Cupcake, Kids and Me

By William Gibson White

Collection of humorous articles from several newspapers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Gibson White
• Release date: Jan 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452404424

William Gibson White

Born in Hot Springs, Arkansas, William Gibson White said his first thought was: “Either I don’t have a sense of humor, or I don’t belong here.” So stupidity reigned over intelligence, and he stayed and found his sense of humor as a philosopher. Better paying jobs have included: Cotton picker, hay baler, newspaper carrier, U.S. Marine Corps sergeant with one year in combat during the Korean War, short order cook, hypnotist, journeyman printer, writer, businessman, and college instructor. After his Marine Corps career, White completed a Linotype typesetting course at the Southwest School of Printing to supplement the vocational printing trade he took in high school. Then he worked in print shops and newspapers while attending college on the GI Bill. He graduated from Henderson State University with a degree in psychology and English. Later, he became a journeyman printer and did graduate work in English at The American University in Washington, D.C., while setting type for The Washington Post where he worked for 22 years. White has always been interested in writing. His articles have been published in several newspapers including The Washington Post, Detroit News, Rhode Islander and the Arkansas Gazette. He self-published “Born Again! As a United States Marine!” in 2002, "Cupcake, Kids and Me" in 2003 and "Rings of Death" in 2008. Currently, he writes a column for The Standard, a weekly newspaper and a monthly humor column for his hometown newspaper, the Hot Springs Sentinel-Record. Most of his poetry deals with war, religion, enlightenment and “the meaning of life” and has appeared in several publications. White thinks the answer to human behavior lies in this explanation by Mark Twain: "When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained."

Book preview

Cupcake, Kids

and Me

Collection of Humorous Newspaper Articles

By William Gibson White

Copyright 2012 William Gibson White

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

NOTE: All articles have appeared in the following newspapers: Hot Springs Sentinel-Record, Hot Springs, Arkansas; The Standard, Amity, Arkansas, and those otherwise marked.

Book Cover by John Dewey White

Snake on loose upsets family life

Once you get over the initial shock it’s not that bad having a snake loose in the house. Just because you can’t sleep and are afraid to walk or sit or lie down anywhere doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world. Try to keep in mind that the human race has gotten where it is today because of its adaptability. Think positively and hope the snake is not pregnant.

It is of small comfort when your 12-year-old son, Dewey, the snake expert, tells you not to worry. And that although the snake has bitten him many times it is absolutely harmless and at its present age barely breaks the skin. Besides, he says, very few people die from the actual bite of even poisonous snakes. It’s the shock that kills them.

I know, you say wringing your hands. I know!

Your wife (then, not Cupcake) and you and your youngest son, Mike, have searched the house over, looking for the reptile. But Dewey is unconcerned.

In this old two-story house with hot water heat, the snake can be anywhere, he says. "It can crawl around the pipes and go from the basement to the attic with ease. Besides it will be easier to find in a couple of months.

With all those big crickets in the basement and a few mice or bats in the attic it will get harder for him to hide, Dewey says. You see it grows about an inch a week until it reaches maturity.

And how long will it get?

It can grow up to eight feet long, he says. The rat snake is one of the largest species found in the U.S.

When my wife and I were married we agreed that a house was not a home for animals. Then our sons came along. They loved everything that barks, meows, wiggles, crawls, hops, flies, burrows and swims. And somehow they always end up in the house. Then about three years ago our oldest son wanted a snake.

The only way you’re ever going to have a snake as a pet is catch it yourself, I said. I wish I hadn’t said that, because not long thereafter he went to camp . . . .

As remote as it may seem, there is a positive side to having a snake loose in the house. For instance, as a night worker I try to sleep days. This is difficult because you happen to be out-of-step with the rest of the world. It’s either the phone or the doorbell.

This time it was the doorbell and I stumbled downstairs to answer. A young couple inquired if they might give me some literature and speak to me for a few minutes.

It seems they were concerned about the salvation of the world, and with the end being near we should become wise as serpents and be prepared.

I just wasn’t in the mood. Speaking of serpents, I said. We have one loose somewhere. So be careful where you sit.

They paled and decided they had an engagement elsewhere.

‘Oh, ye of little faith!’ I thought as I shut the door.

The next day a salesman wanted to demonstrate a vacuum cleaner. Fine, my wife said. We’ve got a snake missing and if you can help me move the furniture we might find it.

The salesman left to get his equipment, but never returned.

Then there was the night my wife wanted me to go shopping with her. I’ve got a sitter coming, she said. So, we can take our time.

