Thack You!
with Larry Thack
An Open Letter to the U-Pick Eggs Guy
Editor’s note: this is regarding the man who stands on the corner of highways 54 and 85 holding open a carton of eggs and daring drivers to stop and choose their own eggs.
March 17, 2018
It’s been a couple of weeks since I have seen you, U pick eggs guy. You seem like a nice guy but the way you stare at me as I pass is disconcerting. You make direct eye-contact like a dog or newborn and offer no smile. It makes the whole idea of eating a fragile embryo seem even more creepy. I think we can work on this and as such I have some ideas for your business.
Maybe you could look more French; striped shirt, one of those little Frenchy hats, maybe an ascot. This would make it okay not to smile. Maybe sell something in addition to eggs, maybe cream or cheese. People need that stuff and it would taste better coming from a Frenchman.
Do you share that corner with a local honey guy? I feel like I’ve seen a honey guy there. Would you be upset if he started to advertise “U pick local honey”? Have you thought of borrowing his idea and selling “local eggs”?
Would it also be possible to stand just one step back from the curb?
I must confess U-Pick Eggs Guy that I would desperately like to pick some of my own locally grown eggs but fear that I might nervously drop one as I pick through them. You don’t appear to be a man who would tolerate such foolishness.
Please excuse me for now but a red throated Pipit has invaded my squirrel feeder and I must get the broom.
Larry Thack’s NCAA bracket will be on display at the Holliday-Dorsey-Fife-Taco House through March
Not a Nice Nacket
August 29, 2026
The laborers at my factory always seem to be eating. And what they’re eating are costly fast-food dishes in elaborate packaging. I hate to watch them eating these treasures in their cars or huddled under a streetlamp. After all, if you spend half of what you made that day on something that was spit-in, you should eventually be treated with some dignity.
This is why I like to share my modest office space with the day laborers. I kindly usher them into the tidy space for their lunches. Then I clear off the desk and show them where to find extra napkins. No longer will they eat in the hot sun- due to my clemency! Perhaps a sainthood will be in order for me? St. Larry the Clement.
When I return to my office it smells like dogfood. And there’s slop on the desk.
It doesn’t matter if it’s a hamburger or a pizza, all fast-food smells the same- like something not meant for earthlings. I can’t be in that office until it airs out- the oily stench of fried refined grains just hangs there until it shovels itself away. The fix is to prop the door open and make vomit noises when you walk by. That eventually coaxes out the vapors.
When I finally return to my office duties, I find my forearm is now soaked in buffalo sauce. I angrily try to swipe over a sauce-cup cairn hanging on the side of the desk, but my sleeve is glued to the bloody remains of General Tso. You can’t just brush off fast-food condiments- you have to go to a sink and bring back moistened towels.
Most mystifyingly, The Post-it notes dispenser is always turned the wrong way and in the middle of the desk. At first, I thought someone, other than me, was frantically transcribing an important message or task to complete! But there was a pattern- everyone left it in the middle of the desk after its meal. Maybe they think it’s a napkin dispenser? I once walked-in on a laborer to find they use it to prop up their phones so they can watch TV on it. These animals’ chins are inches from the desk trying to make out the story on their little TVs- and eat lunch.
Sometimes the Post-it Notes dispenser has a spill on it. This is useful because it helps me identify the sauce more clearly. It’s usually invisible when spilled directly onto the desk. The desk was built in Vermont and is nearly a hundred years old. Whatever type of sauce they use just seeps directly into the antiquity, blistering its skin, hastening its demise.
Larry Thack is crying, but not in his drink
Allergic to You
I suppose it’s allergy season again but then again if you know what you’re doing, it’s always allergy season. I have a sophisticated catalog of ailments I use to help me avoid or escape valueless social situations. Once considered the domain of the nerd, I would roll my eyes at various geeks and clods who would excuse themselves to sneeze, drool or whatever they do until I realized they were successfully leaving the room- often with sympathy!
I find myself sneezing and coughing on cue now when approached by just about any of our town’s imbeciles and schlubs. Of course I’ve used a variety of maladies over the years now and it’s become a challenge to keep it all straight. For instance, if I run into Neil at the Food Depot I need to remember the foot hives that kept me from joining him for a round of golf last Fall. “Yes, feeling much better” I would say, “but suffering now from Solar Uticaria and need to watch my sun exposure”. That’s where the difficulties arise- when I add complexity. Fortunately I keep a spreadsheet that I study every morning. It takes real discipline but it’s worth it. I won’t say time is precious, because that’s a dumb word, but I will say time is wasted when speaking to people, so I endeavor to guard my time from these burglars.
