window of a WOMAN’S truck, or why in the world I like (or why the man referred to likes) cats! I never would have believed that one small bumper sticker could raise so many questions or start so many conversations--but I’ve enjoyed telling folks about my wonderful friend. (I wanted G to put a bumper sticker in his Benz window that said “Real Women Drive John Deeres” but--according to him—the Australian government won’t honor a Mercedes Benz warranty if the vehicle is festooned with bumper stickers. Can you imagine that?? It (almost) defies belief, huh?)

Grahame's 'other' Benz.  Note the sticker on the bumper... Hmmmm.... :o)

Anyway, Grahame’s Benz recently underwent an inspection and his mechanic informed him that the car needed catalytic converters. The rig has a dual exhaust system, so two converters were required for the job. G was quoted an astronomical price for the parts…upwards of $1,200.00 to $1,400.00 apiece.

Per.

Each.

Ouch...

Being a frugal Yank, I took immediate umbrage at such 'highway' robbery and suggested he look into after-market parts, thinking he might be able to get a better price for ‘off brand’ catalytic converters. Ever industrious (and conscientiously saving money for a trip to Africa) Grahame did precisely that. He emailed me saying he’d found the parts he needed online…for only $115.00 each. That immediately raised my suspicions. I was sure he could find the parts for less-- but at less than 10% of the price he’d been quoted? It didn’t make sense to me, and I had visions of car theft rings and stolen auto parts. But Grahame, safely tucked away in Oz, wasn’t worried about such things. He ordered the converters.

This amazing company also offered free shipping–but only inside the U.S.–so G asked me if he could have the Benz exhaust parts sent here to The F.A.R.M. so that I could mail them on to him. Of course, I said “Sure.”

And of course… there were delays.

It always makes me nervous when a company claiming to be American is staffed by operators who don’t speak coherent English. Don't get me wrong...I love the North Dakotan accent, ay? And an “all y’all” from Alabama brings a smile. But the woman who called me to explain the delay in shipping my friend’s exhaust system was barely comprehensible. It took me several “what?”s before I figured out that the company was replacing “Gruh-hay-mee’s corpulistic combustors” with a different brand of cataclysmic perverters. But! I was assured (I think) that they would fit his Benz every bit as well as those he’d originally ordered!

This same woman called Grahame in New South Wales. He couldn’t understand her any better than I could. And...he called me to compare notes and to laugh at the incomprehensible way the operator pronounced “catalytic convertors”.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t home when he called and my daughter Josie answered the phone. According to her… she could have listened to Grahame talk ALL DAY because his accent was so dreamy. But, as cool as his accent was…she couldn’t understand a word HE said.

“Mama, one of your Australian friends called,” she told me when I arrived home.

“Excellent! Who was it?”

“I dunno… Peter Daily? Donovan? I dunno….”

“Peter WHO? I know two Peters in Australia—but those aren’t their last names. Not even close. Did he leave his phone number?”

“No, I gave him your cell phone number and he said he’d try to reach you on that.”

I was very disappointed. And confused. Disappointed because I leave my cell phone off while at work, so I wouldn’t have been able to receive his call--and confused because I didn’t know who ‘he’ was! As much as I would LOVE to receive a call from either of ‘my’ two Peters, I couldn’t imagine what would prompt them to telephone me out of the blue.

The puzzle was solved when Grahame called again later that evening. We got a chuckle out of the fact that he and I couldn’t understand (and were irritated at) the strong accent of the Asian woman who called us about his catatonic diverters —but Josie had a difficult time simply understanding G’s name. And yet—my daughter “could have listened to him all day”.

Despite moments of doubt, the canonistic contenders safely made the journey from Maine to Oz. And contrary to my assumptions (which were based on past history) Australian Customs didn’t open the boxes, irradiate them, blow them up or forward them to Ali g with terse notes outlining proper procedure for accepting foreign mail. They just… sent them on their way to New South Wales. I guess I softened them up with the contraband potatoes, the Bakewell Cream that looked suspiciously like white powder, and the cell phone with two bullet holes in it.

Australian-born Grahame received the catalytic, catatonic and cataclysmic parts for his German car, shipped from the U.S. but sold by someone with a strong Asian accent. And regardless of my doubts, his mechanic said they were top-notch. They weren’t made out of tin foil, and they appeared to be new, with no hint that a cutting torch has ever touched them. Grahame was able to keep most of his pennies in his wombat bank and now his Benz doesn’t sound like a John Deere.

