Mistaken Identity

People today. It's so hard to tell who's who, what's what, where are you going, and how ya' going to get there.

But then again, it's always been that way.

Mistaken Identity

By Tracy Farr

Sometimes I'm not so sure
If she's a him, or he's a her.

My Five Shopping 'Rules of Engagement'

Christmas is just days away, and that means it’s time to brave the wild indoor shopping centers with the hope of getting some serious Christmas shopping done without being crushed to death in Aisle No. 9 during a Blue Light Special. But do you think I’m worried? Nosirree! I’ve got a plan, and as long as I stick to it, I will not die!

My plan is to do all my shopping on Christmas Eve, hitting the stores with military-like precision: attack, attack, attack, take no prisoners, and don’t charge anything until you see the whites of their eyes.

In my opinion, the best time for shopping maneuvers at the local Mega Store is at 11 p.m., when there are only four people in the building – me, Barbara at the cash register, and the two stock boys in the back who always seem to be asleep. At any other time, those two would follow me around, making me “hit the dirt” every time they lob a bag of potato chips or toilet paper over my head. But, even that’s preferable to being surrounded by a horde of mothers, their screaming children and Zombie-like Husbands.

BEWARE: Zombie Men are everywhere! They gather at supermarkets and malls this time of year, and, given half a chance, they will suck the life right out of you.

Zombie Men are easy to spot: They hunch over their shopping carts, their eyes downcast to avoid eye contact with strangers. Their feet shuffle as they walk, and if you listen closely, you can hear them mumble things like, “Yes dear,” “Whatever you say, dear,” “I don’t give a rip, dear,” and “I mean, they look fresh to me, dear.”

Zombie Men used to be regular guys. They went to the feed store, tore engines apart for fun, they always had venison in the freezer. But somewhere along the way, they started pushing shopping carts for their wives – wives who are always agitated, jittery, looking for the best bargain, picking up this can of soup, comparing it with that can of soup, finally putting both cans of soup in the cart, telling her Zombie Husband to speed up, slow down, grab that box of cake mix, “No! Not that one! The store brand because it's cheaper.”

“Yes, dear. Whatever you say, dear.”

Sometimes the Zombie Men accidentally look up. That’s when I see in their faces a wish for me to put a bullet right between their eyes, just to end their suffering. But I have to look away. There is nothing I can do for them. When I go shopping, I leave my pistol at home.

So, to make sure that I never have to endure crowds, bargain-hunting wives, yelling children, and Zombie Men, I adhere to the following Five Christmas Shopping “Rules of Engagement.” If you can benefit from it, fine. If not, don’t blame me:

1. Make a list of items you need to procure (military term that means “acquire”). Do not leave your Fort without a list. To do so, and be stuck trying to decide between the George Forman Grill or a baby Rat Terrier, would mean certain “death by indecision.”

2. Before you make your list, scout out (another military term that means “reconnoiter”) what size your honey wears, because to buy a 20 when she really needs a 10 means certain “death by fuming.”

3. With list in hand, attack at dawn, or as soon as the front door is open. If the store is having a “50 Percent Off Everything Starting at Dawn” sale, then Retreat! Retreat! Retreat!.

4. Once safely inside the store, quickly commandeer a cart. If someone else is using it at the time – well, spoils of war. With acquired cart, head to the ADM (Area of Desired Merchandise), probe the area, acquire your target, lock and load your cart, then head to the extraction zone (somewhere around Cashier No. 4) making no contact with the general population.

5. The only time you can breathe a sigh of relief is when you are safely out of the Combat Zone and back at your Fort. Count your acquisitions (a military word for “booty” which is a pirate word for “loot”), then conceal it under the bed or some other safe place that nobody would dare clean for fear of “death by dust.”

That my friends is the key to safe holiday shopping. I wish you the best of luck, and if you remember to follow these rules, you WILL survive!

Harvesting Cats

I just so happened to be thinking about cats and "hyperbole" the other day, but couldn't quite remember what hyperbole was. So, I searched deep into Wikipedia and discovered "hyperbole" is a fantastical exaggeration that has nothing to do with cats, except for the following example:

"It was raining cats and dogs."

Another example which DOESN'T include cats would be: "She weighed a ton," unless of course we're talking about your mamma, then she probably does.

Now, if we apply hyperbole and light verse to cats, we might come up with something like:

Harvesting Cats

By Tracy Farr

"I harvest my cats from a cat-bearing tree"
Is a feline example of hyfurballe.

Just thinking outloud

She said, He said

Upon My Death

Using light verse to talk about death seems so wildly inappropriate -- but what do I care?

Upon My Death

By Tracy Farr

Skip the prayers,
Skip the songs,
Drink a pint,
Then move along.

Just thinking outloud

People Are

"Serious" poets always come up with "serious" poems that show just how deep their thinking can be. As you will see by my attempt at seriousfulness (new word I just came up with), as you will see, I'm not much deeper than a deep pan pizza.

People Are

By Tracy Farr

People are starving
while others are carving
their Thanksgiving turkey or holiday ham.

People are dying
while others are crying
'bout missing the biggest tax sale in the land.

People are hurting
while others are blurting
out promises, promises, they'll never keep.

People are lonely
while others are only
just bored 'cause there's nothing to watch on TV.

People, people,
millions of people,
watching and waiting to see a new day.

People, people,
billions of people,
living their lives come what may.

She said, He said

If Cows Had Wings

I've seen a lot of lonely cows in my time and thought each and every one of them could probably use a pick-me-up.

If Cows Had Wings

By Tracy Farr

If cows had wings
Instead of those udder things,
They'd stop their mooing
And all go flewing.

Just thinking outloud

Canine Companionship

I've been reading some poetry by Ogden Nash and really like the way he sometimes didn't write in a strict meter. So, I thought I'd give it a try:

Canine Companionship

By Tracy Farr

They say a man's best friend is a little bitty doggy
that chases him, pees on the floor, licks the newspaper until it's downright soggy,
where you can't read the obits, the comics or even the sports
which would put me dearly, not merely, but quite clearly out of sorts.

A dog requires a leash, a collar, a bone, a house of his own, and a ball,
and to be walked halfway around the planet, but the gall of it all
is that he demands to be rubbed every night on his tummy;
which to me, if he's supposed to be my best friend,
                         sounds a little bit too chummy.

I had a best friend once, and he never slobbered on me (that I knew),
and if I had tried to put a collar on him, and walk him, he'd beat me
                       until I was entirely black and blue.
He never begged for special treats or chased cars that were just passing by,
and he never barked at little old ladies, or young ones -- he was kind of shy.

No, a dog is not my best friend, and never will one be.
I'd rather have a goat or two, maybe a llama, a ferret, a hamster,
                 or some fish from down under the sea.
A raccoon would be fun to have, or maybe a vampire bat.
But I'll never befriend a dog, or for that matter ... a stinkin' cat.

She said, He said