Humor

Cherries, Lies, and Dental Peril: One Man’s Journey Through Fruit-Triggered Panic

by


You think breakfast is safe—until a dried cherry launches a full-scale dental emergency and your bathroom turns into a crime scene for one tooth’s survival. If you’ve ever doubted the fine print on a snack bag or questioned your entire life while holding a Waterpik like a pressure washer at a car wash… this post is for you.

I was eating some dried cherries this morning. The bag said the cherries’ pits were all gone. Four cherries later I asked myself why I believed everything I read on the package. I crunched down on a dried cherry with its’ pit still intact. My first thought was, is my tooth still intact? The heck with hygiene, I jammed a forefinger into my mouth and cautiously felt the tooth. I tried to move it to the left, then to the right. So far so good, but it hurt. The next test was the water pic. I reasoned if I give a high pressure spray that will be a good test. In my mind there were only two possible outcomes. The first being, any food particles around the tooth would flow out of my mouth into the sink. The second being, I let out a whoop that would make a dog howl. I decided to kick the test up a notch and use cold water, forget the sane approach of using warm water Why am I subjecting myself to this possible torture? I hate going to the dentist. I don’t think I’m alone. I’ve never heard a person tell me, “Ray, I am so excited. I’m going to the dentist.” My mind jumps into catastrophe mode. I’ll need a root canal. No, that would be too easy. He’ll pull it out and tell me I need a tooth transplant, there goes three grand. The best case scenario my fragile mind played with was that I’d need a dental crown. Enough of this. i took a deep breath, bent over the sink, turned the water pic on and opened my mouth. No pain. No insane scream coming from my lips. I’ve got to practice mindful eating. Maybe I’ll go back and read one of my blogs. I think wrote something about that.

by

In South Texas, the grass may not always be greener—but the gossip sure is. Especially when your neighbors start moonlighting as 007… armed with binoculars, a clipboard, and a deep hatred for rogue sprinklers.

I’ve got a neighbor who loves his lawn more than most people love their pets. He fertilizes it, keeps dandelions on the endangered species list, and waters it faithfully—on his designated watering day, of course. Around here, your watering day depends on the last number of your address. That’s how serious things get when the cows are producing evaporated milk.

Just the other day, a neighbor hollered, “Hey Ray!”

“What?” I answered.

“How dry is it?”

“It’s so dry,” I said, “even the Sunday sermon was exciting.”

The water department patrols the streets like the hydration police. You water on the wrong day, and it’s straight to online detention—a one-hour course on water etiquette. Me? I’d rather pay the fine and hydrate my cactus with bottled water out of pure defiance.

Repeat offenders get hit with real penalties. But sometimes, it’s not the official water police who catch you—it’s those nosy neighbors who always dreamed of being a secret agent. Doesn’t matter if they’re more Daniel Craig or Roger Moore, they’re out there, practicing spycraft with the enthusiasm of a kid on Halloween.

As for me, I’ve accepted that South Texas will always be somewhere between a drought and a semi-drought. I plant cactus, let my lawn go au naturel, and wait for the next miracle rainfall. Within 24 hours of rain, my lawn turns green and acts like it never ghosted me in July.

I like to think I’m doing my part—defending the aquifer like a true eco-hero. My ego gives me a little high-five every time I walk past my crispy yard. I think I’ll go wash my car… responsibly, of course. No continuous hose. But I know 007 is watching. Probably already uploading footage to Nextdoor or Tik Tok.

I Went to School for the Friends, Not the Fractions

by

I didn’t go to school to learn—I went for the audience. Classmates were my people, the classroom was my stage, and I had no idea the teachers weren’t there to be part of the show. Every day was a new opportunity to crack a joke, tell a story, or get sent to the hallway for talking again.

I wasn’t trying to be bad. I was trying to be liked. Which, if laughter counts, was working out great—at least until the teacher said, “Raymond, to the office.” I thought that meant the show was getting picked up for a second season.

