I have, on many occasions, been forthright about my humble, small town beginnings.

Karnes City, Texas is a sleepy little berg that was small when I lived there 31 years ago and from what I hear, continues to shrink.

Karnes County was once a major source of uranium. but in the early 80’s, when fewer nuclear power plants were being built and the Cold War started to wane, so did uranium mining in the area. As a result, many people moved away. So there you have Karnes City– a community that at first glance, seems to sit idle about 55 miles southeast of San Antonio. It’s nestled in a few minor foothills—nature’s last bit of geological acne before the flat, flat coastal plains takes over.

About six miles northeast of Karnes City is a Catholic church, a dance hall and a store–of sorts. Those three things comprise the community of Panna Maria, the oldest Polish settlement in the country. About 130 years ago, Polish settlers immigrated from Kracow mostly, arrived in Galveston and headed north and westward. They landed in Panna Maria and the place is still predominately Polish today…ancestors of the original settlers. This is evident if you read some of the names printed on the rural mail boxes as you pass: Mocyzgemba, Kaspryzk, Yanta, Jaskynia–names with so many consonants jumbled together, you’d swear you were reading a Polish pickle jar label.

I should admit here and now, that I am also of Polish extraction. That said, I grew up with Polish kids. And yeah, I’ve heard all the jokes. And I’m here to tell you that they couldn’t be more wrong. Every Polish kid I knew, screwed up the grading bell curve for the class–they were extremely intelligent with an academic and work ethic that shamed every other ethnic group in school. They were devoted to family–spiritual and interesting to talk to. A lot of these kids came from families who still spoke Polish at home.

Now, what might prompt an outsider unfamiliar with these brilliant descendants of Copernicus, to think that Polish jokes are true, could be their accents. The “T-H” combo was/is always tough for native Polish speakers. For example, “these” became “deeze”; “those” became “doze” and “the” was ‘da”–not uncommon English translation at all for any of the Slavic languages.

I remember during the CB craze that swept the country in the mid-70’s, there was some Polish man who went by “the handle” of the Tin Man. Fine, right? Quite plausible, yes? But based on his accent, we never knew if he was the “Tin Man” or if he was really trying to call himself the “Thin Man”.

And there were other stories.

These hardworking, clannish people knew life. Many were farmers, so they knew the land. They brought their traditions with them and many applied them for generations. Just as their forefathers did in the Old Country, they too followed moon phases and planted accordingly. Oil was discovered on their land, so many knew riches. They also knew sadness and loss and heartache. But unlike the Old Country, a few of these devoted Catholics bucked stern tradition; a few also knew divorce.

I remember hearing about one man who years ago…he practically still had Kracovian street dust on his pants…was unhappy; miserable really, in his marriage. He was convinced that he had married Satan’s spawn and sought a local attorney to terminate his unholy union.

He’d lived in the area for a number of years and mostly spoke Polish. What English he knew was limited at best and acquired mostly from TV and radio.

So, as I was saying, Voytek decides to divorce his wife and sought a lawyer to begin proceedings. The lawyer made it clear getting a divorce could be contingent on the circumstances, so he asked the Polish farmer a few pertinent questions:

ATTY: Regarding this divorce, Mr. Kolodzji, have you any grounds?
Voytek: Yes, I got me tree…four…maybe five acre and nice leetle house wit air conditioning

ATTY: No, I meant what is the foundation of this case?
Voytek: It made of concrete

ATTY: I don’t think you understand. Does either of you have a real grudge?
Voytek: No, we got carport and not need one for da cars

ATTY: I mean, what are your relations like?
Voytek: All my relations still in Poland.

ATTY: Is there any infidelity in your marriage?
Voytek: We have hi-fidelity stereo and good DVD player. We like Polka music. We gots every ting da Fabian Polski Trio ever made. Day goot!! Dey got a new CD called, “My Hole Has a Bucket In It–Da Rhythmic Joys of Dyslexia”–you heard of dem?

ATTY: No, I haven’t Mr. Kolodzji and that’s NOT what I meant. Fidelity means….oh, never mind. May I continue please?
Voytek: Yes

Atty: Does your wife beat you up”?
Voytek: No, I always up before her. Before rooster even

ATTY: Is your wife a nagger?
Voytek: No, she vite vooman. Skin like milk.

