Tag: writing

  • Grandpa AD Mac: The King of the Prank

    Every family has its legends.

    Some are remembered for wisdom.

    Some for business success.

    And some — like my Grandpa AD Mac — are remembered for sheer mischief.

    Grandpa and Grandma Irene built a successful Michigan bean-processing business. When asked how he became so successful? “

    “Simple…it’s our slogan. “Eat our Beans and Let Us Hear from Ya”, but that isn’t why we still talk about him.

    We remember the pranks.

    The one-liners.

    And the stories that still get told at family gatherings decades later.

    Grandpa summed up his feelings about grandchildren perfectly:

    “You kids bring me double happiness — happy when you come, and happy when you go.”

    That pretty much tells you everything you need to know about Grandpa.

    He was quick with a line, fearless with a prank, and always looking for his next victim.

    The Bean Business

    By day, Grandpa and Grandma Mac ran a fast-growing Michigan bean-processing company.

    They worked hard.

    They built a successful business.

    But once Grandpa left the factory, beans took a back seat to entertainment.

    And Grandpa was usually the entertainment.

    The Funeral Lady

    One of Grandpa’s best friends was a small-town funeral director who had a problem.

    There was a little old lady in town who regularly checked the obituaries and attended funerals for people she barely knew.

    She had a routine.

    Sign the guest book.

    Walk up to the casket.

    Lean over the deceased.

    Whisper:

    “I knew him well.”

    Then head straight for the sandwiches and lemonade.

    Apparently, free funeral food was a major part of her retirement plan.

    The funeral director had finally had enough.

    Grandpa had a solution.

    They staged a fake wake.

    Grandpa put on his best suit, climbed into a casket and waited.

    Sure enough, the woman arrived.

    She signed the guest book.

    Grandpa ate his breakfast.

    Walked solemnly toward the casket.

    Leaned over Grandpa.

    And whispered:

    “I knew him well.”

    Grandpa suddenly shot straight up out of the casket.

    “THE HELL YOU DID!”

    I don’t know exactly what happened next.

    But I’m fairly certain she skipped the sandwiches.

    The Hospital Trick

    Grandpa didn’t restrict his pranks to friends and relatives.

    Medical professionals were fair game.

    During one hospital stay, Grandpa received his breakfast tray.

    Eggs.

    Ham.

    Toast.

    And a glass of apple juice.

    Beside the tray, the nurse left a sterile specimen cup.

    “Mr. McIntyre, enjoy your breakfast. We’ll need a urine sample.”

    But he didn’t drink the apple juice.

    Instead, he carefully poured it into the specimen cup.

    A little later, the nurse returned.

    She spotted the full container.

    “Perfect. Thank you.”

    She reached for it.

    Grandpa grabbed it first, held it up to the light and studied it.

    Then he said:

    “Wow. This looks so good, I think I’m going to run it through twice.”

    And drank it.

    I would have paid good money to see that nurse’s face.

    The Great Denture Swap

    But Grandpa’s masterpiece may have happened at a Michigan Bean Association convention at a historic resort.

    These conventions supposedly involved beans.

    From the stories I heard, beans occupied approximately 15 minutes of the agenda.

    The rest involved drinking, joking, storytelling and harassing competitors.

    One night, around 3:00 in the morning, Grandpa slipped the front-desk clerk twenty dollars and somehow acquired the master key.

    Then he went to work.

    Room by room, Grandpa quietly entered while everyone slept.

    His mission?

    Swap their dentures.

    Apparently, the Michigan bean industry had a surprisingly high percentage of false teeth.

    The next morning, chaos erupted.

    Hungover bean executives woke up, reached for their dentures and discovered that their teeth no longer fit.

    Some apparently thought they’d had a stroke.

    Others thought something had happened to their jaws overnight.

    Eventually somebody asked the obvious question:

    “Where’s Mac?”

    The mystery was solved.

    But there was still one problem.

    Nobody knew whose teeth belonged to whom.

    So all the dentures were placed on a table in the hotel dining room.

    Imagine breakfast.

    Coffee.

    Eggs.

    Toast.

    And thirty sets of used teeth lined up next to the silverware.

    One by one, grown men walked around the table trying on dentures until somebody yelled:

    “These are mine!”

    Disgusting?

    Absolutely.

    Ridiculous?

    Completely.

    Pure Grandpa Mac.

    Closing Time

    Grandpa also had no patience for guests who overstayed their welcome.

