Archive for the 'Lewis' Category



Lewis Grizzard Wednesday: The Dawg Story

Bubba, that dog’ll bite you!

Lewis Grizzard Wednesday: A Wider Road Might Have Changed Two Lives

They opened a new stretch of Georgia 316, a four-lane highway that runs between Lawrenceville and Athens.

What that means is you can drive on a four-lane highway all the way between Athens and Atlanta now. From Atlanta, take I-85 to the Lawrenceville exit and then 316 the rest of the way.

Athens-Atlanta motorists can make the commute in under an hour, a report said.

Twenty-seven blankety-blank years too late, I said. I was 19 and a sophomore at the University of Georgia in Athens in 1966. I was also in love, but she lived in Atlanta. We were apart for the first time since the  6th grade.

 I had a job in Athens. I worked for the Daily News, a fledgling newspaper we struggled to deliver six mornings a week in competition with  the afternoon paper that had been in town since movable type was  invented.

I worked full-time. I went to class, and then I actually worked more than full time.  That’s because they couldn’t run me out of the Daily News newsroom, a converted automobile dealership. It remains the best part of journalism career.

On Saturdays, I would go to the newspaper at 2 p.m., and I would still be there at 1 the next morning when the Sunday edition was  finished.   Then, I would get into my blue VW bug and head for Atlanta and my girl. Each week we had from about 4 a.m. Sunday until 10 Sunday night together. I hated that drive. It was all two-lane from Athens until outside Lawrenceville where I could pick up  I-85.

 It was 45 miles of small towns and bends and  curves.  Out Highway 29 through Bogart and Statham.  And then into Auburn, Winder and the infamous speed trap, Dacula. They never got me in Dacula, but about 2 one Sunday morning the night cop got me in little Auburn; he was wearing his pajama  top. But he didn’t give me a speeding ticket. The reason he didn’t was I gave him the two Georgia-Auburn football tickets in my glove  box.

 I would fight sleep all the way. A week of classes, studying and work can even exhaust a 19-year-old.  Every Saturday night for months I made that drive. The TLC at the end was worth it, but I still wonder why I didn’t doze off one night and run into a tree  and kill myself.

We decided to get married the summer of ’66. It made a lot of sense.  We knew we would  marry one day anyway, and I didn’t know how many more times I could  survive that drive.

So we up and did it. Mama said, ‘Just make sure you finish school, young man.’ My pretty blonde bride got a job at the paper, too, and they gave me a raise after we married – from the minimum $.25 cents an hour to $.30. I would have paid them.

When I read about the four-lane being open all the way between Athens and Atlanta, I wondered what if it had been that way back in  ’66? The drive would have been a lot easier and quicker. Maybe we would have waited to get married. And if we had waited, maybe it would have lasted. Nineteen is too young to get married. Especially if you’re a blindly ambitious, selfish fool.  My wife wasn’t the one who was the blindly ambitious, selfish fool.

There is a move afoot to give the new highway 316 connection a name.  “University  Parkway”  has been suggested.  Somebody else will offer “Bull-dog  Boulevard,” of course, and “Dawg Alley” must be considered too.

 Whatever they name it when I drive it -and I will drive it often – I will think of her  and how I blew it, and how perhaps a little extra concrete 27 years ago  might have kept something that was very good intact. You tend to think that way as you get older.

All that’s left to say, I suppose, is drive carefully on Nancy’s and Lewis’ Road!

Lewis Grizzard Wednesday: God Is A Bulldog

We’ve posted this before, but few of Lewis’ pieces are more appropriate than this one for WLOCP week.

God Is A Bulldog 

Jacksonville, Fla. – Dorsey Hill, the world’s biggest Bulldog fan, left here Sunday afternoon, bound for Auburn, Alabama, where Georgia’s undefeated football team next appears.

“I don’t think you can get from Jacksonville to Auburn,” I had said to him.

“You can change buses in Waycross and Columbus,” Dorsey answered.

“You aren’t going home first?”

“Home?” He screamed back. “I haven’t worked since Texas A&M, and I haven’t slept since Clemson. You expect me to go back home when we play Auburn in only six more days?”

I lost my head, I suppose.

A lot of people lost their heads here Saturday afternoon. Georgia played Florida. Georgia won the game, 26-21. It’s a lot more complicated than that, however.

Georgia came into the game ranked second in the nation. To continue to compete for its first Big Banana ever, the national championship, Georgia had to continue its winning streak. Florida (“bunch of swamp lizards and beach bums,” according to Dorsey Hill), wanted to step on Georgia’s dream.

