"To you your father should be as a god." (MSND)

Tomorrow is Fathers' Day. I haven't a clue as to who started that day. I do remember marrying Rhoda on Fathers' Day, but that was 25 years ago and this year it's on June 15. I'm of the opinion that perhaps Macy's or Nordstrom fostered that day upon the unsuspecting masses, but it did give many people an opportunity to go to the mall and do some shopping...for ties, perhaps; or underwear. I recall, some years ago I wore bikini underwear. Now I need to go to a Sumo wrestling store. But enough of this useless blabbering. What we need to do is to undertake an understanding of what a father is supposed to be and to do.

No matter how tired a father is when he comes home from work, he must give his children some attention; play with them before dinner or ask them what they did all day and how they did in school. A father must also provide protection for his offspring; he must try to see that they don't get hurt, but if they do, he must provide comfort and security. A father must also show the children that he and their mother have a warm loving relationship. A father must never strike a child, especially when the child is 50+ and father is 84.

Children must never learn to fear their father, but to respect him as the authority figure in the family. A father must learn when and how to discipline a child in the event they misbehave. Make the punishment fit the crime. For example, if the child is 50+ and in prison, make sure he knows not to do it again or you would cut him out of your will. You could use the two grand to pay for his lawyer fees. At his very best, a father must be a loving, caring patriarch of the family.

Hospital Blues, Vol.II

Over the course of a lifetime, fortune often deals you a bad hand; the choice for you at those times is to play the hand that's dealt to you...or to toss in your cards and then you're out of the game. I'm afraid one of those times has arrived when a choice has to be made. This happens to be the year of our 25th Anniversary and to celebrate it, we arranged for a cruise around the Scandinavian countries. To begin, we had to fly to Amsterdam on July 15, and then board the ship on the 16th, after which we were supposed to have fun. But if one of us were to get sick during the trip and had to wind up in a foreign land's hospital, it wouldn't be much fun. Consequently, since I'm the one who is most likely to suffer that fate, we have decided that we must cancel the trip.

I've been in the hospital recently as many of you are aware. This is not a proper place for the Red Baron. They brought me there kicking and screaming...a very unseemly performance. And right now, we are awaiting the results of another test which will determine why I'm having abdominal pains; pancreas? gall bladder? kidneys? adrenal gland? Whatever the result, that's the hand the Baron is being dealt folks; and once I see the cards, I will not drop out of the game. The game will go on...weather permitting. But the arena will not be in Europe.

Hospital blues

Dear Reader(s..?): Last Friday I felt like a horse had kicked me on the right side of my body from the hip down to my achilles and all ten of my toes. Well...actually, I suppose it's correct to say five toes. Then again, it couldn't have been a horse since they are not permitted inside our gate without a resident calling them in. Anyway, to continue this maudlin story, along about 5pm the pain had gravitated to my chest, and RH+ insisted with all her mystical powers that I allow her to call 911. (I do wish they would change that number because I recalled that too many people had died from it.) Since I cannot deny her anything she asks for, I agreed to having her call...although I warned her that if the EMTs took me to the hospital, she risked never seeing me again. About 10 minutes went by before three enormous guys and one gorgeous gal showed up, and before I could say, "Anyone for a beer", I had a mask thrown over my face, needles stuck in my arm, a bag of what appeared to be seltzer was hung over my head, sticky things were pasted on my legs, my chest, my arms, my carotid arteries, and...I believe...on my buttocks. At which point, I said "Uh, Oh!" They're going to throw a switch and I'd become IRON MAN!

Of course, to my disappointment nothing of the sort happened. It wasn't long before I was unceremoniously dumped onto a hospital bed. Now, you know that once they have you there, the doctors, nurses, and kitchen help go about their jobs like robots in a factory. Their only joy, it seems, is to make the patient uncomfortable and bleary-eyed. Why else would a nurse wake you at 4am with a sneer in her voice with the words, "I have to take blood!" You would think she was a vampire...or Bela Lugosi. Why do they need to take blood at four in the morning? It's not like there is really someone waiting for it impatiently in the lab. At least, while you're a patient you'd expect to have at least one gorgeous nurse each day you're there; so whom do I get? Charles and Barry. Needless to say, we failed to bond.

"Those friends thou hast and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel." (Hamlet)

Dear Blog Readers:

I was presented with the honor of filling in as a Guest Blogger for the Red Baron. As soon as I dispensed with the customary questions, like Who is the Red Baron, and receiving the requisite answers, I immediately dispatched myself to my computer and have been staring at a blank screen for the greater part of an hour.

I learned the meaning of "writers block." What kind of message can I impart to the hordes of readers expecting to be immersed in the world of the Red Baron and his wife, Rhoda, who has retired to an age 55 and over community in Delray Beach, Florida. Rhoda, incidentally, had to get a special dispensation from the Condo Rulers, who at first suspected that Dr Norman Ross's PHD referred to Pedophilia, since Rhoda is so much younger.

Now that I have completed the required sucking up. I can now continue.

The Red Baron has been in the Local Hospital for the past few days, being probed and jabbed in every orifice on his body and has been awaiting discharge with one final signature missing to complete the ouster. They find nothing wrong with him. Therefore, he will be back with us and more important, he and Rhoda and Helen and I can continue on our culinary jaunts, taxing the patience of our food servers with my submission of my corn ball humor. Want an example? How about my bragging of having a picture of "My Pride and Joy" and offering them a copy? Voila! Out comes a picture of a bottle of Pride next to a bottle of Joy, a former dish washing liquid that is now defunct. Hey, I never said that I had class.

And if you survived that onslaught, I would offer them a picture of my grandson. This is a photo of a very nice looking mother holding a male infant a few months old, ready to immerse him in a bath. What made this photo unique is....how shall I put this....it was computer enhanced by some atavistic degenerate who enlarged one characteristic organ of this child to 10 times the normal size. I must admit that this is my favorite gag and in spite of the shock and dismay that occur, (one out of forty, including clergy, that misrepresent themselves as normal by not wearing identifiable clothing or name tags) I continue to spread my obvious warped humor among Florida's denizens.

Welcome Back, Red Baron.................Mike Herbstman

(I include a picture of Mike Herbstman at the age of 13)