Great! I said. I had just about as soon hold a snake as go shopping.

We were dressed and ready to go when the sitter arrived. By the way, I said casually, we have a snake loose in the house. If you happen to see it, call Dewey. He will put it back in the cage.

She headed for the front door while my wife gave me a mean look. No way, said the sitter, am I ever going to baby-sit here!

Well, I said to my wife, it’s too late to get another sitter. So, I guess I’ll just have to stay home. Enjoy yourself, darling.

Maybe I’ll reconsider before I buy that pet mongoose.*

*Published in the November 7, 1974, The Washington Post.

Golf not a game but ancient mystical religion

Ever since I can remember, Arkansans have feared devil worshippers. I know I have. Sometimes it takes profound thinking to figure out these mysteries. Take golf for instance. It is not what it seems.

For years I’ve watched otherwise intelligent and sensible human beings participate in this stupid and irrational exercise that I thought was merely a game. At the risk of my life I must expose golf for what it is — an ancient satanic cult.

Let me present the evidence logically. Would it not take a religious fanatic to actually believe it is important to hit a small ball and chase it across an Arkansas cow pasture just to put it in a hole?

I suspected this when my brother-in-law — who has tried with no avail to be my guru after bestowing upon me the exalted title of Duffer — frequently mentions a deity’s name while performing this ritual. His outbursts of devotion occur particularly when he slices the ball to appease the many gods of this polytheistic religion. It seems the faithful must donate many of these little balls before they can approach the god of the green. Gifts are left for the god of the woods, of the briar patch, of the high weeds and tall grass, of the sand trap and the most powerful god of the waters.

Some encyclopedias say golf originated in the Netherlands or Scotland during the 15th Century. Other sources say soldiers of the Roman Empire played it. But don’t believe any of this! The enigma of its origin came not by accident.

Golf is actually a secret world-wide religion called Flog — golf spelled backwards. This is significant only when you understand the ritual of golf is in fact a lifetime penance each adherent to this mystical religion must complete in order to reach that golden fairway in the sky. The more time the golfer spends in his worship (or talking about it) the better his chances. Why else are golf courses so numerous? Flogs are not just Sunday worshipers but are drawn to the hallowed greens every day of the week.

Golfers are sworn to secrecy and will deny their Flog membership. They will tell you they perform this ritual because it’s fun. Or to improve their health with all that exercise they get while jumping in and out of those funny little carts.

Flogs also speak in unknown tongues, using words like bogey, dormie, niblick, cleek and hacker. A spoon isn’t something to eat soup with in their language. Then there are secret code words like birdie and double eagle that don’t exactly mean fowl a flying.

Flogs have what I call The Sacrament of the Grass. For some reason cult members hit the ground knocking up chunks of dirt and grass. Then they call this chunk a divot and put it back on the fairway patting it back in place. What is the purpose of this strange rite?

Flog balls seem more sacred in this religion than clubs. Members approach the ball with reverence and head bowed. Strict rules apply to addressing the ball. Apparently, there is some sort of personal, maybe unnatural, relationship going on here, I don’t know. I do know I violated the BIG COMMANDMENT when just as my guru was in his swing I asked: Are you gonna knock it into the stock pond again? He missed his ball and scalped part of the teeing ground. Again he mentioned a deity’s name, did what I called the Flog Hop and started after me with his club shouting! Later, while holding a club over my head he emphasized that during this sacred moment, no one is allowed to move, speak or stand close to or directly behind a Flog when he is talking to his ball. But I don’t know what all the fuss was about when it was apparent to me that what he was saying to it was usually, goodbye.

If, in his attempt to appease the gods a Flog actually hits his ball it usually heads in the direction of another party. The warning yell: Fore! earns the Flog complete forgiveness from the gods and the golfer with the knot on his head. Unbelievable, isn’t it?

Somehow, Flogs are allowed to take back their offerings if they can find them in the weeds or the woods. While on one of these searches I discovered other religious artifacts. Flogs also place offerings of clubs at various places to appease the gods. There was one lying in a briar patch, another sort of bent around a small tree and another flung high in the top of a pine. Some Flog had sacrificed his balls and bag of clubs to the god of the wood as a burnt offering. It was on this altar I found the truth. Among the ashes was a charred copy of The Tibetan Flog Book of the Condemned.

Even though it was printed in Chinese, my occult training enabled me to recognize the mystical numbers — three, seven, fore and 6-pack. Flog has 14 clubs (not 13, but 2x7), three plus a 6-pack equals a nine-hole golf course and 18 holes entitles each Flog to three 6-packs.

