Big Jerk Mac

In a previous post I stated, "I was a pretty skinny kid. I used to see those ads in the comic books for the Charles Atlas Dynamic Tension system for gaining he-man bulk. I was always afraid that I was going to be the guy who got sand kicked in his face. I actually sent away for one of those systems as advertised in the comics. It wasn’t the Charles Atlas one though. I can’t remember the name of it, but it was similar to Dynamic Tension. It was Tense Dynamo or Tensile Dynamite or Demonic Torsion, or something like that."

A simple exercise from the Demonic Torsion® system

Some of you may remember from years ago, ads like these for the Charles Atlas method:

What's up with Mac? Charles Atlas not only made him a hulking beast, but also turned him into a world-class jerk. Jeez, he didn't need to smash the other guy in the face. That dude didn't really make him "dry up and blow away"; he just threatened him. Mac could have done the same. Also, why does he say "Wham!" while delivering the goods? Was he instructed to do that as part of the Dynamic Tension program?

I guess brute strength and lots of testosterone defined a man back then. Here's my advice to all you guys out there. If anyone - like Grace or any of the other nitwits depicted in that ad - tries to tell you that muscles and toughness are the measure of a man, just pull open the waistbands of your pants and shorts, have a look down there, and exclaim, "Poppycock."

If ever there was an ad campaign that begged to be lampooned, this was it.

Therefore, I present to you a couple of satirical "ads" from past issues of the National Lampoon magazine.

From the August, 1973 issue, there's the Psychology Ptoday parody:

From January, 1974,  their Popular Evolution Magazine parody:

Let's just hope that humans have evolved into somewhat more rational, civilized and enlightened beings than what's been illustrated here. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to do my Demonic Torsion routine, after which I have an appointment with my chiropractor. Perhaps I should make an appointment with a priest as well.

My Rusty Old Maverick

The Ford Motor Company stopped making the ill-fated Edsel automobile when I was about six years old. I didn't buy one because I had no money and no driver's license. I wish I had though. They're a real collector's item now.

Some people have speculated that the Edsel failed because — unlike the symbols of power and masculinity associated with most cars in its day —  its grille had a perceived feminine look. It resembled a woman's, um... it looked like, uh...  let's put it this way, it reminded people of... how shall I say it?... a woman's "Virginia".

The Infamous Edsel Grille

My first car was a brand new blue Ford Maverick. Incidentally, my dad used the euphemism "maverick" when referring to a man's, um... to his, uh... how shall we say?... his "Pennsylvania." Or better yet, since I grew up in Windsor, Ontario across the river from Michigan - let's call it his "Lower Peninsula".  

A 1975 Ford Lower Peninsula

 

I nicknamed my Maverick (the car, not my you-know-what) the "Blue Bomber." That would have been a strange nickname for the other thing. I drove my Maverick until it rusted out (and we can stop with the mental images now, please). Back then, Ford was known for their rusty vehicles. Even the venerated Mustang was dubbed the "Rustang".

I've always given my cars nicknames. I tend to do that with a lot of stuff. My Greenworks lawn mower is "Mow Green".  I'm sure I'm not the only one who does that. In fact, a friend of mine has a bypass lopper that she's named "Cyndi" (Lopper).

My second car was a spanking new silver Plymouth Horizon. This little car (nicknamed the "Silver Bullet") with a four-on-the-floor gear shift was fun to drive, but the transmission made clunky noises that the mechanics could somehow never fix. I sold it to a very young woman who had just received her driver's license. When I demonstrated how to shift gears with the manual transmission, she looked at my left foot on the clutch and said, "You mean you have to do that every time?" Fortunately for her, her father was there to drive the car back to their house. I hope she became more adept at driving a stick shift than the contestants you see on The Amazing Race.  

My third ride was my first used vehicle. It was a black Ford Granada, and my only car with a V-8 engine. Not a great car by any means, it would emit this very strange wood burning smell every now and again. I never did figure out what that was. Maybe Ford made some parts out of wood back then to deal with the rust issues.