All is well in Oz.

Grahame with the 2 catatonic combustors I mailed all the way from Maine. 
(Please note the wording on his T-shirt, which corresponds with KK's in the above photo!)

"The Dreams Stuff is Made Of"...

Where else but on Grumbles and Grins can one find men and women of integrity? Oh, I know... there are a few blogs which might be as graced as GAG. But I lay claim to a monopoly of the coolest of all 'followers' and visitors.

In my last post, I apologized for starting a contest, and then--for completely forgetting about it. It is the mark of a terrible hostess, for sure. I pronounced my friend Crookedpaw the winner--the choice being easy, as the bloke was the only entrant. I promised to mail his prize; consisting of a quart of Maine maple syrup and an autographed copy of Grumble Bluff, post haste. (Punny, huh? "Post" haste. "Mail". Get it?)

Oh, brother. Never mind...

So, that was yesterday. TODAY, I arrived home to find this:

That's right. The quart of maple syrup which I've had for a month--a month during which no one felt the need to touch it--had been opened, and sampled. Used. Poured over French Toast and bacon.

It's not like there were no other options. There were two already-opened plastic containers of syrup in the fridge. One from sap boiled down in neighboring Embden, and one from the maple trees of Strong, a town approximately 40 minutes away. It was local syrup, yes. But it was syrup which was sold commercially. I'd wanted to gift my friend with the product of our own trees, right here in Lexington Township. I wanted to give him some 'marple sarple' made--not to sell--but to be enjoyed by our family and friends.

So, I was grouchy. Slightly grouchy, but in a loudish kind of way.

"Great!" I said to no-one in particular, and everyone within earshot. "Now I've gotta go hit up Cousin Jimmy for another quart!"

Less than ten minutes later, I came upstairs and sat at my computer. I opened my email account. And, lo and behold, there was a note from my pal Crookedpaw, telling me that he couldn't accept the prize. That to do so wouldn't 'sit comfortably' with him. That I should SAVE THE SYRUP (now known as an impossibility) until he wins the next contest fairly and squarely.

Or something like that.

:o)

I lucked out. I've been let off the hook. I won't have to go down the road to Cousin Jimmy's, hat in hand, and ask for more syrup. I won't have to endure another quarantine of my packages as Aussie Customs tries to determine if the jar contains whiskey or some other type of contraband. Heh...

CP, you're a prince. You DID deserve the prize, but I'll graciously say 'thank you' and keep (what remains of) my syrup here in Maine.

For the time being, anyway.

Thanks, sport.

Can you hear me now?

The cell phone had to die.

Upon arriving in New York from Australia, my friend Larry realized that his Aussie cell phone wasn’t compatible with America’s transmission towers, so he purchased a new one for his month-long stay. Then he flew to Maine.

Poor Larry. In the first place, he was visiting the western mountains of this state. Mountains and cellular telephones do not equate to a marriage made in Heaven. My friend Larry spent half of his time emulating the television actor who made famous the question: “Can you hear me now?” The other half, he spent marching from hilltop to rise to boulder to anthill, trying to find spots where he could get a strong enough signal to make or receive calls. His frustration was somewhat amusing to watch, but his running commentary was hilarious.

“It’s like a third world country, here!”

“This is a gawd***ed piece of s***.”

“Is your 'mobile' a Verizon? They’re f***ing useless!”

And when he wasn’t ragging about the reception or the poor customer service from the company, he was lamenting the fact that he’d been promised he could make overseas calls from his phone—but he couldn’t. Not in actuality. His idea of ‘overseas’ included friends in Australia, Switzerland and Thailand. Verizon’s notion of ‘overseas’ included Guam and Puerto Rico and Canada. Hehehehe… I’m sorry. But that’s too funny, and I had to apologize to Larry for snickering at him, too.

Seriously, though… since when has Canada been considered ‘overseas’?

My friend blamed Verizon for the fact that he couldn’t reach his friends in Switzerland, so I offered to let him make the call from my land line. He checked the number programmed into his cell and then dialed it on my office telephone.