(By this point in the story, the lawyer was about to completely lose his temper…but patience persevered)

ATTY: So, then please tell me Mr, Kolodzji, why do you want this divorce?
Voytek: She going to keel me.

ATTY: She’s going to kill you? What makes you think that?
Voytek: I got proof.

ATTY: What kind of proof?
Voytek: She going to poison me. She buy bottle at drugstore and put on shelf in batroom. I know. I ken read English a leetle

ATTY: In the bathroom? Interesting. Please tell me, what kind of poison was it?
Voytek: Bottle say “Polish Remover”

ATTY: Uh, no Mr. Kolodzji, that’s not poison. Well, it is but it’s not what you….

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The attorney never finished his sentence. He realized his extremely uphill battle and proceeded with his client’s wishes. He worked to secure a divorce for the Kolodzji’s.

In the end, Mrs. K got the nice leetle house on tree-four-five acres of land, plus air conditioning and a car port.

Voytek got a life, free of Polish Remover and of course, his prized CD collection of Da Fabian Polski Trio….which by the way, consists of five members.

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I turned 49 less than a month ago.

I’m not ashamed of that milestone. In fact, I’m damn proud of it and that’s why I don’t lie about my age. Frankly, I really don’t get people who do. What’s the point? Besides, I think there’s great honor in aging. I love the mental and emotional stability I now have. And I have it, because I earned it. OK, I don’t exactly like the fact that this wonderful acuity has come with a little extra weight, a few lines and creases that never existed before; a bit more skin sag and the damnedest whiskers.

“But Laurie, whiskers on a peri-menipausal woman like you are completely normal?

Yeah, but on my eyelids?????

But I digress…

Having traversed this planet for the past 49 years has allowed me to see, think and experience a myriad of things. I am grateful. And while I have become extremely well versed in the ways and means of life and in my chosen profession , there are still some things that confound me.

Always have; always will.

I am of course, talking about the differences between men and women.

And to my male readers, I love you. I really do. I love you vociferously, in fact. I’ve written countless posts about this.

But men, I’ll be honest, nothing…NOTHING makes me scratch my head and eat, sleep and drink with a huge cartoon-like question mark above my head, quite like your species. You are profoundly different from me. While trying to understand our differences, you have boggled my mind.

And as the above sentence would indicate, this extends above and beyond the dangling participle you so obviously possess.

We are different, but I want you to know that I have spent years desperately trying to understand you and I think, Dear Men, that I am at the end of my proverbial rope.

That said, I have come to understand that you like to BBQ, not because it’s fun or because it tastes good or feeds your family or friends. Nay, this goes back to your forefathers: the ones who barely walked upright and had a protruding forehead you could park a Buick under. You know, the ones that discovered fire. I firmly believe that there’s a genetic continuum regarding burning things that still courses through your DNA double helix today.

Bottom line: Men like to cook when there’s danger involved.

•

Men and women have a decidedly different approach to nurturing. This isn’t to say that all men feel this way, but many men I have known and broken up with, fit this description to a “T”.    Women have this innate need and desire to nurture children. We cradle and suckle our babies. We hold them and kiss their boo-boos. We are mentally and emotionally hardwired for this.

Men on the other hand, will often leave all aspects of this to the mothers of their children. But when men reach a certain point in life–say their early forties, they also view youth differently. Especially younger women.

Younger, thinner women.

Bottom line: Women nurture children; male menopause prompts men to date them.

•

I have known male sports fanatics. The man who sired me lo those many years ago, was one of the most virile men that ever walked. He golfed three times a week and hunted whatever animal Texas law allowed bi-peds to kill. He loved football. As a Texan, that was part of his birthright. Because my father was a sports enthusiast, I looked for that in the men I dated. I have been romantically partnered with men who loved sports to the point of abject fanaticism. I dated one such man many years ago. He lived for sports. I’d watch UT Longhorn football on occasion, but I didn’t share his zeal. When he said he was going to watch, “Stump the Schwab”, I thought that was a porn flick.

When he couldn’t be at a game or a match, he’d watch it on TV. He loved just every sport on ESPN’s programming roster:

• golf
• basketball
• football
• baseball
• tennis
• rugby

Bottom line: Men have testicles; therefore, men love sports with balls

•

And finally, let’s look at the differences between men and women and their view of romance. I continue to be amazed by what some men deem to be “romantic”. There are those men who live to dazzle their partners with flowers and love letters and romantic evenings that can make a girl’s head spin faster than anything Linda Blair could pull off. And then there are some men who don’t think like that at all. Their idea of romance is…well, I don’t think they have any ideas of what romance is. Very often though, men react out of necessity. Timing is everything.