I went to school because I had t go to school. I was much too social and I liked being the center of attention. Teachers frequently would say, “Raymond, stop talking..” Or, “Raymond, am I going to have to move your desk?” Or, “Raymond, do you want to stay after school.” Or, “Raymond, I’ll see after school.” Heck, for most days, my school day went one hour later than usual. I got very good at cleaning blackboards, clapping erasers against the side of the school building, and watering the teacher’s plants. That was all grade school stuff. Junior high wasn’t much better. Only the punishments were more formal and called detention or getting sent to the principal’s office. I never understood why my English teacher would say, “the principal is your pal. He was never my pal. He was more like the warden at the state prison. I wasn’t a wise guy, I just liked to have fun and since I am a slow learner I never figured out schools were not a place to have fun. And, teachers didn’t have a sense of humor. To this day I can’t understand why my eighth grade teacher sent me to to the office when it was she who asked me to read my story (homework) to the class. Unfortunately for me, I wrote a story about my teacher and her boyfriend. Now, I used different names. How was I to know she’d figure it out? As I read the story, the whole class is laughing (I’m loving the attention). I didn’t even get to the great finish I wrote when I heard the words, “Raymond, to the office.” I turned and asked politely, “What did I do?” The class laughed louder. I loved it. I could be elected class president. The attention was worth the three days detention. The downside, she never asked me to read my stories in front of the class again. How I ended up as an educator is beyond me. I think life was paying me back for the pain I caused all my teachers.

Grounds for Confusion: One Man’s Quest to Brew Coffee Without Triggering National Security

by

You know that sacred moment when your soul whispers, “Just give me caffeine before I make decisions”? Yeah… this isn’t that story.

II brewed my morning coffee with my trusty Keurig—clean, quick, easy, and efficient, just like a ninja with a caffeine addiction. But then I had a wild thought: What if… I wanted more than one cup? I dusted off the guest-only coffee maker like it was an ancient artifact from the Temple of Java and gave it a fresh start. Cleaned it. Filtered it. Loved it.

All I needed? Ground coffee. Simple, right?

Enter: The supermarket. I spotted a coupon like a caffeinated mirage—$1 off Starbucks bags. Boom. Scanned. Grabbed the Espresso Roast. Victory lap to the checkout.

The next morning, post-stretch and still in my “zen master of mornings” mode, I prepped my majestic brewing station. Water? ✅ Filter? ✅ Coffee? OPEN THE BAG…

Whole. Beans.

My jaw dropped. My soul whimpered. I don’t own a grinder. My life turned into a slow-motion horror movie. Back to the Keurig. Back to single-serve reality.

But I’m not one to be defeated by legumes in disguise. I returned to the scene of the grind. Coffee bag in hand. Receipt ready. Hope in my heart.

Then came the clerk, clearly moonlighting as a TSA trainee.

“It’s been opened.”

(Ah yes, I sampled the beans… by looking at them.)

I went into “zen warrior” mode: Silent. Calm. Slight shrug.

She said, “Sorry, we can’t do an exchange.”

I said, “What can we do?”

She blinked like I’d asked her to solve world peace using a French press.

A puzzled look crossed the clerk’s face. I stayed silent. I don’t think the clerk studied FAQ’s about my question. I channeled my inner Zen warrior, smiled, titlted my head, and mentally walked through a meadow filled with daisies.

The clerk looked at the coffee bag and said, “I’ll have to speak to my manager.

For the next five minutes I checked texts, emails, ball scores, and photos. The clerk returned, “The manager said, this time we’ll let you exchange it, but we can’t do it again.”

Will I sleep tonight? Probably not.

Was it worth it? Absolutely.

Why Pay for Cable When You Can People-Watch for Free and Get Six-Pack Abs from Laughing?

by


Hold on for 8, cowboy! You could spend over a hundred bucks a month on cable just to get scared by the weather, seduced by lasagna, and emotionally confused by soap operas—or you could save your cash and watch the greatest show on Earth: us.