    After several hours of listening to somebody discuss their retirement account, gas mileage, medical problems or grandchildren who definitely should have been starting quarterback, Grandpa had a solution.

    He’d look across the room at Grandma and announce:

    “Irene, we need to go to bed so these people can go home!”

    Subtlety was not one of Grandpa’s strengths.

    But it worked.

    Grandpa’s Real Legacy

    Grandpa and Grandma built a successful business.

    That was an accomplishment.

    But decades later, nobody sits around telling stories about how many bags of beans they processed in 1963.

    We tell the story about the woman at the funeral.

    We tell the story about the apple juice.

    And we definitely tell the story about a dining-room table covered with dentures.

    Grandpa understood something long before the rest of us did:

    Life is more fun when you give people something to laugh about.

    His bean business may have fed a lot of people.

    But Grandpa AD Mac gave our family something that lasted even longer.

    A lifetime supply of stories.

  • I Participated in a Triage at the ER

    Going to the emergency room used to be simple.

    You walked in and said:

    “I’m sick.”

    Someone looked at you and said:

    “Okay. Sit down.”

    Not anymore.

    Today, before anyone determines whether you’re actually going to live, you have to survive Registration.

    First Emergency: Registration

    You walk up to the desk.

    “Name?”

    “John.”

    “Date of birth?”

    I give it to her.

    “Address?”

    I give her that.

    “Insurance?”

    Hand over the card.

    Then the questions begin.

    Emergency contact?

    Primary doctor?

    Pharmacy?

    Medications?

    Allergies?

    Previous surgeries?

    Religious preference?

    Living will?

    Power of attorney?

    At this point, I’m expecting:

    “Who was your third-grade teacher, and what was the name of your first dog?”

    Then they hand you an electronic pad.

    “Sign here.”

    I sign.

    “Here.”

    Sign.

    “Here.”

    Sign.

    After approximately 100 signatures, I finally ask:

    “What exactly am I agreeing to?”

    Apparently, everything.

    Treatment.

    Insurance.

    Billing.

    Privacy.

    Release of information.

    And something called HIPAA.

    HIPAA

    HIPAA is designed to protect your medical privacy.

    Apparently, before HIPAA, hospitals were just wandering around telling everybody:

    “Hey, did you hear what Voll has?”

    Now they can’t tell anyone anything.

    Including, occasionally, you.

    I picture a courtroom.

    “Mr. Voll, how do you plead?”

    “Not guilty.”

    “Your Honor, due to HIPAA regulations, we’re unable to tell the defendant what he’s charged with.”

    “Excellent. Proceed.”

    Then I Was Invited to a Triage

    Eventually, a nurse came out and said:

    “Mr. Voll, we’re ready for your triage.”

    My what?

    At 75 years old, I thought I had heard just about everything.

    Apparently not.

    I looked around.

    There was a nurse.

    There was me.

    I wasn’t sure who the third person was supposed to be.

    Then I realized she said triage.

    Not threesome.

    That was disappointing.

    A triage, I discovered, is where they determine how quickly you need medical attention.

    Blood pressure.

    Temperature.

    Pulse.

    Oxygen.

    Symptoms.

    Pain level.

    “When did this start?”

    “How severe is your pain from one to ten?”

    That’s always an interesting question.

    What does 10 mean?

    Shark attack?

    Kidney stone?

    Notre Dame losing to USC?

    Give me some parameters.

    Now Let’s Talk Insurance

    Eventually you enter another branch of modern medicine:

    Health insurance vocabulary.

    Office visit.

    Co-pay.

    Deductible.

    Co-insurance.

    Out-of-pocket maximum.

    EOB.

    An EOB is an Explanation of Benefits.

    Which is interesting because after reading one, I generally need someone to explain the Explanation of Benefits.

    The hospital charges $8,000.

    The insurance company says it’s worth $1,700.

    They pay $1,100.

    You owe $347.62.

    And apparently $4,852.38 simply disappears into the same place as unmatched socks.

    Then there’s the out-of-pocket maximum.

    That sounds reassuring.

    Until you discover your pocket apparently extends all the way down to your ankle.

    Medical People Also Speak in Code

    Doctors and nurses love abbreviations.

    BP.

    EKG.

    CBC.

    MRI.

    CT.

    ENT.

    GI.

    ICU.

    ER.

    PCP.

    After a while, you begin wondering whether you’ve entered a hospital or bought a vowel on Wheel of Fortune.