I could make out a couple of rules. One was: No matter where your partner hits the mystical ball you are required to say: What a great shot! When a fellow Flog misses the ball and puts a crater in the earth, you must yell, "Good try!

Flog dogma encourages lying. There is the lie of the ball, the lie of the green, the lie of the handicap and the lie of the strokes. Many Flogs do a dance called the Foot Mashie to improve their lies.

Since I couldn’t take golf seriously, I was Flog-balled and kicked out.

Well, I think I’ll try Cupcake’s bowling cult.*

*Published in the September 19, 1990, Arkansas Gazette.

How I met my match—Cupcake

When Cupcake and I met were the stars in perfect alignment? Although our meeting had no heavenly connection there was a trinity involved: Parents Without Partners, Scientology and George Washington’s birthday.

When I became suddenly single I spent the first year working as much overtime I could at night as a printer at The Washington Post and working on a novel during the day. Then after my emotional life settled down, I joined PWP.

I seem to attract crazy women, I remarked to a fellow employee. He replied: Don’t you know they’re all crazy! Since newspaper people work odd hours not conducive to a happy marriage (he was also divorced), they are not the best experts in this field. I decided to keep an open mind. Meanwhile, I had completed my 1,000-page novel and asked a WP editor to read it. It’s interesting, he said. But you need to cut it about 1,000 pages. Stick to newspaper features. What did he know? I began my re-write.

It took over two years, but now I was feeling pretty good about being single when I happened to look in the PWP events calendar and found a wine and cheese hosted by a name that looked familiar. Was this my old Scientology instructor? I took a course in Scientology (Dianetics by L. Ron Hubbard, then) about the time Tom Cruise was born, but I got over it. I could have been a HCA (Hubbard Certified Auditor), but that’s another story. Since it was George Washington’s birthday, I had the night off. It was my old instructor! While we talked others came in. Then I heard this most delightful laugh and there was Cupcake! She also had a beautiful smile.

Somehow, we got paired up doing a Scientology process, a set of questions if asked often enough would clear (bring enlightenment to) the subject. Now I had been trained to do this the right way some 17 years before, so I insisted we do it my way. Cupcake was determined to do it her way! Nothing has changed.

On our first date she wanted to go to the Smithsonian. Since I drove into Washington, D.C. five nights a week, I didn’t. We went to the Smithsonian. Our second date could have ended in disaster, and it would have been my fault. But I wanted to show off my all-time favorite toy (other than a motorcycle), a 14-ft. sailing canoe I had pretended to buy for my 12-year-old son the summer before. There, around Washington’s Birthday Sale time, the weather was usually about 20 degrees with a lot of snow on the ground, but this year it was 80 degrees for a week. The park with the lake where I frequently sailed was closed, but I was determined, so I found a park on a finger of the Chesapeake Bay that was open all year. Because of the unstable weather the wind was up and there were small whitecaps on the water. When we got underway it was great sailing, yet Cupcake was being sprayed by 40-degree water with every wave. She just laughed. I worried about swamping the boat and hypothermia, so I cut it short and we headed back to land.

I wasn’t worried, she said after I explained. I almost said that’s because you don’t know any better, but I kind of liked her, so I kept my mouth shut. When I learned she had brought along a picnic lunch with cheesecake for dessert, I knew she was my kind of gal.

That was 25 years ago. In about two weeks we celebrate our 25th Wedding Anniversary, and if Cupcake reads this she will probably say to me: Do you think we will make it?

I would reply: (And I stole this quote from that fellow Anonymous.) If I had to choose between you and happiness, [my darling Cupcake,] I would choose you every time!

Lorena Bobbitt downsizes Valentine’s Day romance

I’m old and I’ll admit right off I don’t understand women or sex. I like sex and I like women, but I tell you since Lorena bobbed it I’m more than a little nervous about romance this Valentine’s Day.

She not only bobbed it, men, she got away with it!

And according to my international computer net hookup, women around the world cheered. In Tibet since the court verdict, 500 women in a meditative trance reached nirvana instantly by repeating a new mantra: Bobbitt, Bobbitt, Bobbitt.

In Iran another 500 women were dispatched immediately to heaven, for reading a new translation of the Koran (translated by women this time) that requires at least two trips to Manassas, Va., in each adherent’s lifetime.