Nothing. Just a recording telling him ‘this call cannot be completed as dialed’. Gawd***ed piece of s***…

I simply had to intervene. I knew that Switzerland was still a viable country, and that it had to be possible for him to call his friends.
My country’s honor was at stake! If he could call them from Oz, then he could CERTAINLY call them from the United States!
I checked his number and dialed. No luck. I called an international operator.
Aha! Larry had programmed the numbers wrong when copying them from his Aussie phone to his new, ‘Yank’ cellular! Smugly, I dialed and handed him the receiver. It was obvious, the man needed a woman in order to make it in this particular third world country…

Regardless of the fact that he had programmed his numbers wrong, the cell phone was still a piece of odious offal. It was just one step above being completely and totally useless. And it became the running joke. The symbol of all that is wrong with this country, and with progress and technology and even--I think-- religion! For every time he used the ’bloody’ thing, he called upon the Lord. His words were so “holy”, in fact, that I dare not repeat them!

We decided that the only cure for his “cellulitis” was death. The “mobile” had to die.

But how to wreak vengeance? I considered dropping it off the Onawa Trestle, to be smashed upon the rocks 156 feet below. But, that would have been littering, and there could have been contamination from the battery, besides. So, I suggested the next idea to pop into my head. We should SHOOT it!

Larry liked that idea. He chuckled, nodded sagely, and said, “All right.”

But he needed the phone (just in case it worked) until he was ready to fly home, so we decided that I would be in charge of administering the coup de grace. But! Larry is a frugal sort, and he made me promise to use up the remaining prepaid minutes on the phone (as if I could actually CALL anyone on the bloody thing!) before taking it out to the practice range.

We discussed weaponry.

“What should I use?” I asked.

“What have you got?” he lobbed back.

Well, I don’t have a whole lot, but I DO have a family spread across the state. Surely we could come up with something that would deliver a satisfactory result!

“A .357 Magnum?”

His brow furrowed.

“A twenty-two?”

He shook his head. Not enough bang for the buck.

“A forty-four?”

His eyes lit up. Now THAT would make an impression! Larry liked that idea, and his friend Dave concurred. A forty-four it would be.

And so, we had a plan. I would take possession of the cell phone and put it out of its misery-- after Larry departed and after using up the remaining $25.00 worth of pre-paid time.

Larry left.

I used the phone to make a few calls.

And then… the .44 I intended to use wasn’t available, so I had to improvise. I decided to use a World War One era Luger 9mm semi-automatic. I thought it was only fitting to pit a 100 year old tool against a modern, technologically advanced one.



The antique won.

And now, I am going to ship the cell phone back to Larry as a souvenir of his stay in this ‘third world country‘. Of course, there is the small matter of Australian Customs. For those of you who follow this blog, you’ll know that I caught heck from them once before, when I tried to send my friend Ali g some Maine potatoes. The offending spuds were ‘confiscated and destroyed’ and I suffered no small embarrassment when my Aussie friend received a notice from Customs informing him of the termination of my home-grown potatoes.

Mr. Grumbles has insisted that I contact Australian Customs and request permission to mail the telephone to Oz. He thought I might be considered a ‘person of interest’ if I simply mailed a phone with two bullet holes in it across international borders. I argued a bit. After all, what danger do I pose? I’m one of the sweetest, most law-abiding women I know! And what danger is there in a hole? The battery is sitting here on my desk, ready to be used in my own phone if needed, and disposed of properly when my cell has lived out its useful life. There is nothing ominous about this cell phone. If anything, it’s a cause for laughter-- at least, to Larry and me, it is.

But I conceded to my husband’s wisdom and worry, and I’ve emailed the Customs office in Sydney, explaining the situation and asking for their guidance. I’m sure I’ll hear back from those valiant officers once the morning shift comes on duty.

In the meantime, here it sits; a device designed to make life easier, but which caused my Aussie endless irritation. In the beginning, that is. After he’d cussed it out and vented his frustration, and once I began to tease him about it, it became a source of amusement and of bonding.

I don’t have Larry anymore, but I have some wonderful memories of laughter and tall tales and shared experiences. He’s off traveling in Europe and Asia, and I can’t even call him to tell him I’ve kept my word. I used up his precious pre-paid minutes, and I’ve put his cell phone out of its (and his) misery. I hope that when he arrives home in Australia, his souvenir from Maine will be waiting for him at the post office. And then, I hope he’ll call me on his Aussie cell phone.