Running into an acquaintance is bad, but dinner parties are the worst. It’s easy to get out of dinner parties if you claim to have an onion allergy- shallots and garlic fall under this umbrella too. Fortunately just about every dish ever contains onions so I’m always off the hook. On one occasion I was forced to accept an invitation when I was assured no onions would be in any of the dishes. I agreed to attend but then simply threw myself down the stairs the morning before the event and spent a much more lovely evening at home with my new prescription. I remember one spring when I wrapped my hand in a splint and Ace bandage. What a time that was! I think it was six straight weeks I avoided the handshakes of my “friends”. I keep Plantar fasciitis handy if someone wants to go for a walk. Then, when they start in on all their home remedies for it, I just use the “fake phone call” app I just downloaded.
Unfortunately my injuries will eventually heal so I find recurring allergies to be the easiest to manage. It sure is tough going through life in the South allergic to pine straw.
Larry Thack was recently caught-in-the-rain wearing his fur stole
Dream Car
I have very few desires in life: a fresh supply of wound dressings, thrift store Tupperware, mild headaches…..but the one thing I have yearned for since its introduction in 2000 is a Chrysler PT Cruiser.
It is a gorgeous machine that reminds me of the fancies of my youth. I have found a 2002 for sale- only $2700. Such a bargain for a dream car. It only has 48,000 miles- the original owner said he only drove it at night for some reason and kept it garaged during the day. As a result the paint is in crackerjack condition- a deep plum pearl that will look classy next to my mailbox.
My dream car is in Plano Texas and I shall travel there and drive it back. I have purchased some horse blinders to minimize my interactions at the airport and stay focused. Arriving at the unpleasant airport I learn that the South terminal is not for going to destinations solely in the South. I was forced to speak with an attendant who immediately helped me into a wheelchair and sped me to my gate. I now have a second dream car in this wheeled-chair and measured it for entry into the PT Cruiser’s fifth door.
I met Carl, the PT’s owner, in an abandoned Woolworth’s parking lot. I marveled at the car’s beauty and perfect condition. Carl once again assured me that he rarely drove it around other cars or in public. I’m thinking it was a show car to him. It runs like eggs in coffee even though it only has three cylinders. One is being occupied by a family of spiders, but no need as it still has ninety horses behind the bug deflector. I have test driven several of these over the years and they curiously all have seatbelts in like-new condition- as if they’ve never been used. Just another feather in my cap! Texas is very windy and it was quite difficult to count the twenty-seven bills to Carl. As we chased the flying hundreds around the lot I suggested doing this in the car, but Carl said he could not go back in, that he would never go back in. I guess he really loved that car.
Larry Thack’s mother fractured a vertebra picking up a cast iron pot of soup. No soup was spilled.
No Ensure for Mexico
Special guest Thack Impersonator: Pete Hegseth
Unless you’re young and spry with a hopefulness and sunny outlook that belies the doom of old age you’re probably familiar with the adult nutritional drink Ensure. If not for medical marijuana I’d say it’s the top-consumed product by seniors in the country. We mix it with Geritol in our smoothies, it’s a key ingredient in our quiches that slide so smoothly past our gums, and we pound them straight down doing our best impression of Festus from “Gunsmoke”. But there’s something inexplicably odd about the product. On the side of every bottle is labeled “Not for sale in Vietnam or Mexico”.
Upon firstly noticing this I spit the liquid off of the front porch I was sitting on as my mind grew wild with the possible dangers of the drink. As Americans we tend to poison ourselves pretty regularly, so what is it that these countries with advanced nutrition scientists seem to have found wrong with the drink? I went to Abbot Labs, the company behind Ensure, to get to the bottom of this. According to a spokeswoman, the Labs employs a consulting firm to keep the product in line with senior culture and attitudes. This firm has a five-senior committee of cranky, frustrated, gaunt, hunched-over grouches, and an additional two members who act like the happy seniors on the commercials. I was assured that Vietnam and Mexico find nothing wrong with Ensure, but that the senior committee has banned its sale to them based on a series of grudges. From a JCPenney shipment of shawls and sweaters deemed “too scratchy” to being repeatedly served the traditional Vietnamese soup, Pho, with only chopsticks, this senior committee really has it in for Vietnam and is clearly showing its power. Also, seniors hate being chastised by millenials for not pronouncing Vietnam with a short “a”.
At some point President Trump signed an executive order to ban the sale of Ensure to Mexico. So, I guess that explains that.
Larry Thack appreciates your pity
How Would I Feel if You Hadn't Eaten Breakfast
I’ve skipped more breakfasts than school, and it shows. For years I’ve derided the “most important meal of the day” trope as a hoax. Why, I can skip all three meals and still be considered fat. But things are direr now and I’ll try anything old and debunked. As such I’m going to start eating breakfast.