Dorsey arrived here Thursday afternoon with thousands of others who made the early departure south from various points in Georgia. Many of those individuals were as drunk as five eyed owls by the time they reached the Florida line.

As local wit Rex Edmondson says, the Georgia-Florida game is the “annual celebration of the repeal of prohibition.”

Dorsey waited until Friday to get into his serious pre-game drinking, however.

“I stopped at the New Perry Hotel Thursday for lunch and filled up on collards,” he said. “It’s hard to drink on a belly full of collards.”Preview

Agreed.

Now that I have had time to digest all that did eventually happen in college football Saturday, I think I can say without fear of charges of blasphemy that the whole thing was a religious experience. “Deacon Dan” Magill, the “Baptist Bulldog,” read a prayer to the Georgia faithful in which he beseeched the Almighty to help the Bulldogs “smite the Florida Philistines.”

Then there was the game itself. Georgia behind 21-20, ninety-three yards away, time running out.

“We need a miracle!” screamed Dorsey Hill, now fortified with more than collards.

Georgia got its miracle. Buck Belue to Lindsay Scott, for ninety-three yards and the winning touchdown with only seconds remaining. If that wasn’t enough, there was the astounding news from Atlanta. Georgia Tech had tied No.1 Notre Dame. Surely, Georgia will be ranked first in America when the ratings are released.

“A tie was a gift from Heaven,” said Dorsey. “Notre Dame gets knocked out of number one but Tech doesn’t get a win. God is a Bulldog.”

Verily.

I must make one confession here. I did it, and I must suffer the consequences.

I gave up at Jacksonville Saturday afternoon. Florida had the ball. Florida had the lead. There was only three minutes to play. I left the stadium. I was in the street when the miracle came.

“You are a gutless disgrace,” Dorsey Hill said to me later.

He detailed my punishment: “We’re going to a tattoo parlor in this very town tonight,” he began. “And you’re going to have ’26′ tattooed on one of your cheeks in red. And you’re going to have ’21′ tattooed in black on the other cheek. I don’t want you to forget what you did.”

I won’t, but which cheeks is between me and the tattooist.

Lewis Grizzard Wednesday: Saying Grace

Saying Grace

The five-year-old boy who lives in my house is learning to say the blessing.

“LET ME SAY THE BLESSING” he bellows as we sit down to the table.

“GOD IS GOOD!

“GOD IS NEAT!

“LET US THANK HIM!

“FOR ALL WE CAN EAT!

“YEA, GOD”

My stepson is the only person I know who prays in a primal scream. Not only does God get the message, but so does everybody else within six blocks of our kitchen.

The “Yea, God!” blessing is his favorite because it is more a cheer than a blessing, and the child is a human megaphone.

But tolerance is very important here because it is a big deal to learn to say the blessing before the family meal. And it’s not that easy, either.

First, you have to think of something to say. I remember when my parents first asked me to say the blessing:

MY FATHER: “Say the blessing, son.”

MY MOTHER: “And don’t mumble.”

ME: “ThankyouGodforthemashedpo—”

MY MOTHER: “You’re mumbling.”

ME: “—tatoesandthegreenbeansandtheporkchopsandthe—”

MY FATHER: “Amen. That was very good, son, but you don’t have to thank God for EVERYTHING on the table.”

I wasn’t going to mention the rutabagas.

After mastering a nice little blessing your mother thinks is “cute,” and doesn’t hold your old man away form the grub too long, you move into the “clever” blessings stage.

Everybody knew this one:

“Son, would you please say grace” your mother would ask, bowing her head.

“Grace,” you would reply, howling at your genius.

“Whaack!” would be the sound of the back of your father’s hand across your face.

Then there was the old favorite:

Good bread,

Good meat.

Good Lord,

Let’s eat!

That was good for the backhand across the face AND getting sent to your room without any dinner.

If you got really brave, you could use this one:

Bless the meat,

Damn the skins,

Back your ears,

And cram it in!

That could get you reform school.

When it came to smart-aleck blessings, my boyhood friend and idol, Weyman C. Wannamaker, Jr. a great American, had no peer.

His all-time classic was the following:

Thank you, Lord, for this meal,

We know you are the giver.

But thank you, Lord, most of all,

That we ain’t havin’ liver.

Weyman’s father tried to send him to reform school, but the warden was afraid he would be a bad influence on the other “students.”

Soon, my stepson will be in the stage of saying “clever” blessings, but I am not going to whack him across the face.

I am going to make him eat liver, smothered in rutabagas.

Lewis Grizzard Wednesday: A Man’s Home Is His Hassle

A Man’s Home Is His Hassle

I’ve been trying to get my house decorated the way I want it decorated ever since I moved in three years ago.