Bottom line: Some men will only think of a candlelit dinner, when there’s a power outage.

•

So, there you go men. I will soon give up trying to understand you. Yessir, 49 years is long enough. I will now just embrace our differences and love you as best I can. We different. We’re built differently; we think differently; we act differently and yes, we live and love differently. Fine, I can accept that.

And make no mistake, even with all these physical and mental and emotional differences, I ADORE MEN!!!! I couldn’t make you the source of my satiric ire if I didn’t.

To the current man in my life: PM, you will reap the benefits of my newfound philosophy. This means yes, we can begin our very happy, uncomplicated life together …a life that will be everything we’ve always wanted. In fact, our wonderfully idyllic existence together can start just as soon as I can get you to quit the rather irritating habit of biting your nails.

Bottom line: I’ve given this some thought, Baby and I think I can eliminate this problem simply by getting you to wear shoes.

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XXOO,
LK

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PS. It’s going to cost more to mail a letter, effective today, May 12th. .CURSE YOU, USPS!!!! Several months ago, I wrote a special “homage” to this price hike and you can read it by clicking here.

As a 49 year old career woman who heads up the world renown, Laurie Industries, I believe I have a firm grasp on what today’s more mature woman wants and needs in a life partner. For reasons partially beyond my control, I myself have never been married…not for my lack of trying.

Well, not necessarily.

But I have gone on my own vision quest in search for the perfect mate and I can attest that there are very few “good catches” out there. That holds especially true for smart, witty, erudite, ambitious and semi-frigid women like me.

Like so many women today, I’m too old to settle and too vulnerable not to.

So, that’s why we here at Laurie Industries decided to start up our own special clearinghouse website this past January. The results have been stupefying!!!

Our certified matchmakers from the University of Phoenix On-line have taken the time and trouble to compile listings of available men from around the world, from all walks of life. They’re ready, willing and able to bring you love, devotion and relative happiness. Basically, we’ve done the leg work so you don’t have to.

Our men are 100-percent real members of the global community and practically heterosexual. Sure, some don’t speak English but when it comes to love, everyone speaks the same universal language.

Your “Mr. OK, Why The Hell Not” could be a simple mouse click away.

Visa, MasterCard and select farm animals are accepted.

Happy shopping, Ladies!

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THE MEN FROM OUR MAY COLLECTION:

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Raymond is 31 and currently lives in his mother’s converted basement in Muncie, Indiana:

“I am lactose intolerant and believe that for every drop a rain that falls, a flower grows. Will you be my flower? I’m terribly allergic to all aspects of pollen, but with my inhaler, steroidal nose drops and various skin emollients, I figure we can still date. My mother will be happy to take us anywhere we’d like to go. Do you your men like my Mom does? Slightly sweaty, mildly frightened and late at night when I pretend I’m asleep?”

Raymond……LOT #98r9ee8…………CLICK HERE

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Claude will be 31 in September. Surprise!! He’s a Virgo and lives in Duluth, Michigan:

“I’m looking for a woman who’s unafraid of convention. Other than that, you must be Jewish with child bearing hips and be at least a fourth level Mage in Dungeons and Dragons Version 2.8. I speak fluent Esperanto and Klingon with a decidedly Hungarian accent and yes, I can make aluminum foil from scratch. I’m a very mature 31 and have relevant hair in relevant places. This, in spite of the fact that I endured a two year stint in the Worster State TB Hospital in Massachusetts. I’m currently under a doctor’s care for regurgitive flatulence and armpit acne. I have a license and can drive during daylight hours with adult supervision and my asthma harness. I am looking for a woman to call my own. Therefore, it would help if you’re actually named “My Own”.

Claude……LOT # 57r9op3……….. CLICK HERE

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Yaghovi is 38 and calls Outer Ukerjhan, Someguynamedstan:

“Hello American lady with breasts of girth. Pliz to make sex on you with force of many oxen. From village, I am thought to be viral as men go. Have staying power of muscular May pole hour many hour. I ken do sex on you every night. Also, pliz to be wife that is of performing job blows. Not sure what is that, but am read about it in “Gulag Slutz Weekly”. You are her, yes? Contract me, Foxy Lady and decent sound of lovely music I can make which you and your fine shape az”.

