Living the dream ... about ice

(anybody from north of Ringgold or south of Jakin.) I would have declared sainthood for Ray Charles Robinson, of Albany, Georgia (although I think he is already a saint). Broccoli would be labeled a psychedelic drug, meaning that anybody who eats the stuff would have to be out of their mind. And, yes, I would reappoint Cynthia McKinney as Ambassador to Outer Space. If something is working, you don’t mess with it.

So, why have I come to this decision not to run for public office? For one thing, the dry cleaners misplaced my clown suit. What is politics without a bunch of clowns?

I can’t decide on a party affiliation, being that I am liberally conservative when I am not being conservatively liberal. This creates much consternation for wingnuts on both ends of the political spectrum but, happily, it gives their life meaning because it presents them the opportunity to send me a lot of rants in an effort to educate me on the political facts of life. (Did you know that Barack Obama was not born in the United States but in the backseat of a ’49 Packard, and that there are some people who actually take Meryl Streep seriously?)

And even for someone as eminently qualified as I, there is that nagging issue of having to raise money for my campaign. That means sucking up to a bunch of lizard-loafered lobbyists who would claim that their political contributions to my campaign in no way would raise their expectation that I give their company or client any special treatment. They are just being public-spirited citizens interested in seeing democracy in action. (Wink. Wink.) I’d rather kiss a goat.

Even worse, I would have to be nice to Staff graphic

Of the readers who responded to our most recent poll about texting while driving, 11 percent responded Yes they do; 25 percent said Yes, but only at a stop light; and 64 percent said No. Poll results reflect only the opinions of those who chose to participate. people I don’t like. I hate being nice to people I don’t like. That includes those who are intent on undermining our public schools in Georgia, like Alice the WalMart Lady and the Koch Brothers at the American Legislative Exchange Council and their Punch and Judys in the legislature who would suck the bark off a tree stump if so ordered by that sinister crowd.

I would have to be nice to athletic supporters at You-Know-Where Institute of Technology, who keep reminding me that when their scholar-athletes come to Athens for a scrum with the scholar-athletes at UGA, they consider it a home game. They fiddle with their slide rules until the last two minutes when their side somehow manages to win. I hate that.

So, my fellow Americans, while I say thank you for the pledges of support, after consulting with the fearsome Woman Who Shares My Name, I must decline what would no doubt have been a stellar political career. The thought of having broccoli shoved up my nose was admittedly a critical factor in arriving at my decision. She doesn’t kid around about things like that.

But all is not lost. I return now to my familiar role as a modest and much-beloved columnist where I will continue in the spirit of H.L. Mencken, an acerbic editor of the early 20th century. Mencken said his job was to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.

I couldn’t have said it better. Now, send in the clowns. Body found at Polk Memory Gardens believed to be a homicide Cedartown woman named as murder victim at Polk cemetery Aragon man killed in wreck in Rockmart during Wednesday storms Cedartown man jailed on child molestation charge Report: Man hit by train tried to get out of the way Sunday night wreck results in 1 fatality, multiple injuries Second of 2 Rome men who molested a child sentenced The rock comes down at Body Canvas Tattoo Motorcyclist killed Saturday in wreck on Floyd Springs Road Flash flood warning for S. Floyd, N. Polk, SW Bartow 24,219 views 13,884 views 9,763 views 7,040 views 4,674 views 4,642 views 4,514 views 4,280 views 4,001 views 3,924 views

My wife likes to tell the story of how she woke me up one night by punching my arm.

As is sometimes the case when physically assaulted while sleeping, I awoke. “Wh- why did you hit me?” “You know!,” she harshly bellowed, then immediately went back to sleep.

I didn’t, of course. So, a little gun shy, I got out of bed, found a broom, and from a safe distance, tapped her gently on the shoulder with the broom’s edge.

“Uh hum, wake up, please, and explain why you struck me,” I softly suggested.

After brushing her a couple of times, she awoke and offered an explanation.

She was dreaming that I was the coach of the U.S. Olympic basketball team, and, in her dream, I had succumbed to the advances of Heather Locklear. In the dream Heather Locklear was a spy for the Russian basketball team and was trying to get our “team secrets.” I assume the secret was something like: “Hey, Heather, we have this player on our team. His name is Shaquille O’Neal. We’re going to pass him the ball a lot. Be on the lookout for that.”

“Next time you have a crazy dream, don’t punch me please,” I said as I eased back into my pillow. “You interrupted a good dream of mine.” “What was yours about?” “Ice,” I said as I drifted back into the Land of Nod.

While she was having a nightmare about betrayal and international espionage, I was fantasizing about ice — which brings me to my belated point (you’re welcome). Here it is: I like ice.

But ice satisfaction eludes me.

A couple of years ago, when we bought a new refrigerator with an icemaker, I thought my ice needs would be met for years to come. Not so.

Since we plugged in the refrigerator, the icemaker has produced frozen cubes of water very haphazardly. One week, the tray will be full with cubes, then it will go on vacation for two weeks. We have had repairmen look at it. Can’t find anything wrong with it.

Frustrated by the lack of edible ice, I went down to the local convenience store and purchased a bag — which, by the way, may be the softest ice (my preference) known to man. Then, I brought back the storebought ice and placed it in the refrigerator freezer, next to the empty ice tray.

Within an hour, our icemaker miraculously started working again.

Fast forward two weeks. Same scenario. No ice in the tray, go down to the convenience store and purchase some storebought ice — Voila! Ice starts flowing like wine into the tray.

In athletics, and in ice, the best motivation is competition.

Please don’t punch me. Even with spending $1.50 for a bag of ice once a week, I’m enjoying living this dream.