I share my house with Catfish, the black Lab, but he has no particular notions on how a house should be decorated.

As long as there are dog biscuits to be carried into the living room and eaten on the carpet, he’s happy.

I’ve been married three times and learned to live with pantyhose hanging in my shower, so I don’t mind a few dog biscuit crumbs on the living-room carpet.

When a man moves into a house with a wife, he normally leaves the decorating to her. I did that.

My first wife, operating on a limited budget, did our first house in a Naugahyde theme. My third wife spent more on curtains than my first house cost.

But now, I’m in charge of the decorating and for once I want my house to reflect my own ideas about interior design.

I went through three female interior decorators just like that. I told them all at the outset what I didn’t want. “No birds or flowers,” I insisted. A man’s house should not have birds and flowers all over the place.

Women interior decorators, however, ignore such pleadings of a man.

They think, “What does this creep know about interior decorating?”

So, all three of the female decorators came up with fabrics and designs featuring – you guessed it – birds and flowers. One even brought in wallpaper for a guest bedroom that featured large, pink birds who appeared to be flying through The Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

I fired her on the spot.

“No-taste creep” she said, rolling her eyes and pooching out her lips as she twitched her way out my front door.

All I wanted was a house that looked like a man lived there. Leather. Mega-screen TV. I wanted greens and browns instead of stupid pink birds.

I have a large, framed photograph of Herschel Walker running with a football as he led my alma mater, the University of Georgia, to the 1980 National Championship. I wanted that displayed prominently.

I am happy to report I’ve solved my problem.

I found a male interior decorator. At first, I was a bit suspect of him.

“You don’t live alone with cats and have wallpaper with pink birds ?” I asked him.

The man said he was married with two children and he also had a dog.

What a job he has done. There isn’t a single bird or flower on anything in my house. He found a large, comfortable green sofa and it sits in front of my new giant screen TV. The wallpaper in the guest bedroom features a guy swinging a golf club. He spent a mere pittance on curtains, put down new carpet in the living room that is the same color as dog biscuit crumbs, and, for the first time in my life, I have a house decorated as I want it decorated.

And I have an entirely new attitude about male interior designers. Mine didn’t roll his eyes and pooch out his lips or twitch out the front door when I said I wanted the big photograph of Herschel over the fireplace.

What a guy.

Lewis Grizzard Wednesday: Saying Grace

Saying Grace

 

The five-year-old boy who lives in my house is learning to say the blessing.

“LET ME SAY THE BLESSING” he bellows as we sit down to the table.

“GOD IS GOOD!

“GOD IS NEAT!

“LET US THANK HIM!

“FOR ALL WE CAN EAT!

“YEA, GOD”

My stepson is the only person I know who prays in a primal scream. Not only does God get the message, but so does everybody else within six blocks of our kitchen.

The “Yea, God!” blessing is his favorite because it is more a cheer than a blessing, and the child is a human megaphone.

But tolerance is very important here because it is a big deal to learn to say the blessing before the family meal. And it’s not that easy, either.

First, you have to think of something to say. I remember when my parents first asked me to say the blessing:

MY FATHER: “Say the blessing, son.”

MY MOTHER: “And don’t mumble.”

ME: “ThankyouGodforthemashedpo—”

MY MOTHER: “You’re mumbling.”

ME: “—tatoesandthegreenbeansandtheporkchopsandthe—”

MY FATHER: “Amen. That was very good, son, but you don’t have to thank God for EVERYTHING on the table.”

I wasn’t going to mention the rutabagas.

After mastering a nice little blessing your mother thinks is “cute,” and doesn’t hold your old man away form the grub too long, you move into the “clever” blessings stage.

Everybody knew this one:

“Son, would you please say grace” your mother would ask, bowing her head.

“Grace,” you would reply, howling at your genius.

“Whaack!” would be the sound of the back of your father’s hand across your face.

Then there was the old favorite:

Good bread,

Good meat.

Good Lord,

Let’s eat!

That was good for the backhand across the face AND getting sent to your room without any dinner.

If you got really brave, you could use this one:

Bless the meat,

Damn the skins,

Back your ears,

And cram it in!

That could get you reform school.

When it came to smart-aleck blessings, my boyhood friend and idol, Weyman C. Wannamaker, Jr. a great American, had no peer.

His all-time classic was the following:

Thank you, Lord, for this meal,

We know you are the giver.

But thank you, Lord, most of all,

That we ain’t havin’ liver.

Weyman’s father tried to send him to reform school, but the warden was afraid he would be a bad influence on the other “students.”