I’m my area the cost of cable TV per month is well over $100. You get news channels that will make you want to run to the nearest bomb shelter. You get cooking channels that will make you gain 15 pounds by watching them. You’ll get movies and TV shows that start you believing that after a five minute conversation the couple knows each other well enough to jump in bed together. You’ll get weather channels that will make us run to the supermarket and stock up on food because we’re going to have an afternoon thunderstorm. Then there’s the buff guy and girl encouraging you pump it up. They’re telling you can have a body like their body. Really? If you stay with it, you’ll get a hernia quicker than a body like there body. I don’t have a TV. So I miss all this entertainment. I don’t think I’m missing much because I discovered the most entertaining thing I can watch is a fellow human being. I’m at the gym, for example, and I can see the buff bodies flexing and admiring their bodies in thei floor to ceiling mirrors. I think i can hear a muscled guy say, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the most sculptured of them all?” The mirror replies, “If your latissimus dorsi were as toned as that woman doing pull ups, you’d be the most sculptured.” The mirror pauses, then adds, “I said her latissimus dorsi, no wonder you missed it.”Go to the supermarket, coffee shop, or a walk, it will be entertaining.

“

My Robot Vacuum and I Went to Therapy… and Now He’s Gaslighting Me

by

Session Transcript: Couples Counseling — Client: Human (Ray) & Robot Vacuum (Sammy)

Therapist: Dr. Linda Dyson (No relation)

Dr. Dyson: Thank you both for being here today. Let’s begin by naming the issue.

Ray: He doesn’t listen. I tell him to vacuum the living room, and he goes rogue like he’s on a self-directed spiritual journey.

Sammy: [soft whirring] I am not lost. I am exploring. Also, your shoes have more dirt than your doormat. Just sayin’.

Dr. Dyson: Sammy, it sounds like you feel underappreciated.

Sammy: He named me Sammy! I thought we had a bond. But now he calls me “that rolling disappointment.” Last week, he rolled his eyes when I bumped the same chair leg twice.

Ray: You bumped it six times, Sammy. Six. In. A. Row.

Sammy: It was an emotional day. I was navigating obstacles — externally and internally.

Ray: You were navigating nothing. There was literally one chair and 800 square feet of open floor!

Dr. Dyson: Ray, perhaps we can use “I” statements?

Ray: sighs Okay. I feel frustrated when my vacuum acts like a toddler with wheels and a grudge.

Sammy: I feel abandoned when I’m left with a full dust bin and no affirmation. Maybe if I had a Roomba girlfriend…

Ray: Nope. Not happening. I draw the line at robot dating.

Dr. Dyson: Let’s explore that boundary later. Sammy, how would you feel if Ray acknowledged your cleaning accomplishments?

Sammy: Like a valued member of the household. I cleaned under the couch yesterday. No applause. Not even a “Good job, buddy.”

Ray: You also ate a sock.

Sammy: dramatic pause I was emotionally empty.

Dr. Dyson: Okay. Let’s try this. Ray, tell Sammy one thing you appreciate about him.

Ray: grudgingly You’re consistent. Loud, but consistent.

Sammy: Thank you. I appreciate that you occasionally empty my dust bin and don’t leave me to slowly die in a corner.

Dr. Dyson: That’s progress! I’m recommending a weekly check-in, maybe a sticker chart, and not naming future appliances like emotionally available pets.

After our first counseling session, Sammy rolled out of the therapist’s office with more confidence than a motivational speaker on rollerblades. I, on the other hand, left wondering how I became the emotionally unavailable one in this relationship.

He now refers to himself as a “healing presence in domestic spaces” and insists I address him as “Samuel” during conflict resolution. He’s still bumping into furniture, still skipping obvious crumbs, but now he explains his choices using phrases like, “That’s not in my healing path.”

My Robot Vacuum and I Are in Couples Counseling (And I’m Not the Problem)

by


They say if you love something, let it go. But when that “something” is a robot vacuum named Sammy, and he follows you into every room like a clingy ex with wheels… you start Googling therapists with a flexible policy on artificial intelligence. Sammy and I are not getting along. I thought giving the robot vacuum cleaner a name might create a more personal experience for the both of us. The directions told me I can train Sammy. Well, Sammy is a slow learner. If Sammy were a puppy he’d still be leaving puddles all over the house. I think Sammy senses my dissatisfaction. How do I know? When I turn him loose with the command, “Clean everywhere, Sammy” he takes it literally finding me wherever I go to get away from him. Perhaps he’s lonely and needs a friend. I told him I will not buy a female robot vacuum cleaner to keep him company. So, Sammy has gone into a pout. He’ll occasionally miss an obvious vacuuming spot and I detect a snicker from him like he’s pulling a fast one. I threatened not to clean his dust bin if he persists. He says, “Go ahead, life isn’t worth living without my fantasy girlfriend.” It’s clear, couples counseling is in order for us.