I’m just dying to hear him say, “Can you hear me now?”

Creative Cusses Contest

I love a good contest. I even love a horribly unfair contest! Witness how I was soundly trounced through unapologetic neoptism on Tony Park's blog last August! Ali g's entries were somewhat pathetic. Crooked Paw's were inventive... but a bit too cerebral for his own good. Dozy's were cute. Trin's... well. That girl has an attitude, and she is soooo competitive!

My entries were astounding. Hilarious. Top shelf. I cracked myself up!

But I lost to Ali g. What a load of BALONEY!

Hehehe... aw, I was happy that my good friend Ali g won. But it was obvious that TP was scared of me. My greatness intimidated him. He'd never imagined a Yank could be so sharp! Well, I guess he knows NOW!!!

Anyhoo, he instructed his ethical assistant to decide the winner (or so he said) and that winner just happened to be... Ali g. Can you imagine?? Pfft.

A star was born; for Ali g went on to win the next two contests he entered on GAG. And amazingly... TP had nothing to do with it. One was a random draw, and the other winner was chosen by my friend and neighbor--and she doesn't even READ my blog! (Did I say she was a friend? Hmmph!)

But I digress. What I'm here to announce is a new contest. The Creative Cusses Contest. We need to keep this site clean. After all, I have a reputation to live down... I mean, UPHOLD! I am the author of Young Adult fiction, and as such, I must set a good example. (Plus, let's not forget, there's always the chance my mother could read this...)

So, please come up with some creative ways of expressing yourself without using any of those traditional expletives we've grown accustomed to. Let's cuss without needing to use asterisks. Let's give someone holy old he!! without them having a clue what we're talking about. Let's vent our spleens and let it all out of our systems without insulting anyone. Let's save our offensiveness for our real lives, and not our virtual ones.

Does it sound like a plan? Wanna know what you'll win?

Okay!

The winner will receive a bottle of homemade Dingleberry Wine and two wine glasses. Well, okay... two plastic cups. Hey, shipping is expensive, you know! And I'm into recycling, too. These plastic cups have been used a half dozen times already, and they're hardly worn out...

And if, by chance, it is one of my Aussie friends who wins, I'll just send you the plastic cups and the Dingleberry Wine recipe, okay? Because, you see... I'm on the Australian Customs 'Naughty List'. They still haven't forgiven me for the Spud Smuggling Debacle of 2009. There's no way I could mail a bottle of alcohol and get away with it. (Talk about uptight! Sheesh...)

No, seriously, if an Awesome Aussie wins, I'll order you a bottle of Oz's equivalent of Dingleberry Wine from the liquor store nearest you. And I'll still send you the plastic cups and recipe, too.

So... get those creative juices flowing! I wanna hear how you can insult someone without them ever knowing! I want to hear how you can describe certain actions or functions without giving a hint of what body parts might be involved. I want you to swear like a sailor... while sounding like an alter boy.

Contest ends on Independence Day, July 4th, 2010. Thanks for playing, and good luck.

Kazza, The Notorious Spud Smuggler

Christmas is over, and I am taking a break from packing away the decorations to post a quick poem to GAG. This is not a holiday poem, but it was a gift, of sorts.

I have a very good friend who lives in New South Wales, Australia. Ali g is currently visiting family in Africa with his lovely wife, and even though I haven't spoken to him for a couple of weeks, he's been on my mind, nonetheless.

Last summer it came to my attention that this man only ate potatoes which were frozen and came from a bag. Well, that revelation was astounding to this girl who began her life in northern Maine, a place famous for its logging industry and its potato-based agriculture. I couldn't believe that my friend had never experienced the epicurean delights of a potato that had been mashed, baked or stuffed straight from its glorious, raw form! It was my duty, as his favorite gal from Maine, to make Ali g a connoisseur of les pommes de terre!

So, I sent him some.

Alas, there are party poopers the world over. Apparently, it is taboo to mail the products of a farming woman's labor and love across international borders. For, instead of potatoes, my friend received a notice from Australian Customs. Instead of a nice side dish of Maine taters, Ali g got a letter telling him that his carton of potatoes had been confiscated and destroyed!