    Then the doctor walks in and says something like:

    “Your CBC looks okay, but I’d like a CMP, maybe a CT, and we’ll follow up with your PCP.”

    I nod intelligently.

    “Absolutely.”

    I have no idea what he just said.

    But at my age, I’ve learned something important:

    When a doctor uses more than three abbreviations in one sentence, just nod.

  • Christmas, Elton, and the Reindeer

    Mom was a Christmas freak.

    Hundreds of lights. Two trees. Stockings everywhere. Christmas music nonstop. And enough relatives to violate several fire codes.

    Even Bobo, our ¾ Collie, ¼ German Shepherd, wandered around with mistletoe hanging from his collar.

    Mom also solved the annual in-law Christmas war brilliantly.

    She held Christmas twice—Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

    Same food. Same drinks. Same presents. Same relatives telling the same stories.

    If that didn’t work for your in-laws, it might be time to fold them back into the community.

    Christmas dinner was the one formal event in our otherwise completely informal family. Sport coats, dresses, cocktails by the fireplace, piano-playing nieces and nephews, followed by Mom’s traditional beef stroganoff.

    This went peacefully for nearly 40 years.

    Then came Elton John Rocket Man.

    Elton was my Bouvier des Flandres—a huge, shaggy Belgian sheepdog who looked like a cuddly bear.

    The grandkids begged me to bring him to Christmas.

    My wife at the time had a prediction:

    “Absolutely not. He’ll screw something up, and it’ll be my fault.”

    I promised Elton would stay downstairs with the kids.

    She reluctantly agreed.

    For a while, everything went beautifully.

    Even Mrs. C, our 98-year-old great-aunt twice removed, was comfortably settled beside the fireplace. Next to her were the stockings, the Nativity scene and a decorated Styrofoam reindeer.

    Then Elton escaped.

    He crept down the hallway, peeked into the living room and spotted the reindeer.

    Game on.

    Elton charged behind the sofa, slid behind Mrs. C and mounted that Styrofoam reindeer like he’d been waiting for Christmas all year.

    Mrs. C calmly tapped her cane.

    “I think we have a problem over here.”

    It took two of us to pry Elton off his new girlfriend.

    My wife was ready to launch herself through the thermal-pane windows.

    “We’re going home. NOW.”

    “Just let us get through dinner.”

    I locked Elton downstairs and hid the violated reindeer in the coat closet.

    Crisis over.

    Or so I thought.

    Dinner ended. Everyone bundled up to leave. Elton was standing innocently in the foyer.

    Then someone opened the coat closet.

    Elton spotted the reindeer.

    Round two.

    He charged like a linebacker, bowling over poor 98-year-old Mrs. C and heading straight for his Christmas sweetheart.

    The reindeer didn’t stand a chance.

    Neither did Mrs. C.

    Once again, it took a team effort to separate dog from décor.

    My family howled.

    My wife didn’t.

    On the way home, I got the speech.

    You know the one.

    Eventually—like all challenging in-laws—

    she was folded back into the community.

  • It All Started with Bill and Ginny

    Of course, every crazy family has to start somewhere.

    Ours started with Bill and Ginny.

    They met on a blind date.

    Dad was quiet and passive. Mom was the life of the party—a little crazy and a great storyteller.

    After their third date, Mom started calling Dad “Wallet.”

    Dad couldn’t figure it out.

    Did she think he had money? Came from money?

    Finally, after several weeks, he asked:

    “Why do you keep calling me Wallet?”

    Mom stared at him.

    “How could a family with the last name Fold name their son Bill?”

    There was only one problem.

    His last name was Voll.

    Didn’t matter.

    For the next 60-plus years, every card Mom gave Dad was signed:

    Wallet.

    The Drake Hotel

    Mom and Dad didn’t exactly master the Catholic rhythm method.

    Nancy was conceived on their honeymoon, and the rest of us started arriving one after another.

    Years later, we asked Mom:

    “How did you end up with 11 kids?”

    She explained.

    “After Nancy was born, I had three months of no sleep, diapers and baby food. I needed a break.

    “So Dad and I would go to the Drake Hotel in Chicago for the weekend.

    “And every time I came home from the Drake, I was pregnant.”

    Apparently the Drake had an exceptionally effective turn-down service.

    Years later, we actually went back to the Drake bar for a conception celebration.

    And every Father’s Day we’d tell Dad:

    “Thank God you didn’t take piano lessons—or none of us would be here.”