Yaghovi……LOT #74q0ur5………..CLICK HERE

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Juan Carlos is a.46 year old native of La Crotcha del Fuego, Bolivia:

“Ay,. I’m proud Bolivian but part Irish, too. I think part Irish. I guess that why I sometimes called “Pedro Phile” by the Bolivian Policia–not sure why, but I eegnore them and continue on with my yob as a Teacher’s Aid in a pre-school class where I am at my happiest. I love the leetle chidrins. I not so much looking for an esposa wife as much as I need una mujer that has a young, muy bonita daughter…..or son. I no particular. Come on….PEEK ME…PEEK ME!!!!!. I mow your lawn, too!”

Juan Carlos…… LOT #37d4ep7…………CLICK HERE

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Simon is a shy, quiet 22 year old who collects bee larvae and scabs. This soft spoken lad hails from Lipstick on Avon, United Kingdom

“Pppppffffffftttt”.

Simon…… LOT# 35j9dp1………..CLICK HERE

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Tad K’s exact age is unknown and his address has been narrowed down to a tin roofed shack somewhere in the remote backwoods of Oregon

dklgolsllllllllllllllekdosddddddddddddddddddddddddduuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu6yyyy

“As an isolationist, I’m a bit lonely and lately, I seem to want to rectify this nagging problem. That said, I seek the company of a woman who’s also extremely ticked at technology, logging and natural encroachment. Other than that, I’m a n absolute wiz at math and encryption and have at least six advanced degrees from several Ivy League institutions. I once taught Advanced Applied Mathematics at Berkeley, along side my cousin, Ted K. …My turn ons? I spend a lot of time writing manifestos and tinkering with C-4 and it’s practical applications within the U.S. Postal Service. As for my perfect mate? I guess you could say that I’m looking for the “nitro to my glycerin”. Are you she? If so, write me and let me know. There’s only so much hatin’ on the military industrial complex that one man can handle all by his lonesome!”

Tad K. ……. LOT # 54321………… Probably best if you don’t click here. In fact, if you choose Tad, it’s probably a good idea to never, ever click anything in his presence. The same applies to opening packages he mails you. Don’t do it. If you must communicate, we suggest sending telepathic thoughts or a homing pigeon with a death wish.

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Nathaniel is 27 and will be 34 before you’ll get the chance to actually meet him. He currently lives in a very secure dormitory setting for men only, just outside of Olathe, Kansas.

“Gee, sex is real important to me. That means I’m looking for someone who’s sexually adventurous and daring, willing to try and do everything. It wouldn’t hurt if you had the ass of an 18 year old Mexican national named Paco, serving 10-to-20 for assault with a deadly weapon.

Nathaniel……LOT #84o0rf.………. CLICK HERE on May 22, 2015

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Broderick is 38 and in spite of battling several unnamed learning disabilities and a severe speech impediment, he works as a Shoe Shine Technician every other Saturday outside the Metro Bus Terminal in his hometown of Cleveland, OH

“I woves da wadies. They’s fine buh. I buh be buh lookin’ for da love buh of buh my buh life buh!! ..I’d buh be buh even more buh happy iffin you was my buh birlfriend, shit. Say, you buh wont yo Tennis Shoe buh polished buh?”

Broderick……LOT #89hy4a……….CLICK HERE … (SWEET DEAL ALERT!!!!!… SWEET DEAL ALERT!!!! .. Broderick’s family will PAY YOU to take him off their hands!!!!!!)

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Clark is a 28 year old sterile Albino with a significant lower jaw malocclusion and severe anger/rage issues. He also has one of the worst cases of ADHD known to man. He lives in a cramped, one room apartment in Tempe, AZ. He only owns windbreakers and believes that windows are the portals to Hell.

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“What are you lookin’ at Asswipe? .STOP STARING AT ME!!!! Wow, there are 12 ones on that calender. You’re no prize, either. Jeez, I took one look at you and thought you were my mother’s douche bag, but that can’t be; THAT’S in Peoria!!! Does this grouping of moles on my forearm look like the Liberty Bell? What? You think you’re better than me? Don’t pick me, whatever you do. I won’t resp—-Ooooh look! A new penny!!”.