I sold this car after two or three years, and on my way to deliver it to the buyers, it did something it had never done before; it started to sputter and stall on the expressway, as if it were reluctant to go to its new owner. I found myself yelling, "You rotten piece of ****! What the **** are you doing to me?" This seemed to do the trick as the car settled down enough to make it to our destination. But being the honest guy that I am, I explained to the purchasers what had just happened. They didn't seem too concerned. Even so, I called them up a few days later to see how the car was handling. They said it was running fine. I'd say that car took the whole thing just a little too personal. My buddy liked to call it "Granada Your Mama". I preferred the "Black Stallion", with some emphasis on the "Stall".

My car ownership days hit a new low with my next jalopy. It was a well-used yellow Dodge Omni. On one trip down the highway, the radiator was failing and the car was overheating. I put the heater and fan on full blast to try to cool the engine to some degree. But it was a blistering hot day in the middle of summer. It was like racing in the Baja 500 in full winter gear.

On another jaunt, from under the hood came a loud "POW!" That bucket of bolts died right then and there. I should have just called a cab and left it where it was, never to have to look at the thing again. I originally gave this piece of crap the handle "Banana Peeler" (although it hardly ever "peeled out"). Ultimately, I just referred to it as "The Lemon".

My fortunes didn't improve much with my next vehicle; a truck actually. It was a Chevy Blazer. Its original color was a standard red. I had it painted after about a year to a deep red. It thus became "Carmine" (after the color) or sometimes it was the "Duke of Burgundy". Changing the hue didn't boost its performance. I ended up putting a new engine in it. Also, it developed the loudest, shrillest squealing noise imaginable. Fire engines and ambulances would pull over when I was on the road with that beast. No mechanic, and I mean NO mechanic could figure out where the squeal was coming from. Several tried. I went back to calling this awful off-roader by its original nickname, "Red Dog".

Among other nicknames were:

• A new blue Chevy Chevette - good ol' "Cesar Chevette".
• A lightly used Dodge Caravan. A surprisingly peppy van that I dubbed "Vincent", as in "Vincent Van Go." 
• A new, deep red PT Cruiser (made in Mexico) - "Pablo T Cruiser", or just "Pablo." (Anyone remember the band, Pablo Cruise?)
• A new Honda CRV. Not a big vehicle by any means, but a lot bigger than the Honda Civic (Jane Honda) we had just prior to this purchase. The license plate ID started with BMFH, which I took to mean Big MotherF****** Honda. The nickname thus was a cleaned-up "Big Mamma".
• Our current vehicle is a Chevrolet Equinox -  "Verna", short for "Verna L. Equinox".

You'll notice that four of the last five cars we've owned have been new purchases. After dealing with the "Black Stallion", "The Lemon", and "Red Dog", I think I've learned my lesson.

Finally, does anyone have any information on what one can do to reinvigorate a rusty old Maverick?

 

Clothing Removal Advice

Near our house are a couple of used clothing donation bins. Here's a photo of one of them:

I had seen these many times, but I only recently noticed the sticker warning people to not enter the donation bin. 

Sometimes you just have to shake your head and wonder what the heck people are doing out there to necessitate this kind of notification. Has anyone actually climbed into one of these, getting in via some sort of reverse Houdini act? If so, what for? Let's hope they weren't wishing to donate their bodies for science. They would have been wholly rejected on the brains part alone. 

Warning: If you're foolish enough to try this, then we don't want any part of you.

Maybe someone accidentally threw a brand new Armani suit in there and said, "Holy crap! I've got to crawl in there and get that back." Or it may be that they didn't realize you must first take your clothes off before donating them. Perhaps someone was walking by on a cold winter day after having taken a picture of themselves for photo ID, and decided they had better get in there to find some warm clothing to wear.

That latter supposition may not make sense to you right now, but read on.

Here's an odd news item from UPI:

The Georgia Department of Driver Services issued an unusual reminder for residents taking advantage of the state's new digital driver's licenses and IDs: "Please take pictures with your clothes on."

The department said in a Facebook post that residents are being asked to ensure they are "keeping things classy" when snapping selfies for their digital licenses and IDs, which allow Apple Wallet users to leave their physical copies in their wallet when passing through TSA checkpoints.

"Attention, lovely people of the digital era," the post reads. "Please take pictures with your clothes on when submitting them for your Digital Driver's License and IDs."