    Then Came Nancy

    Nancy was the oldest.

    And apparently responsible for training the rest of us.

    At seven years old, she taught her younger siblings how to fill empty bleach bottles with water, add dry ice, screw on the caps, run—

    and watch them explode.

    At the next parent-teacher conference, the nun told Mom:

    “Nancy is a wonderful student. Very well behaved. But she has the wildest imagination.”

    Apparently the class had been asked what exciting things they’d done over summer vacation.

    Nancy answered:

    “I taught my brothers and sisters how to blow up bleach bottles.”

    It wasn’t imagination.

    Nancy Finds Religion

    Nancy also took her Catholic education seriously.

    She’d been taught Catholicism was the road to Heaven, so she worried about our Jewish neighbors, the Altmans.

    She brought them cookies because, as she explained:

    “They’re not going to make the bus.”

    Then came Good Friday.

    Nancy had us build a wooden cross and plant it in the backyard.

    Next she recruited Kim, our seven-year-old Protestant neighbor.

    She stripped him down to his shorts, tied him to the cross and smeared ketchup across his stomach.

    And who had a perfect view of the Crucifixion?

    The Jewish neighbors we’d just given cookies to.

    The Backyard Funeral Home

    Nancy also conducted funerals.

    Lots of funerals.

    Dogs. Cats. Birds. Chipmunks. Turtles. Goldfish. Guinea pigs.

    Even an alligator.

    Shoeboxes became caskets. We became mourners.

    Nancy conducted full funeral Masses wearing a bedsheet for vestments, drinking grape juice from a wineglass and distributing Wonder Bread communion.

    By the time we eventually sold the house, the backyard had so many graves it practically needed its own cemetery map.

    We had to resod the whole thing.

    And remember—

    Nancy was only the first of eleven.

  • Date an Undesirable, See the World

    Dating in a family of 11 was an adventure in itself.

    With six girls and five boys, dating sometimes became a family partnership. The girls attended an all-girls Catholic academy and Catholic college. The boys went to Notre Dame. Eventually, one brother married one of our sisters’ roommates, and three of the girls married Notre Dame guys.

    Apparently, we didn’t believe in looking too far from home.

    The $1 Chaperone

    One of the girls I met and dated was from Cuba, and she was beautiful. We hit it off and dated for three years.

    But with nice comes a price.

    Her parents had two mandates.

    First, she could date only good Catholic boys.

    I passed that test.

    Second, there had to be a chaperone on every date.

    That was a little more challenging.

    Fortunately, I had ten siblings.

    I offered one of them $1 to ride along, sit in the back seat while I picked up my date, and make sure her parents saw that their daughter was properly chaperoned.

    It worked beautifully.

    For a while.

    Soon $1 wasn’t enough. The going rate climbed to $1.25, then $1.50, then $2.

    By the six-month mark, even $2 couldn’t get me a chaperone.

    I was crushed.

    Then Christmas came—and so did a miracle.

    My family gave me a folding dummy dressed in a Notre Dame sweatshirt and stocking cap.

    Problem solved.

    Before picking up my date, I’d pull the dummy out of the trunk, unfold him, put him in the back seat and fasten his seat belt.

    There he sat, faithfully chaperoning us.

    It worked like a charm.

    For three years.

    The Girl Who Was Never Going Anywhere

    Mom was concerned about my sister Jenna.

    She had no interest in dating or proms. While the rest of us were going out, Jenna was perfectly happy at home in her jeans and saddle shoes, sitting at the dining room table.

    Mom worried:

    “She’s never going to meet anyone, get married, go anyplace or enjoy life.”

    Then we boys brought a few guys home from college to party after a football game.

    One was a quiet accounting major with dark-rimmed glasses and a pocket protector containing two pencils and a pen.

    He went gaga over Jenna.

    They got married.

    He quickly moved up the corporate ladder, eventually becoming a senior vice president with a global insurance firm.

    And while the rest of us live modestly and plan a trip to an amusement park in Ohio…

    Jenna is in Monaco on a Mediterranean cruise.

    The Mom Smell Test

    Whether we liked it or not, anyone we dated eventually had to pass Mom’s smell test.

    If Mom decided a boyfriend or girlfriend was an “undesirable,” she could be remarkably cunning and creative in trying to uproot the relationship.

    My sister Susan dated Lawrence for four years.

    Lawrence did not fit Mom’s preferred profile.