At the moment, I need to lose ten pounds. I’m at the last eyelet on my belt, and cannot afford another new wardrobe of clothes they don’t make anymore. I’ve tried a few diets- kids’ meals, medical bulimia, nervous anorexia, and those all worked great, but I want to try a radical approach here with breakfast. Normally I skate right past this meal that my mother declared, “very important to her father”. She never seemed to care for breakfast herself, at least in any normal sense. Mother had a fine breakfast each morning- homemade yogurt she cooked under a chair in the living room. She purchased her pre-yellowed Salton yogurt maker by means of Green Stamps, acquired from her supermarket. She offered this and nothing more to her family each morning. My gauntness had me wind worn and sun swept by and by.
Years later and it’s the same problem- what to eat? Can’t eat fresh fruits or a smoothie like I’d hoped- the citrus causes heartburn. I keep seeing that a banana on an empty stomach is a bad idea, but I’m not sure why- worms possibly. I need to locate my grandchildren and warn them! For years I’ve recommended bananas as THE food to eat if you become a homeless bum. They’re cheap, keep nicely, and storable in a backpack. I’d still advocate their use by the homeless- if bananas make one sick it might be a good excuse to lie down for a while. I don’t wish to foment a sedentary lifestyle on our proud homeless, but they do enjoy a bench-sleep. After eliminating one food after another, I’m only left with syrup sandwiches- the food used by rappers to establish their poverty.
It’s sure nice to remember my childhood as a skint rapper and it makes me think further back to a time when I was at San Quentin. I was doing some time for vehicular homicide and there was a psychology student there. He asked me the same thing every day: “Good afternoon, Larry. How would you feel if you hadn’t eaten breakfast?” I satisfied his daily question with the same answer: “but sir, I did have breakfast”.
Larry Thack’s Town Crush Just Committed Suicide
Larry checks his blindspot while having breakfast
Liquor Stores
The votes are in and Fayette County shall now have its very own liquor stores. The vote was a landslide against Lordliness, but there are more disturbing things to come as a result of this drunken cadre of voters. The stores of well-repute are coming friends, and due to my multiple DUIs I’m unable to own or work at one, but that’s just the beginning of the bad news.
At least it’ll be easier to buy drugs. Liquor stores are where I meet life partners- well, rather behind, and around the sides of the stores. Sure, I can always hit-up somebody I found on craigslist and meet him in the park, but one time I ran into a guy from church walking his dog. He talked mine and my cauliflowered dealer’s ears off for like ten minutes. It’s always about a deck. “You gotta come over and see the new deck!” There’s no roof, walls, windows, or plumbing, yet it’s presented as this feat of engineering. Anyway, under normal circumstances we’d try to make this transaction quickly, but this guy just wasn’t getting it. Alas, I should be so fortunate to have a drug dealer polite enough to just stand there and kindly listen.
I’m generally more successful just waving around cash at liquor stores when I need drugs. I suppose my terrible park experience could just as easily happen at a liquor store and that’s the real problem. An intown liquor store would be a personal disaster. As of now, I’m forced to leave town to buy my weekly case of fireball, and I know I’m safe from the locals and their deck-stories. Now I’ll be vulnerable to all the townspeople’s blather.
Worse yet- the town council is requiring any new stores to be a minimum of 5,000 square feet and maintain an inventory of $500,000. That sounds like a lot of fancy wine and a well-lit parking lot- no thanks! The only wine section I want to see is flavored Cisco and grape MD. If there aren’t bars on the windows of these stores, I’m moving to Canada.
Larry Thack just set his Thermostat to Terminal Lucidity
Life of Pain
I have numerous boils about myself that need to be lanced. I can’t reach many of these areas, so I’ll just list and describe them. I also have conditions and syndromes that prevent me from living a normal life. As such, I’m spreading awareness in hopes that I may be studied.
There’s a boil behind my ear caused by the straps on my covid mask, which I still wear to hide my expression. This can be dreadfully painful when I frown. There’s another one on my neck, fortunately covered by my mane. This was caused by scratching my meth-mites. It’s not that bad, so long as I have meth.
There’s an infection on my ring finger. I’ve gotten so fat since my beloved wife died, I’m unable to remove my pot-metal wedding ring. The skin around it looks like a little trench war going on. My grandchildren root for the commie side.
A carbuncle of boils has formed on my kneecaps, presumably from all the praying I do that the boils will go away. There are boils between my toes, about my back, and on my nose. I have a boil on my tongue, which reacts poorly to my elixir treatments. There are boils on each of my elbows, which makes sitting sullenly at the dinner table very painful.
My hips hurt due to all the hip exercises I perform incorrectly. and I think I slept on my ear wrong. My spine feels pretty good, which is harbinger for a stroke, I’m told.