Soon, my stepson will be in the stage of saying “clever” blessings, but I am not going to whack him across the face.

I am going to make him eat liver, smothered in rutabagas.

 

 

Lewis Grizzard Wednesday: Karma Broke It

Everything I own breaks, falls apart, gets stopped up or doesn’t fit. 

It is an incredible phenomenon that lately seems to be occurring even more often than before. 

My typewriter broke. It began eating ribbons. Devouring them. Twisting them. Chewing them and making large holes in them. I was afraid to put my hand down there to try to repair whatever was wrong. I was afraid I might draw back a nub. 

I sent the typewriter to a repair shop. The guy there said he thought a small animal might be trapped amongst all the workings. 

My air conditioner went out in all this heat. Luckily, I was able to find a repairman who came over in a matter of hours. 

He said a cat had got hung up in there and that’s why no air would come out. 

My car broke down. 

“Don’t tell me there’s a raccoon in my manifold,” I said to the mechanic. “That ain’t it,” he replied. “It’s your McPherson strut.” 

I thought that was a dance. 

The doorknob came off my front door. I’ve got a big brass doorknob on my front door, and one day, I came home, unlocked my door, turned the doorknob and it came off in my hand. 

Not only was I standing there with my doorknob in my hand, but not having a pair of pliers on me, I couldn’t twist the rod uncovered by the missing knob, and, therefore, couldn’t gain entrance into my house. 

It is further amazing to me how that any time you can’t get into your house, you suddenly have to go to the bathroom in the worst way. 

I stood on my front porch and did the McPherson strut until my neighbor came home and I borrowed his pliers. 

My shower drain became clogged. It was almost thigh-deep in my shower before I could get a plumber. I thought I was in Des Moines. 

The plumber said he thought it was a hairball that had clogged the drain. Everything around me is in a state of utter disrepair and now my hair is falling out. I could eat Drano. 

The darndest thing though was the remote control for my television. It burned. 

I’m not going to say there were flames, but I picked it up one day to turn on the television and it was red hot and wouldn’t work. 

Once it cooled off a bit I took it to the place where I bought my television. 

“Never seen nothing like this,” said the man after he opened the mechanism and looked at its innards. “Looks like it just caught on fire up in there.” 

“Is there no possible explanation?” I asked him. 

“Act of God, would be my best guess,” he answered. 

Perhaps all this is spiritual. Maybe it’s my karma, or my aura, or my energy or whatever all that stuff people who beg for money in airports talk about. 

Maybe I’m hexed or I’m jinxed. I get around it, or it gets around me, and it immediately falls apart. 

Or maybe it just seems like that because we live in a world that is a labyrinth of gadgetry. We depend on so much technology, which means there is always going to be something that isn’t going to be working. 

Nah, that’s not it. I’m a jinx. Leave me alone in a room with an anvil and I would figure out a way to render it unworkable. 

This goes all the way back to my childhood, by the way. Once, I got a horseshoe game for Christmas and it was a left-handed set. 

I’d go lie down, but my mattress is in the shop.

Lewis Grizzard On “The Lone Ranger”

“I liked the Lone Ranger and Tonto until I found out what Kemo Sabe means – Sweetie Pie.”

Lewis Grizzard Wednesday: Women In Running Shoes

Women In Running Shoes Brought To Heel 
   
   
WASHINGTON – My ride was late, so as I waited on the sidewalk in downtown Washington I people-watched. 

I had seen the phenomenon I’m about to discuss in other large cities, but here in Washington there seemed to be even more instances of it. 

I’m speaking of the fact that when females in the workplace are out of their offices, many are now walking around in their otherwise attractive outfits in running shoes. 

I am told that women wear these shoes to lunch and to and from work, but once they are in their offices they put on regular shoes, ones with heels that are more suited to the rest of their clothing. 

I asked a female colleague about this once and she explained, “We do it for comfort. You just can’t imagine how doing a lot of walking in heels can absolutely kill your feet.” 

I can understand that. I’ve never personally done a lot of walking (or any walking for that matter) in a pair of heels, but I can imagine how one’s feet would feel afterward. 

Still, I’ve got to say this: 

Comfort or no comfort, wearing a pair of running shoes with a dress does to t he attractiveness of a woman what a large tattoo does to a man. 

It’s downright displeasing to the eye. In a word – ugly. 

And I hate to use the “T” word, but I feel compelled. 

It’s Tacky. 

At a gathering later in the evening, I asked a Washington woman, who had had the good sense not to show up at a cocktail party wearing a pair of Reeboks, why this practice seemed so prevalent in Washington. 