    Mom tried coercion.

    Grounding.

    Strict curfews.

    The silent treatment.

    Nothing worked.

    So Mom changed tactics.

    “Susan, we think it would be a great experience for you to spend six months abroad in a student exchange program.”

    Susan jumped at the opportunity.

    Off to England she went.

    Six months later she came home.

    And went right back to Lawrence.

    Mom wasn’t finished.

    “Susan, here’s another wonderful opportunity to learn and travel in Germany.”

    Off to Germany she went.

    She came home.

    Back to Lawrence.

    By now, the rest of us had figured out Mom’s international dating strategy.

    One of us finally asked:

    “Susan, are you really going to break up with Lawrence?”

    Susan had her answer:

    “Yes. As soon as I get back from Norway next year.”

    And that became one of the great lessons of growing up in our family:

    Date an undesirable. See the world!

    You can’t make this stuff up.

  • Will Dancing Reduce My Cholesterol?

    At my latest six-month Medicare checkup, I passed the memory test with flying colors.

    “Dog… Table… Water.”
    Three for three.

    Unfortunately, my cholesterol test wasn’t nearly as impressive.
    My doctor looked over his glasses and said, “John, you’ve got to get that cholesterol down. A low-carb diet and exercise are your best friends. Are you exercising?”

    “Absolutely.”

    “Great. How often? “

    “Every day“

    “How Far?”

    (Didn’t want to compromise my integrity) “to the refrigerator”

    He didn’t even smile.

    “Exercise doesn’t have to be boring,” he said. “Find something you enjoy. Dancing is one of the best forms of exercise.”

    Now that sounded promising.

    Carol and I both love music. Back in the late ’70s I considered myself a certified Disco Duck. We figured dancing would lower my cholesterol and give us something fun to do together.

    A few days later we spotted an ad on a paper placemat at a local diner.

    FREE INTRODUCTORY DANCE CLASS

    Perfect.

    We walked in expecting couples gliding across the floor to music from the ’50s, ’60s and ’70s. That would be great for us to dance the night away.

    But..

    Instead, we found about 35 women… and maybe 15 men.

    The instructor clapped her hands.

    “Welcome everyone! Tonight we’re going to learn… the Box Step!”

    The room immediately became…
    “One… two… three… together!”
    “One… two… three… together!”

    Best I could do was a trapazoid.

    I danced with Carol once and stumbled with my Trapezoid steps with 32 other women

    I looked at Carol.

    Carol looked at me.

    Neither of us said a word.

    We were thinking exactly the same thing.

    This dog don’t hunt.

    We quietly backed toward the door before anyone could recruit me as the 33rd Dance Partner

    Ten minutes later we were sitting at the Tiki Bar.

    The band was playing oldies.

    We ordered margaritas.

    Before long we were dancing, laughing, and singing along to songs we actually knew.

    Cholesterol: No change.

    Margaritas and dancing to the oldies? Off the Charts


  • Are you a Felix or Oscar?

    Many of us are north of 50 and have had enough time to determine. Who are the Oscars and who are the Felixes in your family?  You might recall the hilarious series “The Odd Couple” , 2 divorced guys living together with Felix being the perfectionist and Oscar the slob and the non stop adventures with this type of relationship. 

    Here is an overview of the respective personalities: 

    Hotel 

    Felix

    • Checks in for one night.
    • Hangs up every shirt.
    • Folds socks and underwear into perfect little squares.
    • Makes the bed before leaving for breakfast.

    Oscar

    • Staying one month.
    • Half the clothes are still in the suitcase.
    • The other half are decorating the floor.
    • Can’t find his toothbrush by Day Two.

    Car

    Felix

    • Washes it every Saturday.
    • Gas tank never below half.
    • Replaces floor mats and changes oil monthly.
    • Registration and proof of insurance documents – Laminated in a zippered pouch 

    Oscar

    • Running on fumes.
    • Three coffee cups of stains on the seats 
    • #10 tattered envelope has 4 past years of registrations with the latest expired 
    • Petrified McDonalds fries – 2019 under the seat 

    Refrigerator

    Felix

    • Labels leftovers with description, date and time. 
    • Everything organized by expiration date, carbs and calories 
    • Ice maker produces  perfectly square, clear ice

    Oscar

    • Opens the refrigerator, sniffs, “ Still smells okay.”
    • Jar of jam with a thank you note from Jesus to the 3 wiseman
    • Fruit drawer is a penicillin factory 
    • Ice maker is a glacier 

    Remote Control

    Felix

    Always puts it back.

