Wandering Wendy

Wendy was born in a wonderland
Or a wander-land if you please
For she was often known to go wandering
In the midst of the willow trees

From just a wee lass she’d heard whispers
Of wizards and witches and such
Who waited for children to whisk them away
And feed them to werewolves for lunch

Not one to wilt from such long-winded tales
Or whine from the thorns that will prick
She waved off the warnings from well-meaning folks 
And wandered off into the thick

She followed a wheel-rutted path that led in
And soon heard a warble or trill
Perhaps just the wind or a trick of the mind
A wren or a whippoorwill

With strong-willed suspicion she continued her way
Walking as fast as she could
When she felt something wicked was watching
From the darkness so deep in the woods

Without any warning a witch did appear
Face withered and bleached white as snow 
Her thin wrinkled neck wore the teeth of a wolf
A wart graced the tip of her nose

She stared at young Wendy with black wrathful eyes
Winked and then gave her a sneer
I’ll grant you three wishes to test your desires
So you’d better wish wisely, my Dear
For if you are greedy or show weakness of will 
And wish for more wishes or gold
The test will be over and the wager you’ll lose
As the winner I’ll be taking your soul

Wendy wasn’t one to get worried or fraught
And was always well-mannered and nice
So she weighed all her options like a good Welshman will
For to wilt would be too high a price

Here are my wishes so please listen well
I’ll promise I won’t wax or wane
I wish you were a young child just ‘bout my age
With beauty all seek to attain

I wish for you wisdom in all of your ways
That you no more cause children to weep
Wherever you roam all will seek out your words
For the good you will sow you will reap

My last wish is selfish and wrong I suspect
Though wistful I must go ahead
I wish we would never remember this day
When we wake we’ll be sisters instead

A whirlwind of lights washed the darkness away
White heat from the flash warmed her face
When she opened her eyes the old witch was no more
A mere child stood there in her place

Wendy gave the young girl a wide smile 
Let’s be going was all she would say
Our mother will surely be worried by now
I think we should call it a day
-Kenneth Goorabian

‘til Death Do Us Part

Either this man is dead or my watch has stopped.

-Groucho Marx

I don't believe in an afterlife, although I am bringing a change of underwear.

-Woody Allen

A few days before our wedding I was dying.  Really.  Laugh away.  I was convinced I would never set foot on Italian soil for our business trip/honeymoon.  I would undoubtedly clutch my chest and crumble to the ground, all the while watching the wedding ring roll across the floor in a grainy, black-and-white, slow-motion like a scene from an Orson Wells movie before I could croak out, “I do.”

The phone call to future wife went something like this. Or at least how I choose to remember it.

Bonnie:  Hi, Babe.  What’s up?

Ken:  We need to talk.

Bonnie:  What?

Ken:  I’m dying.  I won’t live to see Milan.

Bonnie: (Crickets)

Ken:  Don’t weep for me.  Just start a home for abandoned hamsters in my name.

Well, it went something like that.  Bonnie agreed to meet me after work, (so much for compassion), picked me up and we went to the doctor.  Luckily, I was still alive by the time we arrived at the office. 

After checking my blood pressure and pulse, I was weighed and measured (for undertaker’s purposes, I surmised) and invited to spend some time alone in a cold drawer… er…room, waiting for the doctor.

Side Note: Doctor’s visits are like Disneyland, where you’re convinced you're near the ride until you reach the corner and discover something constructed by the same sadists that designed rat mazes.  Only at the doctor’s office they shuttle you from room to room and you don’t get cheese.

After a wait that seemed no shorter than showing up at DMV without an appointment, a female doctor (who could have played Gidget if they rebooted it today) entered.

Doctor Gidget:  What seems to be the problem?

Ken:  Holy minestrone, I’m dying. (All right, the Gidget quote wasn’t in there, but I wanted to say it.)

Bonnie:  He’s not dying.  We’re getting married.

Ken:  She’s an optimist, not a doctor.

Let’s cut to the chase.  She checked my heart and lungs (both still there) and then pronounced me fit, and free to get married.

Ken:  It’s not that I don’t believe you, but is there anything else you can check?

Bonnie:  Stop.  You’re not dying.  We already paid for the trip.

Ken:  You can carry me in one of those urns, but not a fancy one.  Something plain, in blue…  I’ve always looked good in blue.

Bonnie looks at the doctor and shakes her head.

Doctor Gidget:  We can do an EKG (My first thought was Electrocute Kenneth Goorabian, but that’s how my mind works) if you like.

Ken:  How much will that cost?

Okay, I was in for $80 so far and dying or not, I am a freelancer.

Doctor Gidget:  $60

Ken:  Let’s do it. If I’m dying who cares about the bill.

Bonnie: (Gives me a look that would scare a terrorist off a plane.)

After a few minutes, the doctor came back with the results.

Ken:  How much time do I have?