Exactly how does one 'destroy' a potato? I've simply GOT to know what Customs did to my pertetters! Surely, the act of peeling, boiling, mashing and then EATING a potato would ensure the complete eradication of a tuber! Would't it? Just imagine all the tax dollars that could have been saved if Australian Customs had allowed nature (and a simple country girl) to handle the issue!

I was worried that my impulsive act had embarrassed my friend, and I wrote him the following ditty by way of apology. But Ali g is far tougher than I gave him credit for, and he has a marvelous sense of humor, besides. What did he do upon receiving my poem?

He promptly forwarded it to the Customs Office in Sydney! If those good folks didn't recognize my name before, they've got it memorized now! Thanks, Ali g. I believe this makes us 'even'.

Never let it be said that I don't learn from my mistakes. No posting taters Down Under! Got it!

I miss you, my friend. And never fear; I'll find a way to provide you with an authentic Maine experience. What are your thoughts on fiddleheads? Sauteed in butter and garlic? Hmmm? Keep an eye out for a package once you return home, won't you?

Heh.

Kazza, The Notorious Spud Smuggler

There once was a farm girl from Maine
Who danced in the nude to make rain.
When needing some sun,
Then naked she’d run
(Nude dancing and running were pains.)

But she was a maiden devoted.
Her spuds, while with dirt they were coated,
Still needed attention--
And that’s why I mention
Just what all her nudeness denoted.

And then came the wonderful day
When this Kazza turned over the clay
And pulled from the ground
Potatoes so round…
They’d been incubating since May!


The goddess then took four young spuds
And washed from their skin-- dirt and mud.
In paper she wrapped…
T’was newsprint she’d scrapped…
And packed them to mail to her bud.

See, Ali's a funny old geezer…
Eats taters he pulls from the freezer.
They’re already sliced,
Or shredded or diced
He swears they’re an appetite pleaser.

But Kazza, that girl from the hills
Knows frozen spuds can’t give you thrills.
She did her utmost
To mail through the post
Potatoes, quite whole, with no frills.

But the Customs man checking Down Under
Did heft Kazza’s parcel and wonder
If it held cocaine
That was grown up in Maine…
(Do you grow it? Or is that a blunder?)

Well, anyway, Customs had cause
To check that box shipped into Oz.
Potatoes they found…
Who knew they were round?
And dimpled and brown? Were they flaws?

This girl who did farming while naked
Promoted potatoes whole bak-ed.
Not pulled from a sack
Piled on pan, slid on rack…
She wanted that concept forsak-ed!

But Aussies don’t grow their potatoes…
At best, they can raise some tomatoes.
They’d rather eat fries
Or ‘chips’, I surmise…
To eat with their pasta al fredo.

The Customs man sent him a letter.
He said, ‘I must keep your pertetter.
It is contraband
I’m slapping your hand!
These veggies are doomed for the shredder.’

The SWAT team was thusly deployed
And Kazza’s potato-- destroyed.
When assumed it had died,
That spud-- it was fried
And Customs, those chips they enjoyed.

Now Ali's distressed, it would seem.
His whole life it had been his dream…
Potato skins crisp
Were now will o’ the wisp…
As were bacon, and chives…sour cream.

But Kazza will not let him down!
Those customs guys gave her a frown
They dared confiscate
Food meant for his plate,
And caused her to look like a clown!

She knew that her heart--it held purity!
What nerve—to make her feel dir-ity!
So spuds she did pack
In her carry-on sack…
She’d chance it with Homeland Security!

They patted her down in the lobby.
It seemed an unwarranted jobby!
Her bra could not hold
Potatoes so bold!
Perhaps it was more of a hobby!

The x-ray guard then let her through
She sat down to put on her shoe.
They called out her flight--
The timing was tight!
To make it—through airport she flew!

She was the last one on the plane.
Getting frisked was a heck of a pain!
As the plane reached the skies
She—dismayed-- realized
Her potatoes were still back in Maine.

So Kazza, now quite empty-handed
In Australia much later she landed.
She promptly was cuffed,
In a prison bus stuffed…
For leaving her carry-on stranded.
********************************************

Oh, and Ali g? I've sent you another amazing gift while you've been traveling. I know you'll like it! It's called 'rain', and I danced my butt off to deliver it to your home. Phew! I'm exhausted. And COLD!

:o)

You're very welcome.