It was unclear whether the reminder was prompted by some residents failing to follow the advice.

"Let's raise our virtual glasses and toast to the future," DDS officials wrote. "Cheers to technology and keeping things classy!"

Instead of raising your glasses, just raise your glances — to the face, that is. But is that even necessary?

Why would anyone submit a picture of anything but their head and face for ID purposes? Never have I had a photo ID that included any other part of my body. That's not to say I don't have some unique identifying birthmarks in areas that usually don't see the sun, as I'm sure we all do. Thankfully I'm generally recognized and identified by my face, and not by some blemish on my tushie. 

Even if some Georgianite, uh Georgianian, I mean Georgianer, that is to say a resident of Georgia were to submit a photo of themself completely unclad from head to toe, wouldn't the good folks from the Department of Driver Services just flat out reject it anyway? All they could possibly want or need is a pic of your noggin. (Just to be clear, "noggin" is slang for "head" and not any other body part that I'm aware of.)

However, I'm all for freedom, and anyone should feel free to strip down to their birthday suits in order to take a picture of themselves for submission to any government agency. As long as they first crop the photo and restrict it to the face alone, then it shouldn't be an issue. Of course, the size of the grin in the face-only photo would be directly proportional to the lack of clothing worn by the applicant.  

In which photo would you imagine 

that I'm not wearing any pants?

(And please don't imagine it)

It seems apparent that some people just get off on exposing themselves to a camera and sending images of their naughty bawdy bodies to whomever. If they're sending them to government agencies, I can't imagine who else they're sending them to. And just an alert to those folks; if you send some nude or seminude photos of yourselves to us here at Snow Shoveling In Canada, we won't accept them either. Although in a few cases, some intense scrutiny may be employed before they are ultimately discarded.

Keep in mind that if you feel a great need to disrobe, then please do so when and where appropriate. For example, it is highly recommended to peel off all your garments when you take a bath or shower. Showering or bathing in your clothes is a terribly soggy, unsatisfying experience. 

When changing into your pajamas at night, you should shed a few layers first and refrain from putting your PJs on over your clothes, for your own comfort. And take your shoes off too.

When shopping for new pants, go into that private little change room and take your trousers right off. If you don't, you'll have to try and find a pair that will fit over what you're wearing. And if you buy those, you will always have to wear them over the old ones, or else you'll find you've just bought yourself a pair of dreadfully baggy britches. Be sure to put your pants back on before exiting the change room. 

Remember as well to always to remove any clothes that you wish to donate to charity.

Anyone who suffers badly from what we shall call Georgia Driver's License ID Exhibitionist Syndrome, who feels an uncontrollable urge to be naked, can easily adopt my attitude that I've discussed in a previous post. Just remind yourself that you're always nude under your clothes. Such a liberating thought!

By the way, I was wearing pants in both photos. I swear I was. At least I'm pretty sure I was. 

Or was one of those taken on that day I made a clothing donation?

Sixties Brutal Playtime

Here's something I didn't expect to see while cooking my eggs:

 You've heard of Mr. Potato Head?
Introducing Mr. Fried Egg Face.

I admit it was difficult having to dip my toast into his eyes. 

Now cracks a noble shell.

Goodbye, sweet anthropomorphic food; 

And bites of egg will bring thee to digest. (Hamlet and eggs?)

I may have had a Mr. Potato Head toy as a kid, but I'm not sure. If I did, I grew weary of it in short order, as I did with most of my toys. 

The box the toys came in on the other hand, provided days of entertainment. I could do whatever the heck I liked with them and have no worries whether or not they would break. I could turn them into a fort or a funhouse or crawl into one and use it as a ride to slide down the stairs. The stairs had a sharp turn near the bottom, so crashing into the wall at full child-laden-box-on-a-staircase speed was inevitable, yet still loads of fun. I'm a little surprised that Mattel didn't have the foresight to market the Box in a Box ® (and sell it at an exorbitant price, of course).

Knives, swords, guns, rifles, machine guns, bazookas, grenades and missiles; I had them all as a kid. All toys mind you, but they and more like them were integral parts of this typical Canadian's wholesome upbringing. 