Bonnie:  Oh, my gosh.

Ken:  I just bought these shoes.  I want to get some wear out of them.

Funny how the mind works.  Apparently, it was a simple panic attack due to my already-existing generalized anxiety, the wedding, the trip abroad, moving, yada, yada, yada.  The doctor presented me with my first Xanax prescription.

Lesson I learned:

I’ve seen my share of doctor shows, so I knew what an EKG was, but was not so happy when I came out looking like a dog with mange after they hacked away my chest hairs to attach the electrodes.  My chest looked like a smiley face.  If I had to do it all over again, I would visit both a tanning and waxing salon before submitting myself to this procedure.  I really want to look better as a corpse.

Kenneth Goorabian

www.kennethgoorabian.blogspot.com

Confessions of a Cereal Killer

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“I like any cereal. I like the idea of eating and drinking with one hand without looking.”

-Jerry Seinfeld

“Four out of five doctors say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I guess the other guy sleeps in a lot.”

-Kenneth Goorabian

Honey Nut, oh, Honey Nut, how I love thee. Let me count the ways.

I won’t really list them, but… I will sing their praises.

For those who poo-poo America’s contributions to gourmet cuisine, consider this:  The very first breakfast cereal, granula, was invented in Dansville, NY, in 1863 by James Caleb Jackson. He was the owner/operator of Our Home on the Hillside, later renamed the Jackson Sanatorium. Whether this change from home sweet home to insane asylum was due to consuming vast quantities of sugary loveliness has never been proven, but rumors abound.

Before long, surgeon and health spa owner, John Harvey Kellogg, got wind of Jackson’s granula, and renamed it granola (I read that as a play on vowels and plagiarism – but who am I?). And to add another twist, Kellogg was then quickly bested by a former patient, C.W. Post. What did Post offer to the mix? His tooth-shattering creation, Grape-Nuts, championed by tree-huggers and dentists alike. Post was the first to offer a discount coupon in his cereal boxes. Not sure if this coupon was for the product or dental services.

Kellogg retaliated by adding prizes. Soon there were millions of baking-soda submarines, comics, and other fabulous toys that caused us to feverishly rip apart the box like a spoiled kid on Christmas morning. Pure genius.

After half a century gobbling down truckloads of sweet grainy goodness, drowned in gallons of milk, I’m still hooked. How could I not be? What’s better than dessert for breakfast?

I must confess that during the writing of this piece I mercilessly killed Cap’n Crunch. The whole box.  I feel nauseated and a bit remorseful, but it had to be done. Perhaps this is a cry for help.

Nah.

Forget about the cavities and hyperactivity. Grab a bowl, a spoon, and cereal of your choice because…

Theeeeey’re alllll great.

Kenneth Goorabian

www.kennethgoorabian.blogspot.com

Less Talk-a-Lot, More Chocolate

“Nine out of ten people like chocolate. The tenth person always lies.”

-John Q. Tullius

“Chocolate’s a lot like sex. I always finish it too soon.”

-Kenneth Goorabian

If veggies were made of chocolate

I’d chew them up in bunches

Every meal would be filled with glee

Dinners, breakfasts and lunches

I wouldn’t hide from lima beans

Squash I’d gobble down

I’d roll in fields of broccoli

All covered in gooey brown

And if offered cauliflower

I’ll admit, I used to hate

If veggies were made of chocolate

I’d gladly fill my plate

Kenneth Goorabian

Sad Day in Mudville

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons
-T.S. Elliot
I could live without coffee… But I’d probably be a serial killer
-Kenneth Goorabian

The inevitable finally happened: the perfect storm of weekend overindulgence and
laissez faire attitude has culminated in a gut-wrenching awareness that I’ve run out
of coffee.

To some (who are you people?) this may seem rather silly, but I assure you, this is no
good ship lollipop to this Surly Temple. Without my morning cup ‘o joe, I tend to get a
wee bit anxious. But I’m no moodier than say… Jack the Ripper. Okay, slightly less. I
would only hurt someone if they were standing between me and the coffee pot.

I was a late bloomer to this miracle bean. In my younger years, I forsook coffee shops
for apartments wallpapered with tapestries and black-light posters; rooms pungent and hazy from cheap head-shop incense. With age comes wisdom though. I finally saw the light.
It was a glowing orange orb coming from my new best friend, Mr. Coffee.

And yes, Mr. C and I are still together. Oh, I was seduced over the years by newer, sleeker,
high-maintenance models, with their hourglass decanters and K-Cups, but always
returned to my first love. I’ve come to realize that relationships require hard work. Others promise increased satisfaction with less energy. I for one find no grounds for divorce.

Remember….  Death before Decaf

Kenneth Kona Goorabian

Two All Beef Patties and a Side of Cheesy Thighs

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"My therapist told me the way to achieve true inner peace is to finish what I start. So far today, I have finished two bags of M&M’s and a chocolate cake. I feel better already." 