I have two syndromes: Raynaud’s Syndrome makes it difficult to hold a golf club if it gets below fifty degrees. And some French sounding-syndrome that was administered to me when I got a shingles vaccine. I know its name, but I’m too bashful that I might mispronounce it.
All of this has been exacerbated by the death of my doctor.
Larry Thack says to Darl he says, “you skin that fish! Well, go on”
My New Race
I just got the results of my DNA test and I am pleased to report that I am black. Three percent Congolese, according to my certificate. I have plans to make.
So proud to call myself multiracial after all I’ve done in support of my races. For examples, I adore rap music, but sing my own made-up lyrics most of the time, because, you know. I never order vanilla ice cream in public, and I understand that only “Black Lives Matter”- you can’t add anything or change it to something else mattering. I’m also a big Deion Sanders fan- that’s good, right?
Sadly, I am part Irish too, 97%, but these tests have flaws. Before I demand a recount, I shall thusly renounce any connection to the Catholic Church and join the AME in Fairburn. No longer will I spill into the street with a bar-mate, thrashing each other with our shillelaghs until our wives drag us home by the ankles. I shall miss my diet of steak and kidney pie, Pease porridge, and Welsh rarebit but am open to a new diet which promises to help me recover my lost soul- as long as it’s not fried- I lack the constitution for fried foods. I also can’t eat too much salt, so no greens. I’m not sure if I’ll appropriate the diet. Be warned fellow blacks, I cannot stand the smell or feel of lotion, preferring ashy any day, so we won’t be sharing that culturally. But also, be assured that I won’t be watching any baseball or hockey.
The best part about being of multiple races is not merely that I am part of such a distinctive club, but that I am no longer just a standard white guy- I’m more of a Homer Plessy type. The white male has been a scourge on our country for years. Bungling, awkward, strangely dressed, opinionated, and burgling our time with their autobiographical sagae. Constantly in this country, a white male charms a cashier while a line forms behind him as the cashier’s gum loses its flavor. Minutes later he’ll accidentally step on the foot of the person behind him in line. He turns, exposing his gleaming, wet horse teeth to apologize, only serving to bring more attention and further embarrass everyone in the area. Then he’s off to sell medical supplies or corrugated boxes in an inefficient process of backslapping and cliché repetition required by the system. That was I, but no longer! I encourage everyone to get his-her- its DNA tested immediately before we stop caring and move on.
Larry Thack expects a full refund and apology from his chiropractor
Larry's Last Meal
At my age I think a lot about dying and frequently will shop for my last meal. It’s a real pleasure to choose the nutrition that will sustain my corpse with the energy it requires to not do anything forever.
Tonight, for instance I’ll make myself macaroni and cheese with a shallow-poached salmon in a nice cream sauce. It’s a strange combination I admit, but hopefully I’ll be dead in the morning so what difference does it make?
Guys on death-row get all the press for the last meal thing, but what experience do they have really? Frequently they’ll order these huge meals and then discover they have no appetite with death looming so closely. It seems these guys in prison don’t have a clue how to have a last meal, until now. This death row, media-darling monster in Arkansas, who incidentally looks very mean and guilty, requested Holy Communion for his last meal. What a classy guy! Not only does he totally square things with God, but who doesn’t have the appetite for Communion? So I’ll take a lesson from that guy- maybe Communion should be for dessert.
A lengthy and laborious internet search has confirmed that nowhere in the Bible does it say anything about some priest blessing the wafer and wine. All I have to do is be of the “right heart”. That’s just vague enough to work! Of course the search also points out that Communion is really a full meal that we share with a community, like a church community. The wafer and sip of wine came about because nobody had time for the dinner thing. After enduring numerous spaghetti dinners and fish-fries at churches I agree with the shortened version. Paul makes the point in Corinthians 4:20, “Dinner Thursday at my place unless…….
Larry Thack’s swaddling blankets fit properly
Please Stop Sneezing
This has been a tough year for those who suffer from pollen, and I sympathize partly but you geeks need to get it together.
There’s very little more disgusting than the sneeze. I consider it as rude as public urination and would be pleased if my fellow citizens might stop this clownish behavior of spraying us all with the contents of their noses. The folks down at the Senior Center are the worst. They perform a variety of offensive sneezes.
One of them sneezes like a little kitty. Just a puff of twinkle-stars is expelled in this cutesy-poo fashion. Whatever caused her to sneeze was certainly not enough of a foreign element to elicit a sneeze in the first place. I told her that style of sneeze would’ve been really helpful if she were pinned down in Normandy, but otherwise not useful.
Another one of them has this clean, whistling sneeze that sounds very effective but she does it 8-9 times and you end up wishing she’d just choke to death already.
One of them scrunches her face and makes a click noise. The goal here is to expel whatever has intruded your system. It sounds like you just trapped it.