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Is CLICK-A-HUBBY© right for you? You’ll never know unless you try it. But we’re confident you will be delighted. Our client roster grows daily and now numbers in the tens. We’re certainly proud of CLICK-A-HUBBY’S© and it’s proven track record.

Read our success story.

Mavis R. from Macon, GA writes:

Dear Ms. Kendrick,

CLICK-A-HUBBY© . changed my life. Or at least, I think it would have changed my life. I ordered Dimitri from your “Cavalcade of Hunks–January Edition”. I was all ready for my life with this former KGB informant and professional sin eater, but unfortunately, the harsh conditions involved in international shipping were too much.

Dimitri was already dead when I opened the crate!

But thanks anyway, Ms. Kendrick and fear not, all’s not lost. I remain optimistic. I’m having yard sales every weekend to raise enough money to shop in this October’s “Manly Men of Bosnia Who are Missing A Limb As A Result of A 1994 Village Skirmish Stemming From The Then Sadistic On-Going Ethnic Cleansing Practices in The Former Yugislavia”

I CAN’T WAIT!!!

Signed,
Mavis R.
Macon, GA

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See? Mavis is just another happy and almost satisfied patron of CLICK-A-HUBBY©. You too can also find some semblance of the happiness you seek. If not, we’ll offer a slight percentage of your money back in a hastily written promissory note.

But we feel certain that won’t even be factor.

How sure am I that you’ll find some satisfaction through our unique dating/marriage service? Well, I’d like to remind you, that I’m not just the President of CLICK-A-HUBBY©, I’m also a client.

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Am I funny?

No, I’m not fishing for compliments, I assure you. That, my readers, is a rhetorical question which stems partly from that region of my psyche that doubts everything about me.

My humor being the source of my most prolific angst.

Insecurity, for some reason, is a by product of wit. At least I think it is. The one thing that behaviorists can’t quite put their fingers on is which comes first: are funny people funny because they’re insecure OR….do insecure people use humor as a crutch to combat the insecurity?

It’s a conundrum that has plagued philosophers and noted thinkers since the Ancients first gathered in the round to laugh at the comedy stylings of Sheckyus Greenus.

Personally, I think wit is an innate gift; something you’re born with.  God given.   Genetically predisposed by generations of funny simians turned cro-mags turned protein eaters turned homos modernos.

Yessir, I think truly funny people have it in their DNA double helix,  that twisting mobius strip that’s loaded with those specific chromosomes that make us who and what we are.    We’re talking genes, X…Y…and that H one.

H for hilarious.

I’m lucky. I come from funny stock.

I’m told that I was a funny kid. I know when my sense of humor was defined and in a sense, refined. I was 12 and in the 7th grade. By eighth grade, I was something of a younger, more shiksa version of Totie Fields.

My mother is funny. My oldest sister Kathy does physical comedy very well. When Karol, Kathy and I get together and we’ve all had a few drinks, the comedy, doth flow.

I have funny cousins and I had funny aunts and uncles.

Most of them were already old and had lived full lives by the time my parents decided to try for their third and final child.

My father wanted a boy and I was the last chance for him to get that son he always wanted.

What he got was a daughter who had penis envy for about three days when I was seven. That was as close as it got.

Sorry Pops.

But funny family members were strewn all about the Crews and Kendrick sides.

Take my Uncle Ralph and Aunt Peg.

They married late; never had kids. He was Jewish. She wasn’t. They fought and yelled and screamed and to listen to their tirades was truly funny. Saturday Night Live caliber (the Aykroyd/Gilda Radner years, thank you very much!!). I vaguely remember them, but I know that deep down inside, despite the arguments and teasing and name calling, they adored each other. She was the cup to his saucer; he was the reason she woke up every morning.

Peg was short. Peg was also dynamite. Uncle Ralph was the fuse. They were innocuous apart….EXPLOSIVE together.

But they loved…and they lived and they laughed.

Peg was a devoted partner. She’d spent the last part of her life, as Uncle Ralph’s wife and took care of him, especially when he fell ill. In his latter years, he was suffering from renal failure and had been in a coma for almost twol weeks. Peg never left his side. She was at the hospital every day. She held his hand and talked to him as if he was lucid.