The Johnny Seven O.M.A. (One Man Army) almost covered that entire list in one savage toy. My brother had this one, and no one in the neighborhood dared mess with him. There very well may have been a few countries back then that would have thought twice about a conflict with some kid armed with the Johnny Seven. We felt we were well equipped to fight off any communist aggression. "Back off Kruschev, or Kruschoff, or however they say your name. That goes for you too Fidel and any of your comrades." Woe betide the pinko who didn't heed that warning!

The Johnny Seven

Only a hyperactive war hawk with ten times the legal limit of caffeine in their system could have designed this thing. No batteries needed; just a certain degree of bloodlust.

Wham-O air blasters, bows and arrows, firecrackers, Bowie knives, pea shooters, BB guns; those were the days. The days that thankfully have come and gone without serious injury, for me at least.

I'm sure they're still around today, but even the board games we played were violent to a degree. Clue was about murder, while Risk was about world military conquest. Actual conflict arose from that fun pastime; "What are you attacking me for? There's a much bigger threat on your eastern front! Are you on Kruschev's side or what? I'll get you for this."

"Oooh, what are you gonna do? Call an emergency session of the United Nations?"

Even Monopoly got tempers flared with all the deals and back-stabbing. A Wikipedia entry about the game has this quote from Computer Gaming World; "Virtually no one plays the game with the rules as written."

Ain't that the truth; "If you don't make a deal with me now, just wait till you land on my Boardwalk. The rent will cost you three zillion dollars. No, make that three kazillion dollars. Told you I'd get you for that game of Risk, you communist sympathizer." 

Of course we were just kids and likely used the term "big doofus" instead of "communist sympathizer". As JFK similarly said to the Soviet leader in October of 1962, "I just want to say-uh Mr. Kruschev that-uh you are a-uh big doofus."

I was fascinated by the U.S. Civil War. Way back when I was a little tyke, I thought the war was a mammoth tussle between North America and South America. That would have been a humdinger. But when I found out that it was restricted to the U.S., it didn't diminish my fascination. As I put it to my parents once, "It's my favorite war!"

I had a collection of these Civil War trading cards when I was a kid. They were made by a company called Topps, who are well known for selling trading cards with bubble gum. The cards had images which were incredible graphic and gory. They made the Texas Chainsaw Massacre look like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.  They sure as heck wouldn't fly today.

Now I'm not a violent man, nor do I like to see graphic violence on film or TV, but when I was a little shaver of about eight or nine years old, I could look at these illustrations of butchery, bloodshed, and slaughter and think they were the coolest thing ever. 

Our mouths half-filled with bubble gum, my buddy and I would be chawin' away while looking at all these images of carnage and destruction. One of us would say, "Wow, stuck clean through with a bayonet! These are great!" or "Oh, man! Look at this one! The guy's gettin' his head crushed by a wagon wheel. Cool!"

Bubble Gum, Confederate Money, and War? 

All For Just 5 Cents?

What More Could A Kid Ask For?

The packaging of that product is a little puzzling. Are they saying that this is surplus bubble gum from the days of the Civil War? You'd break a molar on that for sure. Or are they implying that bubble gum was a big deal for Confederate and Yankee soldiers? If that's the case, then it's hard to believe the belligerents would have been engaged in mortal combat while chewing gum and blowing bubbles. I suppose the fellow in the illustration could have a mouthful of that chewy confection.

Come to think of it, that might be a good strategy to curb all military aggression. Just give the soldiers on both sides an ample amount of bubble gum. Who wants to fight while you're chewing sweet pink gum and using it to make big sticky bubbles?

A Canadian lad in his Yankee forage cap WAY back when.

I can't believe that's me in that photo (not all that long after the Civil War, relatively speaking). Today I look more like a grizzled old Civil War general, or more like the father of a grizzled old Civil War general.

So that pretty well sums up my violent childhood playtime; discounting the roughhouse of playground games like football, Red Rover, snowball fights, and dodgeball. Fortunately, I somehow turned out to be a relatively well-adjusted adult. In retrospect, I probably should have had more toys like Mr. Potato Head.

Wait a second, I've just had an idea! Mr. Mashed Potato Head!
That would have been so cool!