    Oscar

    Where’s Waldo? 

    My wife is pure Felix and I am a pure card carrying Oscar. 

    She makes sure there are 2 softener sheets in the dryer,  

    I contribute a couple sharpies quarterly 

    The kitchen and dishes sparkle,

     My empty, unwashed smoothie cup will need a sandblaster 

    Her clothes are perfectly separated and folded in a drawer

     Mine looks like waste management trash day

    Now it’s your turn.

    Which one are you?

    Better yet…

    Who is the biggest Oscar or Felix in your family?  An example? 

    I

  • Business Insanity: Meetings

    Business Insanity: Meetings

    After 50+ years in corporate America, small business, real estate, consulting and business brokerage, I’ve learned one thing:

    Companies can survive almost anything—including their own management.

    I’ve seen backstabbing politics, corporate theater, ridiculous “best practices” and management decisions that make you wonder how anybody stays in business.

    So I’m starting a new CrazyFamily series:

    Business Insanity — You Can’t Make This Stuff Up.

    And where better to begin than one of corporate America’s greatest inventions:

    The Meeting

    Meetings may be the most expensive, least productive activity in business.

    They never appear on the profit-and-loss statement, but think about it: put 15 well-paid people in a conference room for two hours and you’ve just spent a small fortune accomplishing something that probably could have been handled in a three-paragraph email.

    Dave Barry once joked that if you had to identify the reason humanity will never achieve its full potential in one word, that word would be:

    Meetings.

    There Is No Random Seating

    Watch people enter a conference room.

    The boss takes the head of the table.

    The loyal lieutenants take the seats closest to the boss, carefully positioned according to seniority and established brownie points.

    These are sacred seats.

    It’s easier to get Packers season tickets than to take a brown-noser’s chair at a staff meeting.

    At the far end sit The Rebels.

    They’re the ones asking:

    “Why are we doing this?”

    “This isn’t going to work.”

    “Why don’t we hire more people?”

    And somewhere in the middle are the new employees who haven’t yet figured out that they accidentally sat in someone’s chair.

    They’ll only make that mistake once.

    Let the Meeting Begin

    Nobody arrives on time.

    Therefore, the meeting doesn’t start on time.

    There may or may not be an agenda.

    Finally, the leader arrives 12 minutes late.

    “Sorry. Important call.”

    Of course.

    Then comes the introduction of the new employee.

    “Let’s go around the room. Everyone introduce yourself, tell us a little about your background and what you do here.”

    And we’re off.

    Meet Ralph

    “Hi, I’m Ralph. I’ve been married to Jennifer for seven years. We have two kids, Ralphy, six, and Rachel, three. I’ve been with Acme for five years in customer service.

    This is a great place to work.”

    Translation:

    I hate my job. My boss drives me nuts. I’ve been turned down for promotion four times. Rachel was an uh-oh. Money’s tight. My marriage is strained. I’ve used up my free employee counseling and I’m now watching therapy videos on YouTube.

    “Thanks, Ralph.”

    Next.

    And Now, an Important Corporate Update

    Sales are down.

    Profits are down.

    Therefore, everyone needs to tighten their belts.

    Fortunately, management has developed a comprehensive recovery plan.

    The thermostat can no longer go below 75° in the summer or above 65° in the winter.

    If you’re uncomfortable, adjust your wardrobe.

    But remember the dress code.

    The Christmas party has also been streamlined.

    Spouses can still attend—for $40 in advance or $48 at the door.

    And we’ve made some exciting menu improvements:

    Goodbye beef tenderloin and lobster.

    Hello flank steak and tuna casserole.

    Unfortunately, there will be no Christmas bonuses this year.

    But don’t worry.

    Every employee will receive an eight-pound margarine-ball turkey from Walmart.

    Management Is Sacrificing Too

    Employees may no longer park in the first two rows.

    Those spaces are now reserved for management.

    So while walking six blocks from the employee parking lot, please take a moment to admire the beautiful new stainless-steel enclosure protecting the CEO’s brand-new Mercedes convertible.

    It arrives today.

    “Any questions?”

    Silence.

    Nobody has questions.

    Everybody just wants to go back to work.

    But We’re Not Done Yet

    The boss looks toward HR.

    “I’ll now turn the meeting over to Human Resources for our mandatory quarterly Sexual Harassment PowerPoint presentation.”