There is one guy who gets it right however. He creates fun words while sneezing like “awchoooee”, murderousness and “Bleck!” This guy puts a lot of energy into it and always finishes by glaring in your direction. I guess I don’t have a problem with that method.
While we’re at it, don’t say “bless-you”. If I knew you were going to put a gypsy curse on me I would’ve sneezed directly on you.
Nevertheless we should excuse ourselves from the room and sneeze in private. This is yet another plank in my platform in my campaign for mayor.
Larry Thack starts his day with a shot of mouthwash
Recap of the 4th
The heat has been dangerous in our town the past week. I had heat exhaustion early in the week and was getting over it just in time for the holiday weekend. My plan was to read articles I’d saved and books I’d dogeared regarding our proud land’s sesquicentennial. I’d saved these over the course of the last couple years and was excited to sit in a cold, dark room reading nice things about our country.
Alas, strangers began invading my hovel around three pm, as I’d just opened an article about railroad expansion in the nineteenth century. My bagged salads were thrust from the fridge to make room for boxes of beer and seltzer-gin. My own regal box of wine had been demoted to a peasanty bag of wine to make room for the bottles they’d smash later. The trains didn’t make it to Milwaukee before I was kicked from my seat by a gang of excitable ne’er do wells. All I could do was wander from room to room until I was blown away by their vape pens. I retreated to a shady spot in the yard and continued to annotate my spreadsheet of the Declaration until the heat pushed me back into the trembling house. I sustained some milk-and-water natter from the guests then hid under my bed until it ended with a fireworks show that became the theme of Nextdoor.
I don’t like to throw around the word “mortified”, but that’s exactly what I was after seeing the fireworks debris on our street the next morning. It looked like a Gypsy wagon had finally decamped. There was an impossible number of tiny scraps on the lawn that could only be retrieved by picking up piece by piece. The invading guests had left me to rebuild Carthage one grain of salt at a time.
I swept and picked for as long as I could, but now the heat had disabled me back into the house. I was then scalded by steam when opening the second of four eventual dishwasher loads. Heat exhaustion how now set back in and I went to lie down and think about some of the stuff I’d cleaned today.
Larry Thack’s readership seems to be stuck at 24
Stupid Poodle
No longer is it any fun at all to play golf at the only remaining golf course in town. It’s always crowded with content creators and the course is too hard.
If it weren’t enough that the throngs of people make it unplayable, there now seems to be a loose dog that has ruined the experience further. To the owner of the stupid show-poodle that lumbers around the front nine I have this to say: First of all, you’ve been tricked! Your prize poodle is not a majestic example of the proud breed. No, your dog stumbles awkwardly with none of the dignity of its pedigree. From the distance of a six iron I originally believed it to be a gorilla. After the player in front of me cleared the green, I watched this dog wander around the green for a few minutes completely unaware of its surroundings. I just sat there and waited like a fool for this thing to clear the green so I could take a shot. I had a friend who once hit onto a green full of ducks. His pitching wedge pure and true found the brain of a goose. That friend could never play golf again. I’m not so concerned that the life of this baboon-dog is more significant than the pace of play on a golf course, rather I couldn’t bear the responsibility of apologizing to the owners of the dead, dunce-dog. I go to the course to escape the company of people for crying out loudly.
I’d complain but that would involve more people.
Larry Thack will spend the weekend catching up on his ebay negative feedback.
Lost Pen
I was fishing in me pocket for a pen just now and all I found were three pills. My daily tow for the brain and the stomach each, and then a new addition for the stomach, which I suspect is being poisoned by the brain. I’m not the sort to go without a pen, but then I’ve also neglected my fragile health situation by not taking my pills, so everything is collapsing.
I was hoping to remember what I needed to write down with that pen, but it’s lost. This is a bad day to be without a pen. I need to jot down tasks and record my observations. I need a pen for defense and as a tool. Maybe it was to remind myself to Google, “how to lance a boil with a pen”.
It again occurs to me that if I haven’t taken my pills, I could be in a grave manner and should eat something safe for my supper, or breakfast, whichever comes first. Aw, but there’s no sense eating breakfast. I have no appetite after what the night’s rest has done to me. I can feel a new wave of gout forming in my toe- how original.
Not eating breakfast means I’ve missed the first goal of the day. Good, that frees my spirit to be meaner. I shall swat at the friendly wrens who join me in reading the news. I won’t wave at some of the neighbors on the way to work. I’ll run every possible stoplight, yet I will also note the race and gender of anyone else who disregards our traffic laws.
It’s much later in the day now and I’ve shooed away many conversationalists. What’s this I feel in my pocket but my pills! This cannot be- I’m certain I took them earlier. At once I stomp over to the sink for some water and finally take my pills. The metallic taste comforts me- this is all I can accomplish today. That taste is also helping me realize that what I just “took” was a screw I’d picked up that was caught in the vacuum.