-Dave Barry

"Carbs, oh carbs, how I love thee. Let me count the waist."

-Kenneth Goorabian

Dear Seventeen Magazine,

I have bad skin, I’m frustrated with chubbiness and can never decide what to wear. Oh, and I have too many shoes. What can I do? 

p.s. I’m a 63-year-old man who has a teenage girl living inside me.

Fat & Frumpy

Dear F&F,

I have three tips that are sure to help.

1. Clearasil

2. Get off the couch

3. That’s why God made leggings and over-sized t-shirts

4. Send me all unwanted footwear

Why do I go kicking and screaming into old age? When does the madness end?

Today, while my wife and I were walking complaining about age and desire to lose weight, a woman chugging up the hill the other way said to my wife, and I paraphrase, “Your legs look great. You’re my ideal.”

Considering all she sees in the mirror are cheesy thighs and crepey skin, you can imagine her reaction. Beaming is the word. She could live on that compliment for weeks.

So, when you’re feeling less than perfect, just remember: Your nightmare is someone else’s dream. 

K.G.

Got my GMO-JO Working

Have no fear! Spidey is here.

-Peter Parker

I am not an animal.

-Elephant Man

I’m ready to put my name on the list when they begin genetically modifying people. My wife says I’m fine just the way I am. Well, except for my constant fidgeting when she’s trying to sleep, my insistence on using dryer sheets (I abhor static cling), and my refusal to eat any cereal but Honey Nut Cheerios. Aside from that, I’m loyal as a dog, walk myself, and do her laundry. I think she’d rather leave well enough alone.

I have a few ideas for GMO-ification that I really think could benefit society.

They could give car wash guys extra-long arms and legs. I have an SUV, and they always miss spots on the roof. Now, I’m not Andre the Giant, and my eyesight is so bad I had to have contacts put in to pick out new frames for my glasses, and even I can see the dirty spots they missed. This means that every single carwash guy is either legally blind or they all have abnormally short arms and legs. They could fix this with a little monkey/giraffe DNA and I would be perfectly okay with it. Oh, and I promise not to giggle, or stare at them too much when I get my car washed.

A deviled-eggplant would be delicious. There are never enough deviled eggs at holiday parties. This combo would ensure generous quantities of slippery, mayonaisey goodness, lower the cholesterol count a smidge, and the purple color would add a festive flair.

I think we should engineer babies to immediately become 35 years old upon their third birthday. This would eliminate stress and monetary burden for parents and effectively wipeout all future boy bands.

K.G.

Guy-Polar

“I told my wife the truth. I told her I was seeing a psychiatrist. Then she told me the truth: that she was seeing a psychiatrist, two plumbers, and a bartender.”

― Rodney Dangerfield

“When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained”.

-Mark Twain

Feeling a bit down in the dumps lately. Not what I’d call serious depression. I mean, not do a Greg Louganis off the Golden Gate bridge or join a tribute band kind of depression, but I have been eyeballing a week-old hard-boiled egg with morbid interest. To most that may seem rather harmless, but for someone with severe expiration date-o-phobia, this would be akin to playing Salmonella roulette. And if you had ever witnessed my usual reaction to expired food, you'd quickly surmise I was now one nip and tuck short of Caitlyn Jenner and banish me to a rubber (though fabulously upscale and chic) room.

I guess the depression could be nothing more than winter blues. After all, the temperature has been in the low 70’s and it did rain for two (don’t be a hater) days. Added to that, I find it extremely hard to work out when it’s chilly. Lay off the weights too long and my body begins to resemble a marshmallow left out in the sun too long. It may also be the ridiculously bad haircut I received recently. I sincerely believe if 100 monkeys were given scissors, a cheap rental space, and three weeks, they would be outperforming Supercuts by the fourth week. 'Nuf said.

I was thinking a new hobby might get the old juices flowing again. I briefly considered teaching myself how to play the violin, but I love my wife too much. And knitting is out of the question as I am not allowed to play with sharp objects. Origami might be doable because no cutting utensils are required.

One of my millennial co-workers suggested I get a tattoo. You know, colorful body art might make me feel better about myself. Hmmm…

Got one of those. At 18, under the influence of something, I allowed my friend to wrap a needle with a bit of thread (don’t wanna go too deep now) and then proceeded to give me a permanent reminder of my teenage stupidity, that hurt like ##%!! and "branded" me like an ex-con.

Oh, and we used the wrong ink. The day after the vicious micro-assault, I had half of a faded tattoo. It took another two hours of embroidering ink into skin that was now as raw as hamburger for my new tat to be realized. I don’t recall, but I assume much cursing and drugs of some sort were needed for this second session.

After all, I couldn’t go through life with half a hoosegow tattoo, could I?

Seems teenagers occasionally make good decisions, right?

K.G.