    Suddenly…

    The projector doesn’t work.

    A desperate call goes out for Hector, the AV guy.

    But Hector is at the dentist for the rest of the afternoon.

    The presentation has to be postponed.

    For the first time all day, morale improves dramatically.

    There is a God.

    That evening, the guys take Hector out for a beer.

    The Lesson

    After more than 50 years in business, I’ve attended thousands of meetings.

    I’ve forgotten most of what was discussed.

    But I have learned one valuable management principle:

    Sometimes the most productive person in the company is the guy who didn’t fix the projector.

    Thanks, Hector.

    Till we “meet” again.

    Family Life

    Did He Spell It Right? A Catholic Mom, a Can of Paint, and a Brick Wall Showdown .

    The Rhythm Method

    On the Road

    We Took a 1957 Cadillac Hearse to the Prom and Became a Legend

    There’s a Goat on My Corvette

    School Days & Lessons

    Confessions of a Catholic School Survivor

    Funny & Crazy

    My Sheep Dog Screwed up Christmas

    Memorable Family Legends: The Mischief of Grandpa A.D Mac

    When St Christopher Got Fired and Reassigned to Limbo (With a Goat Pension)

    Those God -Awful Christmas Letters

    Family Stories

    We Took a 1957 Cadillac Hearse to the Prom

    The Goat, the Corvette and the Dumpster Surprise

    Did He Spell It Right?

    Christmas, Elton, and the Reindeer

    Grandpa AD Mac – The King of the Prank

    Those God-Awful Christmas Letters

    Why St Christopher Got Fired

    It All Started with Bill and Ginny

    Confessions of a Catholic School Survivor

    Date an Undesirable, See the World,

    Life & Laughs

    Are you a Felix or Oscar?

    Getting Older

    Will Dancing Reduce My Cholesterol

    The Oddities of Funerals — And Why We Celebrate Life Instead

    I Participated in a Triage at the ER

    Business Insanity

    Mergers & Acquisitions — “Nothing Is Going to Change… Right?”

    Welcome to Management – That’ll Cost You $75,000”

    : Meetings

    Other Insanity

    When Trump Leaves Office, America Could Face a Mental-Health Crisis!!

    II Took a Trip to DC

    “Who’s Going to Make This Stuff?” America has $2 Trillion to Build.

    The Humor in Funerals: A Unique Perspective

    Real Stories from the Front Line of Business

  • Why St. Christopher Got Fired

    With over 500 years of combined Catholic education, our family became familiar with hundreds of saints. But by far, St. Christopher — the patron saint of travelers — was our favorite.

    His medal was firmly clipped to the visor in our 1963 Volkswagen bus, guarding our chaos-filled family road trips. We survived countless outings with no seat belts, no baby seats, and dashboard knobs that looked like medieval weapons.

    Infants laid across seats, kids leaned out windows pumping their arms at semis, hoping for a honk. Our only real “safety system”? A parent’s right arm flinging across the front passenger seat during a sudden stop.


    🚐 Divine Road Trips and VW Chaos

    We thank St. Christopher for helping us make it to A&W Root Beer every Friday night. Dad would pile us in, along with a few neighbor kids, and off we’d go — standing on the seat, heads poking out of the fold-back canvas top, giggling like maniacs.

    One sharp turn? One quick stop?
    Let’s just say, if Dad made those same trips today, he’d be facing 10 to 20 years… with no chance of parole.


    🙏 Who Was St. Christopher?

    If you’re not familiar with the man, Christopher was a tall, strong, good-hearted giant who famously carried travelers (including, allegedly, baby Jesus) across raging rivers.

    For nearly 2,000 years, he was the go-to saint for anyone hitting the road, the sea, or the sky. Pilgrims, sailors, truckers, and your Aunt Marge heading to Atlantic City — all prayed to St. Chris.

    But then came 1969.


    🧾 The Holy HR Department Breaks the News

    That’s when the Heavenly HR Department dropped a bombshell:
    St. Christopher was let go.

    🗂️ The Exit Interview

    The meeting was brief — just Jesus, St. Peter (VP of Operations), and Christopher.

    Jesus:
    “Chris, buddy. You’ve done great work. Really. For 20 centuries you’ve had an impeccable record. Zero accidents during donkey rides in the Judean hills? Impressive.”

    St. Peter:
    “But… with seat belts, airbags, and GPS, your division is, well… obsolete.”