Larry Thack has forgiven King George III
Scourge of the Town
I would like to take a moment to discuss a new crisis in town. Middle aged men have taken to the streets with their bicycles. Sure this has been going on for decades now, but I don’t think anyone has complained about it lately.
Now we all know that bicycles are for kids and dishwashers at Mexican restaurants so what gives? These wheeled antiquities carry two things at all times: a fanny pack and a frown. Sometimes I’ll catch the eye of a cyclist and the frown seems to be a challenge of sorts, almost a dare. Further, they wear brightly colored shirts that beg for your attention. I want to look away, to keep driving and be on my way, but their displeasing blouses act as a matador’s muleta and I find myself helpless to control the wheel.
From the looks of these guys they’re not in it for the fitness, so why endanger themselves and annoy the rest of us? I suppose just as the Japanese find ultimate peace by walking into the ocean, American middle-aged men set out into heavy traffic at rush hour.
When I was a middle-aged boy there was this urban legend that it was “against the law” to ride your bike on the sidewalk. So fearful were we of being beaten and shot by the cops in our village we would never be seen anywhere but on the streets flowing with traffic. A return to the sidewalks for cyclists is what’s needed! Many of you will say there are bike lanes on the streets but we all know these are “texting easements” that allow for the natural side to side drifting that occurs when you’re trying to balance the responsibilities of driving and texting.
Larry Thack appreciates the kind salesman’s time, advice, research, and phone calls made on his behalf, but he’s just going to order it online
Foolish anachronism found in Belgium
Dearth of July
I am travelling to visit my sister this week in the breadbasket of our country, West Virginia. We’ll visit some graves, watch the fireworks, have a photo shoot at a graveyard, and dedicate a new tomb-wing at our family graveyard- mostly a graveyard related trip. Celebrating the 4th of July holiday in Colonial West Virginia gives me a historical feeling and I shall dress appropriately. I must find my old tricorn hat and brush the wool suit I wear every day, as an observer of good economy.
I shall not leave town without the scroll of prescriptions I’ll need to refill, first. I must take a stroll to the village druggist for replacements, but first need to compile a list of my needs- I like to go to the druggist prepared. Not only with a list of my needs, but also a description of the maladies for which I require the medicine and an anecdote to go along. Years ago, I noticed a line forming behind me as I told my funny stories to the pharmacist, and I try to keep adding to it to keep everyone entertained.
Let’s see, I take Losartan for high blood pressure but it works too well so I have to take Orvaten for low blood pressure to retain a pulse. I need Vitamin D supplements because I’m scared of the sun and Dr. Hammond’s Nerve Balm ‘cause I’m scared of my grandsons. I keep a bottle of Paregoric on me to ease my death anxiety and I take several varieties of Juice Plus pills because of OJ Simpson. Let’s not forget the lithium I need for mania, and a box of Chardonnay for hypomania. I should probably get some q-tips to treat my tooth decay.
I might also try to find a quaker gun while in town. I need to defend my fireworks-watching spot. One year the Pocahontas boys came up from the ground and took my blanket. I laid in wet grass that night.
Larry Thack just learned that abused dogs trail behind their owners
Larry would like to recognize those who gave their lives on the Fourth of July
Click each picture or enjoy a slide show
Obama Library Coming to Fayetteville
This essay was originally published in March 2015- Not sure how it all fell apart
I sat down with the President earlier this week after a speech I gave at Georgia Tech. He was in town for some reason.
Access to the President is something I enjoy from working on his first presidential campaign- I was his official “Slogan-Writer”. In fact, I come from a long line of campaign slogan-writers dating back to Henry Clay. Remember this classic: “Who is James K. Polk?” That bit of shrewd realism was the work of my father JC Thack, friend of Clay. That didn’t win Clay the election, but father Thack switched sides eight years later to help out Franklin Pierce’s campaign with this one: “We Polked you in ’44, we shall Pierce you in ‘52”. He was a genius at sloganning and was posthumously credited with Mckinley’s 1900 slogan, “Four More Years of the Full Dinner Pail”. In later years my father would help Harding “Return to Normalcy”, and even my mother-in-law got into the family trade. Not surprisingly, she came up with the very catchy, “We Can Do Better” for Kennedy. She was always saying that.
I came up with the line, “Change Your Concept of Hope” for the 2008 campaign. The committee to reelect the president thought it wasn’t vague enough and went with something else. This suggests the art of sloganning is just rearranging words properly.