From now on women in Ireland will celebrate January 21 as St. Lorena Bobbitt Day. (You can always bet when a war or mutilation occurs a saint will soon follow.) This is scary. With religion involved it’s terrifying.

Religious fundamentalists across the United States cheered because they think fear of mutilation can replace sex instruction in grade school.

I don’t know if this is true or not (if it is, it is a blessing in disguise) but I heard Jimmy Swaggart has been stuttering ever since he heard the news.

Another rumor says Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas has had nightmares regarding long dong silver, Anita Hill and sharp instruments.

Sources high in the government said, but I’m sure the White house will deny this, that when Hillary heard the verdict she locked herself in the Lincoln bedroom and shouted over and over: Let’s hear it for Lorena!

The women Sen. Packwood allegedly harassed sexually, I’m told, are busy sharpening whatever is handy. The senator is said to have been doing the Michael Jackson shuffle before he realized a hand over the crotch wouldn’t stop those females from hacking it. So he made a quick junket to England where he picked up at taxpayer’s expense (of course) a medieval, cast-iron chastity belt to wear in the courtroom.

Men, if Packwood is worried the rest of us must be in deep trouble.

Even my beautiful wife has been smiling ever since the court’s decision when she yelled: Payback time!

What? I said.

You just don’t get it, do you? she said.

Not often enough, I almost said, but the secret to a long, loving marriage is knowing when to keep your mouth shut. Whatever do you mean, Dear?

Men have always been in charge. They’ve created stupid religions to put women down. Made us second-class citizens. Kept us down by not allowing us to have an education or even the right to vote. Used us! she yelled.

Now calm down, Cupcake, I said.

Finally, a man has gotten what he deserves because all men are rotten, she said with an unnatural smile. Oh, I don’t mean you, Sweetheart.

Well, I don’t know for sure what gender she thinks I am. But I do know that if she ever gets to Congress her first priority will be to make a skating rink out of the Pentagon. (Come to think of it, that’s not a bad idea.)

But back to Lorena. Men, the jurors found her not guilty by reason of insanity!

Now I don’t know if this is significant or not but back before I met and married my beautiful wife, I had women trouble often. While sitting in a bar in Washington, D.C., I recall saying to a friend who was in the same situation that I just seemed to attract crazy women.

Bill, you stupid (cuss word), he said. Don’t you know all women are crazy?

I thought about that, and with my wife still grinning I began to hide all the knives, scissors, shears and the electric meat slicer. Naturally, she wanted to know what I was doing so I had to tell her.

Go ahead, she said with a subtle smile as she pulled out a fingernail clipper from her purse. I think this would work just fine.

Well, happy Valentine’s Day, anyway, Cupcake.*

*Published in the Henderson State University 1994-95 Oracle.

Living with Cupcake, diets and exercise

Probably the only two things Cupcake and I completely agree on are: We don’t like diets or exercise. She has been on and off a diet of some sort ever since I’ve known her. Diet is not a word I want to hear, but it is what women like to talk about but seldom do for long. (We have a library of diet books to prove that.)

Long before I met Cupcake I will confess when I went through my Eastern philosophy phase practicing yoga and meditation, I tried a vegetation diet for three months. I lost 10 pounds but I did not receive enlightenment mainly because when I meditated, somehow, French fries and a BigMac replaced nothingness. (Seven lifetimes to reach enlightenment on a tofu diet is too long.) Of course, I gained the 10 pounds back and more.

Recently, we had a garage sale that featured diet books and exercise machines (with low mileage). No one bought a diet book. Or exercise machine. I had a Two-for-One sale. No success. Then I had a Free Haul-Them Far-Away Special! No takers. So we ended up taking them to the Salvation Army except for one.

We kept the treadmill for back up because we are actually walking every day. Usually our exercise programs last about three weeks before we taper off to nothing. So far we’re in our seventh week, and I feel better. Since Cupcake says she always feels good she will do it for me because she might lose some weight.

Again we disagree on where to walk. She prefers the treadmill inside our house because outside in New Jersey was not a nice place to be. When I first saw where she grew up across the Hudson River from New York City, I saw heavy industry surrounded by asphalt and concrete under a heavy pall of dark, dirty air. She denies this, of course, saying that New Jersey is the Garden State. However, I don’t think she ever saw a vegetable garden until she met me. I grew up in Arkansas with clean air and clear streams. When Cupcake first visited Arkansas and stepped off the plane she began sniffing and looking at the sky.

What’s going on? I asked.

She wanted to know what that strange odor was.

Fresh air, Darling, I said.

And that big bright light in the sky?

"I’m