    Jesus:
    “Thanks for your loyal service, but we’re downsizing. No more feast days. No more dashboard gigs. And we need your desk cleared by Pentecost.”

    Christopher:
    “Wait, what?! You’re firing me?”

    Jesus:
    “Not firing. Just… reassigning you to Limbo. Think of it as a peaceful cul-de-sac in the afterlife. Great schools, low taxes.”

    St. Peter:
    “And we’ll continue your pension — two oxen and a goat per month. But you’ll need to sign this NDA. We can’t have the other saints knowing. Morale’s already low since we made St. Valentine cover HR.”


    📜 The Official Reason? “Lack of Evidence”

    According to Vatican records, Christopher was removed due to “lack of historical evidence.”
    Seriously? After 20 centuries of divine service?

    Turns out, he’d already been quietly phased out. His last known miracle? Helping a honeymoon couple in a ’68 Ford Pinto avoid a possum in rural West Virginia.


    🛰️ Why Pray When You’ve Got Waze?

    It’s tough to compete with modern tech. Today, we’ve got GPS, lane assist, emergency braking, and Siri — who’ll gladly reroute you away from rivers or possums.

    Even your dashboard has better spiritual protection than poor St. Chris ever had.


    🐿️ And What About St. Francis?

    Christopher had one final question during the meeting:

    Chris:
    “Why me? I’ve been around longer than Frank of Assisi! That guy just talks to squirrels.”

    St. Peter:
    “Francis is booming. We’re onboarding millions of animals a day — rescues, pets, endangered species. Nobody else wants that department. It smells like wet fur and despair.”

    Jesus:
    “Honestly, we’d love to fire him. But he keeps bringing stray cats to meetings.”


    🏖️ Retirement in Limbo

    So where is St. Christopher now?

    He signed the NDA and moved quietly to Limbo. These days, he:

    • Plays celestial pickleball
    • Leads ghost tours of old highway rest stops
    • Occasionally haunts glove compartments in vintage Winnebagos

    If you spot a St. Christopher medal on someone’s dashboard, now you know:
    It’s a relic from a time when divine roadside assistance meant more than flashing hazard lights and Bluetooth.

    But hey — if your GPS ever leads you into a river, you might still want to whisper a little prayer to Chris. Just in case.


    🏷️ Suggested Tags:

    #StChristopher #CatholicHumor #FamilyRoadTrips #FaithAndFunny #SaintsAndStories #YouCantMakeThisStuffUp

  • Those God Awful Christmas Letters

    🎄 From Our (Slightly Broken) Home to Yours…

    Every year, we get those cheery, glitter-dusted Christmas letters from friends whose kids all got into Ivy League schools, started tech companies from the garage, and won gold at the Junior Olympics. Meanwhile, over here…

    We thought we’d balance things out.

    📬 The 2024 Highlights from the House of Jinny and Bill:

    We love Holiday Traditions but this year’s tree fell over three times. We just left it leaning.

    The Family Minivan: Still running, even after catching fire briefly in July.

    👣 Nancy

    Our eldest got an ingrown toenail that turned into sepsis. Four ER trips later, she’s now banned from pedicures and we’re banned from that urgent care.

    👓 Bill Jr.

    Flunked his GED for the third time. Mystery solved: He couldn’t read the test. His Walmart glasses had been waiting for pickup since February.

    📚 Mike

    Got caught with a Playboy in his backpack. Earned a 5-day suspension. Two local priests kindly offered to “dispose” of the evidence. Suspiciously enthusiastic about it.

    🎖 Sally

    Made the world finals in baton twirling! Unfortunately, her final twirl knocked her out cold. Severe concussion. Now twirls from a seated position.

    💍 Thomas/Thomasina

    Our youngest transitioned this year — now known as Thomasina and married Melanie in June! We’re thrilled. Only odd part? 2024 DNA testing revealed… Thomasina is not biologically ours. So technically, we’re very accepting neighbors.

    🐾 Bobo the Dog

    For the 12th year in a row, got violently ill over the holidays. Possibly from eating 24 marshmallow Santas. No chocolate this year — just melted plastic.

    And no, no one got into Harvard.

    🎁 In Closing…

    We may not have stock portfolios, gold medals, or viral cello prodigies, but we’ve got plenty of laughs (and ER co-pays). From our delightfully dysfunctional family to yours — have a warm, safe, and hopefully uneventful holiday.

    Love,

    Jinny and Bill