Although we are best friends, this was not a social meeting, for we had business of great and historic importance. I explained to Barry that, as his tenure as our great leader comes to a close, it is time to start planning the Obama Presidential Library. This is the natural progression of Presidential retirement. Settle down with a nice museum, sell some books, make a little money on admission. It’s time to loosen-up and abruptly disappear from American culture. I urged Barry to build his library right here in Fayetteville. He’s in a tough spot- a lot of people will be slighted by his choice, so why not make it a neutral one? I’d sooner go to Atlanta than Kenya, after all. Hawaii just isn’t American enough for it, and Chicago already has a library. Besides, you can get the old glass factory for a song! And workers to boot. Why, half the town was thrown out of work when they shut down. Heehaw Heehaw!
The President fully agreed with me and we shall break ground on the tract of land between Dunkin Donuts and The Ford dealership in the spring following his final term.
Larry Thack’s Socialist Agenda Should Work Fine this Time
Great Father
“Son, I have a dozen rotten eggs here and I need you to take them out to the trash, please.” These words were gifted to me by my father on a Saturday morning, and I had no plans. I immediately called a fellow hood-rat and we set out terrorizing the town. My father’s encouragement that day led me to become the stepfather I’d always wanted to be, and I shall now pat myself on the back for some of the heroic advice I’ve imparted to the wee barons.
All children have these foolish dream occupations and I was keen to stamp out these ideas early. Believe me kids- you don’t want to grow up to be a doctor or lawyer. Doctors spend all their time around gross sick people and lawyers spend all day with criminals or if not, they should be generally ashamed of themselves. Firemen just sit there all day. One episode of “Cops” and they’ll be scared civil. Seems like one of them wanted to be a locksmith- I don’t have a problem with that.
Then, there were the mundane, daily lessons that remain useful in a well-lived life: It’s good advice not to make eye contact with anyone having car trouble. Coughing and sneezing were not allowed, mice were not given cookies, and you’re not to trust Whitey, of course. I tried to keep it in line with George Washington’s Rules of Civility and Decent Behaviour.
Oh, but how time is the enemy! They grow up so slowly and you haven’t gotten much accomplished. I mean, talk about no excuses. These people are always around- why is the majority of them still unable to throw a baseball? Or do her taxes. Before they can recognize and recite racial slurs from antiquity, they are ready to drive, and as soon as you get your learner’s permit, it’s time to start drinking.
I wanted to make sure they were prepared. We learned how to pack a cooler, stealing ice from motel ice machines. I held discussions on the proper order in which to consume beers and spirits, and other tips like the error of mixing grain alcohol with Gatorade. We’d have projects fashioning homemade pipes out of Mountain Dew cans. There was a study on bong resin-extraction and recycling. They learned to bum a cigarette, and what to do if its menthol. By the time the oldest was in high school, every one of her pre-teen siblings had a fake ID. They probably won’t buy any toxic blow or be worse than functional in their addictions. This is the American dream- for children to surpass their parents.
My youngest grandson is at camp this summer and I overheard he was bringing in cartons of cigarettes he’d bought in a neighboring town. He’d hand a few out at bonfires and rodeos, then make a nice penny when his campmates got hooked. Another industrious Thack.
Did I succeed? Certainly not. But an Air-BnB host summed us up well: “They seemed like nice people”.
Larry Thack is Enjoying Five Straight Days without Hearing some Blather from the Pope
John's Emissions
I’ve interrupted his lunch. This is generally how things begin at John’s Emissions. On the annus, our township requires horseless carriages to pass a pollutant query, and I always manage to annoy the emissions guy, John.
You can’t do anything right with John. It’s not that he’s overly demanding or particular, he just has a few questions for each customer and we never know the answers. There’s a dizzying array of questions he might ask about the car: how many liters is the engine? What year is it? These aren’t difficult questions, but I tend to freeze when he asks them. I want to accomplish one thing today, and that’s to mollify John, maybe even make him proud.
I’ve been going to John for years and the pressure has become too much. Once I asked him if I should stay in the car or get out, and he said, “I don’t care what you do.” I tried to stand as far out of the way as I could and he then berated me for standing in the sun. He wears one of those giant floppy hats with the draping neck protection. “You must always take measures to protect yourself from the sun’s harmful rays”, he demanded. I shuffled back into the shade.
“Engine size?" I meekly wager that it’s a six cylinder. He dismissively states, “so, you don’t know”. He declares that “it’s actually an eight cylinder”, but then informs me “that has nothing to do with the size”. After failing his tests, he shakes his head and motions for me to go sit in the corner. He has a recycled optometrist chair sitting in the shade for patrons who can’t do anything right. I very much felt like Billy Pilgrim sitting there.
Something else has him agitated now. Apparently, there’s no barcode on the inside of the door like “every other car” forcing him to climb onto the hood and painstakingly type the whole VIN number into his machine. He asks me to pop the hood, which I do wrong. On this model car, I have to pull the lever twice- I only did it once. He lets me and all the passers-by know.