“I don’t think it has anything to do with politics,” she said. “Maybe Washington women just have to walk more than women in other cities. Why do you ask?” 

Diplomacy has never been my strong suit. I looked at her square in her eyes and said, “Because it’s tacky.” 

She threw a sausage ball at me and then huffed away in disgust. 

But that didn’t change my opinion. I don’t think I have any sort of foot fetish, but women in sexy shoes have always caught my eye. 

I recall the first time I saw Kathy Sue Loudermilk in a pair of high heels. It was at the annual Moreland Fourth of July barbecue. She was also wearing her tight pink sweater (the one they retired in the trophy case when she graduated from high school), a pair of short shorts and 8- inch spike heels. 

When the Baptist preacher, who was helping make the coleslaw, saw her, he said, “Lord, thy do make some lovely things.” 

I don’t think he was talking about the onions he was putting in the coleslaw. 

Said my boyhood friend and idol, Weyman C. Wannamaker Jr., a great American, when he saw Kathy Sue, “You put something besides them heels on that body and you done put retreads on a Rolls Royce.” 

And here I stand on a downtown sidewalk in our nation’s capital and eight out of 10 women I see look like they went to the Sears tire store to shop for shoes. 

The Lord does, indeed, make some lovely things, and I’m certain the almighty had no intention they walk around in what amounts to glorified, overpriced, rubber-soled clodhoppers. 

Your feet hurt, ladies? See Dr. Scholl. 

Tacky. Tacky. Tacky. 

I think I have made myself abundantly clear.

Lewis Grizzard Wednesday: Here’s The Beef

Here’s The Beef 
   
   
In protest for what I consider to be recent unfair attacks on beef, one of my favorite meats, I went out and had myself a thick, juicy T-bone at Long Horn Steaks the other night. 

It was great, as usual. I would have eaten two if my stomach would have held another because we beefeaters need to do all we can to tell the wimps and weenies who have put themselves in charge of our lifestyles to go eat a bucket of worms (a.k.a. sushi). 

It’s cow meat they’re after now. One group says we’re being cruel by killing cows and chopping them into steaks. 

There’s a book out about the evils, both social and physical, of eating beef as well. I refuse to name it here and give it any publicity. 

And then, I read a story in the papers about a report from the American Chemical Society saying the natural substance that gives beef its meaty taste has been synthesized in the laboratory and may be used to turn tofu into a substitute for beef. 

Do what? 

I asked a health nut to tell me what tofu is. It sounds to me like a ballet dance step. 

“It’s soybean-based,” she explained. 

So let me see if I have this straight. 

Some scientist has come up with something in his lab to put in something made out of soybeans, and I’m supposed to eat that instead of beef? 

The magic ingredient is BMP. Said the article, “BMP could be used to make imitation beef with little or no saturated fat similar to the way fake crab meat is made.” 

Fake crab meat? What’s going on here? 

In the first place, I once ate a soybean burger. Another friend of mine, also a health nut, said, “Try this, you might like it.” 

Somebody once said the same thing to me about marriage. 

The soybean burger was awful, so I went to Wendy’s and got myself a double with cheese to get the taste out of my mouth. 

In the second place, when are those self-appointed jerks going to stop jacking us around about our food? 

Remember when you were growing up how important it was to eat eggs? “Eat the rest of those eggs, young man,” my mother would say, “so you’ll grow up big and strong.” 

Not anymore. Now they say eggs cause diphtheria, not to mention shortness and weakness, so somebody has come out with a fake egg. 

I bet a chicken could tell the difference. 

Pork has been put down as unhealthy. Some chickens have tumors in them and fish have mercury, and I never knew there was such a thing as fake crab meat until now. 

So what’s left to eat? Nothing much. If what we read and hear is true, we’d all be better off if we didn’t eat anything at all, never had sex, abstained from drinking, smoking and gambling, and died on the operating table instead of getting a blood transfusion that could give us AIDS. 

Life used to be fun. Now, it’s just one big Don’t. 

But I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to continue to eat beef and everything else I like. I will never walk into a Long Horn and say, “I’ll have the tofu T-bone, please.” 

If doing such a thing kills me, it’ll just have to kill me. 

I think I’d rather go suddenly from a beef overdose than live long enough to get really sick and wind up croaking in a hospital bed where they’ve been keeping me alive by feeding me through a tube. 

There should be the basic right to live free from as much worry as possible. But how can you, when not a day passes that we aren’t told what’s the latest thing that’s bad for us? 

Eat, drink and be merry, I say, for tomorrow you may choke on a big piece of broccoli.


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