One afternoon…it was on a Wednesday….the sun crept through the hospital window and illuminated Ralph’s face and I remember Aunt Peg saying it was as though the light was healing; as if generated by the Good Lord himself specifically for Uncle Ralph.

He slowly opened his eyes, wincing in the sunlight. He blinked a few times, trying to absorb where he was and what was happening to him. He pointed at his oxygen mask and Aunt Peg helped him remove it. His voice was weak and hoarse.

“Where the hell am I?”

“You’re in the hospital Ralph and you’re sick. Your kidneys are failing and you’ve been unconscious for more than a week now”.

Aunt Peg stroked his forehead as she spoke.

“Ah jeez….I don’t feel so good.”

“I know Ralph, but we’re going to get through this. I’m not going anywhere. In fact, I’ve hardly left this hospital room since you were admitted last week”.

Ralph lay there for a minute, gathering his thoughts. He then motioned for Peg to come closer.

“Yes Ralph?”

“You know what, Peg? I just realized something. You’ve been with me all through the bad times. When I got fired from my job at the railroad, you were there to support me. When my business failed, you were there. through bankruptcy, too. And in a way, you were there when I got a piece of shrapnel stuck in my back and it almost nicked my spine because I was reading one of your letters back during the big one, W-W-Two. When we lost the house and my truck, you supported me and here I am, on death’s door, I suppose, and here you are, right by my side…like always”.

“That’s right, Ralph, I’ve always been right here by your side”.

“Well, you know what, Peggy?”

“What Ralph…what is it?”

“Get the hell away from my bed, you goddamn jinx whore!!”

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The bruises on Uncle Ralph’s neck were barely visible after the mortician artfully covered them with make-up..

These are real excuses written by parents and submitted to administrators at several public schools throughout Tennessee (spellings and phrasing have been left intact)

Oh and much love to my brilliant friends and Vols at that great and venerable blog, Six Meat Buffet. I mean no disrespect with this post.

Well, maybe a little…..

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1. My son is under a doctor’s care and should not take PE today. Please execute him.

2. Please exkuce Lisa for being absent she was sick and I i done had her shot.

3. Dear school: please ecsc’s John being absent on jan. 28, 29, 30, 31, 32 and also on the 33.

4. Please excuse Gloria from Jim today. She is administrating something fierce.

5. Please excuse Roland from p.e. for a few days. Yesterday he fell out of a tree and misplaced his hip.

6. John has been absent because he had two teeth taken out of his face.

7. Carlos was absent yesterday because he was playing football. He was hurt in the growing part.

8. Megan could not come to school today because she has been bothered by very close veins.

9. Chris will not be in school cus he has an acre in his side.

10. Please excuse Ray Friday from school. He has very loose vowels.

11. Please excuse Pedro from being absent yesterday. He had (diahre, dyrea, direathe), the sh**s. [note: words in ( )'s were crossed out, as you see here] .

12. Please excuse Tommy for being absent yesterday. He had diarrhea, and his boots leak.

13. Irving was absent yesterday because he missed his bust.

14. Please excuse Jimmy for being. It was his father’s fault.

15. I kept Billie home because she had to go Christmas shopping because I don’t know what size she wear.

16. Please excuse Jennifer for missing school yesterday. We forgot to get the Sunday paper off the porch, and when we found it Monday. We thought it was Sunday.

17. Sally won’t be in school a week from friday. We have to attend her funeral.

18. My daughter was absent yesterday because she was tired. She spent a weekend with the marines.

19. Ple ase excuse Jason for being absent yesterday. He had a cold and could not breed well.

20. Please excuse Mary for being absent yesterday. She was in bed with gramps.

21. Gloria was absent yesterday as she was having a gangover.

22. Please excuse Brenda. She has been sick and under the doctor.

23. Maryann was absent december 11-16, because she had a fever,sore throat, headache and upset stomach. Her sister was also sick,fever an sore throat, her brother had a low grade fever and ached all over. I wasn’t the best either, sore throat and fever. There must be something going around, her father even got hot last night.

What you are about to read (courtesy of a blog which calls itself, MoronLand) is a listing of some of the worst marketing ideas certain Madison Avenue “brain trusts” have ever had.

These are real, by God items that we all know and love and use but somehow their relevance and main purpose got lost in translation when they were marketed in other countries .

