Barton Grover Howe - Cats with Thumbs: A Beach Slapped Humor Collection (2010)

Cats with Thumbs

A Beach Slapped Humor Collection: 2010

Barton GroverHowe

Other Works by Barton GroverHowe

FICTION:

Beach Slapped: A Surfland Novel

The Beach is Back: A Surfland Novel

Total Beach: A Surfland Novel (2013)

Parrot Eyes Lost: A Surfland Day Trip

NONFICTION:

Flying Starfish of Death: A Beach SlappedHumor Column (2008)

Addicted to Foo-Foos: A Beach Slapped HumorColumn (2009)

Cats with Thumbs: A Beach Slapped HumorColumn (2010)

MermaidThe Other Other White Meat: ABeach Slapped Humor Column (2011)

CopyrightInformation

CATS WITH THUMBS: A BEACH SLAPPED HUMORCOLLECTION: 2010

Copyright 2012 by BartonGrover Howe

Published 2012 by BGHPublishing

Cover design copyright 2012 by BGH Publishing

Cover design by SharalynHay

All rightsreserved.

Smashwords Edition

No part of this e-book maybe used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without writtenpermission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied incritical articles or reviews. For information, contact BGHPublishing at .

While the author has madeevery attempt to provide accurate contact information at the timeof publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes anyresponsibility for errors or for changes that occur afterpublication. Further, the publisher does not have any control overand does not assume any responsibility for author or third-partywebsites or their content.

This book is dedicated to my wife and mystudents,

whose antics provide me endless fodder.

Thanks for not suing me.

Acknowledgements

Id like to thank my principal at Taft HighSchool, Scott Reed, who reads my columns so he can be both amusedand proactive when it comes to understanding why people are fillinghis voice mail with angry phone calls. Having once called me aP.R. Nightmare, it is his legal obligation to follow the FirstAmendment and let me do some of the silly things that I do. It isnot his obligation to be my friend and I appreciate both.

January:

February:

March:

April:

May:

June:

July:

August:

September:

October:

November:

December:

Introduction

After having written some 100 columns, as awriter you start to relax a bit. Knowing that its probablysomething you can continue to do for at least 100 more, there issome solace in knowing that the enormous revenue stream that isyour writing wage will continue to provide for your worldly needs(three foo-foo drinks a week with a decent tip.)

There is also a bit of pride in being ableto look back and honestly tell yourself youve never written a dog.Balanced, of course, against the fear that having had that success,your number will be up, soon the bell will toll, the cows willfinally come home, and someone who really hates clichs will beatyou senseless in an alley.

Fortunately, I have dont have to worryabout that because the very first column I wrote in 2010 rang thebells and very much left me with the feeling one gets when a homeis indeed full of cows. I didnt really get it when I wrote it,readers told me later on they didnt get it when they read it, andas I assemble this compilation I regretfully find distance haschanged neither assessment. All I can say is this: I wrote it threeweeks out, knowing I would be on a cruise laden with Foo-foo drinksthat week. I didnt want to miss a column because I was deeplyenmeshed in a Malibu-induced nap.

The good news is all my columns get betterfrom there. They have to; thats the virtue of the first onesucking so much. Thats not to say theyre all perfect; some arefunnier than others depending on your personal taste and how muchyou sympathize with my being angry with the world half thetime.

But they are relentless, non-stop, 52 weeksa year: I have never missed one. Not even the time I gotpancreatitis and was hospitalized for three days. Writing flat onmy back, half-unconscious because of the painkillers, I got itdone.

For one thing I had to. A doctor told me itmight be my love of Foo-foo drinks that caused my condition in thefirst place, and it seemed a little hypocritical to miss work, soto speak, because of a lifestyle I had so thoroughly embraced. (Ihave to imagine this is why you see incoherent Kardashians at somany public functions.)

More importantly, however,I think it was one of my funniest columns ever. (Its in my secondbook: A pancreatic panacea and other organs Ill miss,Aug. 12, 2009.) Living proof that Nietzsche missed the point; whatdoesnt kill you also makes you funnier.

Seems worth it to me.

Barton Grover Howe

Lincoln City, Oregon

bartongroverhowe@gmail.com

A crazy story, and a true one thats even better

Jan. 6, 2010

When it came time to write this column, Iwas out of the country on a cruise to the Mexican Riviera. Joyfullysoaking up the sunshine, I reveled in the thought that everyone Iknew was back in Lincoln City, cold, wet and miserable.

(Admit it: you do it on vacation, too: mockeveryone whos back at home, not enjoying life like you are. Andthe fact that pretty much every place outside of Juneau, Alaska, iswarmer and drier than Lincoln City in January doesnt hurt,either.)

As such I had to write this column severalweeks in advance. Thus prohibiting me from tying it in to currenttopical matters like whatever Tigers up to, whatever the marketsdown to, and the comet that hit Nashville last week, destroying allcountry music. (Im just assuming this will happen; hope springseternal.) Not that Im bereft of ideas. I have an activeimagination that can be called upon at any time, even when Im notdriving.

For instance, I was thinking the other dayof a story in which an ex-Army Ranger is desperately trying to fleeParis ahead of an invading army. (No, thats not the imaginativepart; Paris has been violated more times than the speed limit.)

Racing south, hes accompanied by a spy witha deadly secret, and accidentally takes in a serial killer alongthe way. Worse, as the army closes in, he finds himself seekingrefuge in an abandoned hotel, its Magic-Fingers bed permanently outof order.

Would you read that? I wouldnt; thats themost clichd piece of crap Ive ever heard of. It will be onLifetime soon.

But this is where the imagination part comesin. What if it were this, instead:

An ex-Marine is desperately trying to fleeNew Jersey ahead of an impending blizzard. Racing south, hesaccompanied by his widowed mother, and purposely takes in hiswifes ex-husband along the way. Worse, as the blizzard closes in,circumstance finds them all seeking refuge in a roadside hotel, allhopes for getting home shattered by the storm.

Now, to spruce it up, some: His mother isfrom Long Island, New York, or rather, Luu-ah-ngggEye-l-aaaaah-nd. This forces him to endure an accent voted bylinguists as, Most likely to inspire earplugs. Or masssuicide.

More: His ex-wifes husbands name is,Skip. OK, this by itself is not bad; there are lots of greatthings called Skip. For instance, its well known as combinationof walking and jumping (and being a dork).

But consider this: if you check Skip onWikipedia, youll find there is absolutely no one interesting withthis name. The word defines dull.

Granted, this excludes fans of the Byrds,and their bass player, Skip Battin. However, even the idea ofspending a snowbound road trip with either Mr. Tambourine Man orMr. Battin hes been dead since 2003 is terrifying. There isclearly nothing good that can come from having someone named Skipin the car, (or, apparently, Wikipedia.)

Finally, envision all of these people holedup in a small motel room, braving the blizzard. Each one wonderingthe same thing: Who gets to share one of the twin beds? Each onequietly hoping that when they left the Taco Bell there were onlycheese quesadillas in each persons bag.