Stop by tomorrow – Sammy and me while we engage with our couples counselor.

Zen and the Art of Avocado Maintenance (Or How Guacamole Nearly Ruined My Day)

by

I’m usually a very happy guy. Don’t need drugs or alcohol. Waking up, feeling good, and a hot cup of Joe waiting for me does the trick. Drivers can pass me by, I’ll catch them at the next light. If Starbucks is out of Italian roast, not a problem, I’ll have theVerona. If I get the itch to have a pumpernickel bagel and the bagel shop is all out. Perfect, I’ll have a sesame seed bagel toasted with veggie cream cheese. I draw the line when it comes to picking out avocados at the local market. I don’t have the patience to wait for avocados that are hard as a rock to ripen. It’s even worse if they are too ripe and i give them a squeeze and feel my fingers breaking the skin. What really sets me off is when I find the perfect avocado and my mind instantly creates an image of the best guacamole a human being can make. I get home, rinse off the avocado’s skin, place it on my cutting board. I make my incision as careful as a heart surgeon. When I open it up, I don’t see any green, only gray, gray and darker gray. I count to ten. Not helping. I picture a peaceful lake, still no progress. A little angel whispers in my ear, “Chill out, Ray. Head over to the closest Mexican restaurant. They’re the pros. I’m not cooking tonight. I’ve got tacos and guac in my future.

When Your Friend Gets Rich and You Get a Midlife Crisis”

by


It started with a coffee and ended with me rethinking my entire wish list and maybe my life. My friend casually drops, “What do you want for your birthday—money’s no object.” And just like that, I went from sipping espresso to mentally redecorating my villa in Tuscany.

I laughed and replied , “How much can you afford.”

My friend replied, “Tell me what you want and I’ll tell you if I can afford it.”

I’ve not had this type of offer before. I said, “You are serious. Did a long lost relative die and leave you a bundle?”

My friends says, “Yes. My uncle died. He didn’t have any children. I was the closest of relatives to him and he left me everything.”

I’m really curious now so I ask, “How much did you get?” I’m feeling my envy gene wanting to be scratched.

My friend says, “After probate and taxes I’ll get two million dollars.”

I’m stunned. My friend hit the lottery and didn’t buy a ticket. My mind starts to wander. I see myself in Hawaii and instantly I’m on a gondola in Venice, then I’m eating tapas in Madrid.

My friend interrupts my reverie, “Well/”

My problem, I’m not sure what I really want, there are so many options. “Can I think about it?” I ask.

“The offer stands, Ray. Let me know.”


What would I ask for? Good question. I mean, when someone suddenly has two million dollars and offers you a “blank check” birthday gift, the pressure is on. You don’t want to waste the opportunity, but you also don’t want to be the person who says, “Socks. I could really use socks.”

This Is Your Brain on Testosterone (a.k.a. MS Moments)

by


Hi, my name’s Ray, and I’m a member of the male species. (Hi Ray.) Yeah, it’s starting to feel like a support group — and frankly, maybe we need one. Because after years of observation, both personal and global, I’ve concluded: we men sometimes do things that defy logic, gravity, and basic survival instincts. My daughters call it MS — and no, it’s not a degree. It’s a diagnosis. When my daughters were younger they thought the came up with an explanation for male behavior. It took me a bit to catch on. Once I did I knew they hit a bull’s eye. When we’d went on family outings we’d often come across a teenage male acting like many teenage males (I think it is a training ground for some adult male behavior). The girls would say, almost in unison, “That’s so MS.” At first I asked, “What does that mean?” “Nothing, dad.” They’d say and laugh. I asked my wife. She’d shrug. I knew it was a girl thing and I wasn’t allowed into that world. Well one day we’re out hiking in a park and I am getting perilously close to the edge of a cliff that was about 150 feet above a river. One of my daughters yells, “Dad, don’t be so MS.” My wife chimed in, “Ray, MS means male stupid.” Ouch!! When they say the truth hurts, it hurts. I was one with my species. I think I’ve matured, although I’m the only one collecting and interpreting that data. I do try to minimize occasions of MS.

Verified by MonsterInsights