These are some of the worst of the worst:

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When Parker Pen marketed a ball-point pen in Mexico, its ads were supposed to have read, “It won’t leak in your pocket and embarrass you.” The company thought that the word “embarazar” (to impregnate) meant to embarrass, so the ad read: “It won’t leak in your pocket and make you pregnant.”..

Scandinavian vacuum manufacturer Electrolux used the following in an American campaign: “Nothing Sucks like an Electrolux.”..

Clairol introduced the “Mist Stick,” a curling iron, into Germany only to find out that “mist” is slang for manure. Not too many people had use for the “Manure Stick.”

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Coors put its slogan, “Turn It Loose,” into Spanish, where it was read as “Suffer From Diarrhea.”

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Pepsi’s “Come Alive With the Pepsi Generation” translated into “Pepsi Brings Your Ancestors Back From the Grave” in Chinese.

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When Gerber started selling baby food in Africa, they used the same packaging as in the US, with the smiling baby on the label. Later they learned that in Africa, companies routinely put pictures on the labels of what’s inside, since many people can’t read.

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Colgate introduced a toothpaste in France called Cue, the name of a notorious porno magazine.

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.Frank Perdue’s chicken slogan, “It takes a strong man to make a tender chicken,” was translated into Spanish as “it takes an aroused man to make a chicken affectionate.”

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.When American Airlines wanted to advertise its new leather first class seats in the Mexican market, it translated its “Fly In Leather” campaign literally, which meant “Fly Naked” (vuela en cuero) in Spanish.

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.An American T-shirt maker in Miami printed shirts for the Spanish market which promoted the Pope’s visit. Instead of “I saw the Pope” (el Papa), the shirts read “I Saw the Potato” (la papa).

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The Dairy Association’s huge success with the campaign “Got Milk?” prompted them to expand advertising to Mexico. It was soon brought to their attention the Spanish translation read “Are You Lactating?”

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General Motors had a very famous fiasco in trying to market the Nova car in Central and South America. “No va” in Spanish that roughly translates to, “It Doesn’t Go”.

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.The Coca-Cola name in China was first read as “Kekoukela”, meaning “Bite the Wax Tadpole” or “Female Horse Stuffed with Wax”, depending on the dialect. Coke then researched 40,000 characters to find a phonetic equivalent “kokoukole”, translating into “Happiness in the Mouth.”

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Three women die together in an accident and go to heaven.

When they get there, St. Peter says, “We only have one rule here in heaven: don’t step on the ducks!”

So they enter heaven, and sure enough, there are ducks all over the place. It is almost impossible not to step on a duck, and although they try their best to avoid them, the first woman accidentally steps on one.

Along comes St. Peter with the ugliest man she ever saw.

St. Peter chains them together and says, “Your punishment for stepping on a duck is to spend eternity chained to this ugly man!”

The next day, the second woman steps accidentally on a duck and along comes St. Peter, who doesn’t miss a thing. With him is another extremely ugly man. He chains them together with the same admonishment as for the first woman.

The third woman has observed all this and, not wanting to be chained for all eternity to an ugly man, is very, VERY careful where she steps.

She manages to go months without stepping on any ducks, but one day St. Peter comes up to her with the most handsome man she has ever laid eyes on … very tall, long eyelashes, muscular, and thin.

St. Peter chains them together without saying a word.

The happy woman says, “I wonder what I did to deserve being chained to you for all of eternity?”

The guy says, “I don’t know about you, but I stepped on a duck!”

Late Sunday morning is my favorite time to go grocery shopping and for two reasons:

1) there are food samples out if you go early enough, thus eliminating the need for breakfast and/or brunch and

2) you can beat the Protestants by going early.

I like to shop at a particular grocery store not far from a very affluent Houston neighborhood. River Oaks is a premier enclave in every sense of the word. It’s residents include doctors, judges, oil barons, venture capitalists with amazing business acumen–and a lot of luck. There are business execs and of course, very successful lawyers. Then, there’s the requisite smattering of dowagers who married well and live next door to divorcees who wisely followed their neighbors’ legal expertise. River Oaks people live in these huge, palatial estates with exquisitely manicured laws and intense security. It’s clear who they’re trying to keep out, but sometimes you wonder what it is they’re trying to keep in.

You can spot a River Oaks resident from a mile away. They have a countenance about them that screams poise and tact and money…a lot of money and all the effortless ease that can buy.