I’m always surprised when my car passes the emissions test, given how John always knocks away any confidence I had on the way in. His price is fair at $17.99, but if you don’t tip him, you’re immediately cursed by his un-spendable change: a two-dollar bill and a penny. This prank he plays on non-tippers puts him high on my hero-list. When you do tip, he gives a very gracious and mock-surprise, “oh, thank you very much.” Like he’s just a regular guy.
Larry Thack spent his savings on a pied-a-terre in Havana
John, seen here in Legionnaire's hat and UV fishing shirt, waves goodbye
To the Moon!
The first fake moon landing was a joy for the people of the United States and I think we all look forward to a new one. I do wonder why we’ve waited to go back to the moon after more than a half century, given the vast opportunities there. I’m more concerned about the perils of colonization, and also worried that we’ve forgotten how to get there.
It seems to me the Moon industry would quickly become bigger than the Auto industry. There’s a lot to do up there- we could spend the first few months just raking. I’m sure colonization hasn’t changed much- build a fort, do the crops, have a famine. Clearly the thinking here is to get ahead of things and be thusly prepared for Winter, or “The Starving Time”.
Failing to do this means all sorts of trouble. Fortunately, there are no indigenous Moon people to attack us and steal our gunpowder, but maybe there are? My grandparents, Phoebe Belcher Thack and Mitchell Clay Thack, were attacked at their peaceful settlement in West Virginia. Two of the children were killed and scalped. A third was dragged to Ohio and burned at the stake. My Gen-Z nephews assured me they deserved it.
Disease often befell the original colonizers and the Moon has been complicit for thousands of years in its spread of Lunacy. Pliny the Elder believed a full Moon would moisten the brain and lead to all sorts of seizures and madness- statistics prove he was right! Further, Moon dust has been known to cause symptoms similar to a cold.
What about scurvy and rats? Are we even thinking about these things? What a folly it would be if we just watched history repeat itself.
Oh, but what faith I lack in our explorers! Surely, they’ve considered all this and are proceeding with historical indifference. They’ll endure some hardships, but the task at hand is drilling for rare earth minerals, and no sensitivities or local customs should inhibit this mission. Once we have the mines producing, we can erect a church and the Moon will be ours.
Larry Thack will be the Guest of Honor at One of those No Kings Rallies
Michael Jackson or Jeffrey Epstein
Now and again, I like to go to the movies. It’s the one place where things are at the proper volume.
In preparation for my big trip, I started reading the movie listings and reviews. Animal Farm seems like the obvious choice, since I finally finished reading the massive tome. But all anyone ever talks about is the new Michael Jackson biopic. I’ve already read two favorable reviews, but they didn’t start out favorably. One called him a “stone cold pedophile” and the other a “horrible human being”. Well now I have to rethink the whole thing. Michael Jackson- a bad guy?
Of course he’s a bad guy! What am I thinking? He would lure children to his “Neverland Ranch” and expose them to Tinker Bell and Captain Hook. This all sounds so familiar and it’s gotten me to thinking- who’s worse Michael Jacskon or Jefferey Epstein?
Epstein doesn’t have any movie reviews by which to judge him, but he does do poorly in the press. I’ve never heard him called a “stone cold pedophile” but plenty of people agree he’s a “horrible human being”.
When I think back to the days of Jackson’s height of popularity, I recollect a society that had a contract with Jackson- there was an understanding not to have a slumber party with Michael Jackson. I think it was an addendum to the pledge of allegiance and “Happy Birthday” for wisecracking kids. Whenever there was a report of Jackson’s molesting, the whole country would shake its head and say, “what kind of an idiot would let his kid go to Michael Jackson’s house for a sleepover?” Between his creepy voice and bizarre appearance, allegations of child molestation seemed appropriate and frankly, deserved. I mean this guy has worked hard, put out numerous “comeback” albums. He deserves a treat from time to time and he has requested young boys. This new movie suggests Americans are supportive of this idea, but I’d better ask around first.
Epstein seems like he’d be worse than Jackson for numerous reasons. Epstein only hangs out with other rich guys and that sounds like something most people could agree to dislike. He also appears smugly in all photos, whereas Jackson looks gentle and kind.
Jackson also possesses the noblesse oblige -he’s rich, famous, and has contributed to our culture- he should be able to do whatever he wants! Epstein’s just rich.
Besides all that- I polled everyone in town and it is universally agreed that Epstein is worse. I can only conclude that Americans agree it is bad to be a child predator, just not as bad if you compel us to dance.
Larry Thack’s Patience is Wearing Fat
.jpg)
Rare photograph of Jackson appearing to be the most normal person in the picture.