I parked my proletariat chariot in the closest parking space I could find. I got out and started walking toward the front door. I passed a woman…I’d say in her early to mid 30’s and breathtakingly gorgeous. Let me say here and now that I am as heterosexual as Roddy McDowell was gay, but even I can recognize beauty and amazing sex appeal in my own gender. I was struck by her looks. She was perfection. Blond, shoulder-length hair, casually dressed, but incredibly put together. There was an elegance about her…even in blue jeans.

Her face looked flawless; air brushed by nature.

As she exited her late model Mercedes, I had to chuckle. She’s what we Texans call “well healed and well wheeled”. She removed her Hermes Berkin purse from the passenger seat then opened the back door to retrieve the young two-year- old son, the heir apparent to the throne. Not a word was spoken, no sound was made as she plucked her son from his car seat then carried him toward the door in her well toned arms.

Life obviously came easy to her.

She was a classic trophy wife with River Oaks written all over her. I bet her name was Brin or Erin or Meg…some cute and pithy Ivy League meets Magnolia blossoms nick name. I watched her as she walked. She glided. She also seemed to glow in the sunlight. I tried to find a flaw, but couldn’t. And trust me, I looked. The worst thing about her was probably that which didn’t come standard. On closer visual inspection, it was evident that she had manufactured boobs; thighs and hips that were bought and paid for and an ass that was no doubt, leveraged to the hilt–in more ways than one.

She was the kind of woman that would make other women feel insidiously dirty and ugly. I looked down at my legs. I missed a two inch patch of hair on my left shin when I shaved this morning. It glistened in the sunlight and seem to strobe with every step I took as if to read in flashing neon, SLOB…SLOB…SLOB.

I looked down at my hands; there were I swear to God, two more age spots than there were three days ago and my two week old manicure was flaking off. As I walked, I could feel my spine compress and grow porous due to an age-related calcium deficiency. I felt ugly and fat and tacky. I refused to look at my reflection in windows as I entered the store. I don’t think I could’ve handled that.

Once inside, I mercifully forgot about my flaws as I got into my shopping.

Meat….chicken thighs…cheese…Doritios…risotto , couscous and a case of bottled water. I was debating whether I should by a few cans of cheese ravioli—my carb laden passion at three cans for five dollars– when Mrs. Perfect strolled by. In her cart there was nothing healthy stuff; expensive healthy stuff. I scratched that idea and the itch on my chin and was rewarded by feeling a peri-menopausal whisker growing out of it.

Great.

I got everything I needed and checked out. As I wheeled my cart to my car , I saw her; Mrs. Perfect back at her silver colored Benz, glaring impatiently as a Hispanic stock boy was putting her groceries in her trunk. She was barking out orders on where to put things.

“No, not like that!”

She rudely grabbed a bag out of his hand and put it in herself. She then grabbed something out of the plastic bag and just tossed the bag on the ground. She didn’t care who saw her, she just threw it down. The breeze carried it across the parking lot.

“Hurry up. Are you always this slow?”

The stock boy said nothing and continued to dutifully put the bags away.

At the end, she said nothing.. just slammed the trunk down, barely missing his hand and without a thank you, she got back in her car—with her groceries in the trunk; her progeny safely in the backseat, she was heading back to perfection—her beautiful home and her beautiful life.

My heart ached for the stock boy. He was just trying to eek out a living. I parked my cart behind my car and shouted in his direction.

“Excuse me, Sir?”

He stopped.

I reached into my purse and grabbed a couple of dollar bills then gave them to him. He looked confused.

“What’s this for?” he asked.

“Because you deserve it.”

I think he understood. He just smiled, nodded his head and said, “Thank you”.

That’s when the silver Mercedes roared by us and out of parking lot, cutting off a Buick that was headed toward the same exit. The Buick stopped; the Mercedes never did. It’s driver never learned how to give right of way. She probably never had to learn.

She had the 65-thousand dollar car and the eight thousand dollar purse, yet she couldn’t afford to be magnanimous?

“How sad”, I thought to myself as I watched her drive down Westheimer.

I put my groceries in the trunk and got in my car and just sat there for a minute, absorbing all that I’d just witnessed.

I was struck by how ugly some beautiful people can be.

I started my car and drove my hairy legs and chipped nail polish home to happy imperfection….a wonderful life for which I am perfectly suited.