The Wit and Wisdom of Yogi Berra

Yogi Berra

Yogi Berra died on September 22 at his home in Montclair, NJ at the age of 90. Aside from rock star baseball, he was otherwise well known for his "Yogisms", which have been oft quoted and re-quoted since his passing. These amusing aphorisms have often been accepted as being merely silly tautologies in many cases. I beg to differ. I think they are the sayings of a very insightful mind and spirit.

Let's start with this most famous one:

It ain't over till it's over.

Obvious, right? No. It's a statement about the psychology of life's challenges. It's the ninth inning. You're at bat. You're down 7 zip. You have two outs against you. The game's over, right? No, says Yogi. It ain't over until it's over. That's an important idea. Whatever the strikes against you, you can't make the rent, your girlfriend is about to walk out on you, your brother has hit rock bottom and is self-destructing: remember, it ain't over until it's over.

Hear this one:

It's deja vu all over again.

Deja vu happens more than once, and it's eerie. Why does this stuff keep happening?

Sometimes you just have to remember your way:

When you come to a fork in the road... take it.

If you came to that divide for the first time, you wouldn't know what to do quite frankly. But if you've been down that road before, doesn't it come natural?

Let's face it: things take longer than their assigned time.

I usually take a two-hour nap from 1 to 4.

By the time you make the trip to and fro, shower up and change clothes... well?

I particularly like this one:

We made too many wrong mistakes.

There are two kinds of problems in life: problems that have a right to be a problem, and problems that do not have a right to be a problem. In the former case, we have problems and make mistakes because we are doing something hard to do, perhaps something we've never done before. In the latter the case, we have problems because we are being butt-heads and make "wrong mistakes."

By the way, we can be amphi- anything, if we demonstrate flexibility.

He hits from both sides of the plate. He's amphibious.

Sometimes we look at things without really seeing.

You can observe a lot by watching.

Often, you can't learn than much by watching, unless you come prepared. What are you watching for? What does Yogi mean by "observe?" This one may need further refinement by a future Yogi.

Here's a truism on the annual seasonal changes:

It gets late early out here.

Isn't that the way it feels in the northern latitudes come October? Here is a distinct contrast between the sky and the clock.

You can't put a finer point on American liberties than to put it a little upside down.

If the people don't want to come to the ballpark, nobody's going to stop them.

I have a pet peeve. If you speak of a transaction between two people it occurs "between" them. If among more than two it is "among" them. Violations of this simple grammar are frequent and severely grates on my nerves. That's why I appreciate the way Yogi calls it out in this next one:

Pair up in threes.

He had good investment advice too.

Why buy good luggage. You only use it when you travel.

If you've been around a while, like I have, you learn to take it down a notch, especially when you're under fire. Other people know stuff too, and they can help you if you can tame your ego and give them a chance. Yogi knew that.

It ain't the heat, it's the humility.

Farewell Yogi. The future ain't what it used to be.

The Real Planned Parenthood Scandal

Oh no! Mr. Bill!

Since the scandalous Planned Parenthood video came out, showing PP selling aborted body parts for fetal research, I've been hankering to get to the bottom of it. Some claim these are heavily spliced and diced "hit" tapes; others say these show the real PP agenda to pressure women to have abortions for fun and profit. Well now, Refuters, I have the real scoop for you.

I marched myself down to my local PP clinic and demanded to see the "baby murderers." The receptionist scrolled her fingers down her handy directory and directed me to the basement level, Room B3-A. I found B3-A, which was also dubbed "Baby Food." I knocked on the door. There, I meet a bespectacled gentlemen who introduced himself as Jip Bilkumoore. "Enter," he said, a little stiffly.

To my surprise, a found myself within a small but well-equipped industrial kitchen. Over Dr. Bilkumoore's ("Call me Jip") shoulder, I saw a hibachi puffing away on a stainless steel table. A fan whirred above it to clear the smoke.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Let me shew you," said Jip, who had a slight Asian accent.

He led me over to the grill. "These are baby thighs, prepared with a nice paprika and sugar dry rub, which we will finish off with a Jack Daniels Original No. 7 BBQ sauce." I was speechless as he continued. "It's best to keep the coals low, you know, a dull grey, with just a little red showing. The meat is only an ounce and a half, so they only take about fifteen minutes to finish. I have some ready here. Want to try some? Wery, wery good."

"Hell no! I mean, no thank you."

"Let me shew you another of our delights," said Jip. He led me over to the referigator and took out a twelve ounce jar with strange little pink things packed into what looked like some kind of brine.

"Pickled Fetus Fingers!" he announced. That's disgusting, I thought.

"Unctuous! Best to harvest them at twenty-one weeks. Then they have a nice delicate crunch, like a Cheese Puff. Have one!"

I held my hand up in stern refusal. Eager to change the subject, I pointed to the activity across the room. "What are they doing?" I asked.

"Oh, they're making Baby Back Ribs," said Jip. "They come with our own special sauce. I can't give you the recipe, but we call it 'Cannibal Cauldron'. We're working with a bottler to sell it at Whole Foods. The hold up is agreeing on the ingredients list we're willing to put on the label."

Jip suddenly became extra earnest. "Oh!" he said, "let me show you something else." He led me over to a stack of oversize books.

He set one on a table for me to admire. "This a preprint of our recipe book, to be published this Fall."

It was a coffee table book titled Beyond Partial Birth: Cuisine From The Womb. Outrageous! Jip opened it up to show me one of his favorite recipes. It was called Baby Brain Pansit.

"Instead of pork or chicken, you feature baby brains, along with your veggies, such as snow peas, celery, carrots, and what not, with your rice sticks and nicely seasoned with Patis and Toyomansi. We've also suggested the elegant touch of serving the dish inside the top of the cranium with a sprinkle of chives."

My stomach turned over. I pulled out my iPhone. "Mind if I snap a few photos for the record?"

"You bet we do," answered The Chorus. I was suddenly surrounded by the kitchen staff, which pushed me toward the door like the incoming high tide. Jip stood behind them with his arms folded. "You ought to know better," he said petulantly.

Men in chef coats pushed me out the door and I landed on my butt in the hallway. When the door slammed, I rubbed my eyes and gazed at the local address: B3-A Baby Food. That is beyond ironic.

As I walked back to my car, you will know I was definitely on the side of defunding Planned Parenthood. If we can't defund the whole outfit, we should at least defund their devil's kitchen. For you skeptics, I swear to hell I saw this and I hadn't been drinking. Who are you going to believe: you or my lying eyes?

The Waterboard by M.W. Thomas

How Do You Stone An Ox?

I happened to be doing a little reading in the Pentateuch recently in concert with some some study of the murky history of the second and third millennia BCE. For some reason my gaze happened to fall on Exodus 21. This Old Testament chapter, you will recall, continues the transmission of the ordinances of the Lord to Moses that he is to deliver to his weary band of vagabonds in the Sinai wilderness. It contains the infamous "eye for an eye" injunction in verses 24 through 27, although usually only verse 24 is gleefully sung from the pulpit these days.

But what unexpectedly captured my attention was this law found in Exodus 21:28 - and I am using the King James Version -

"If an ox gore a man or a woman, that they die: then the ox shall be surely stoned, and his flesh shall not be eaten..."

I had never dwelled on this before and I was frankly surprised by it. To proscribe the punishments of humankind for evil-doings is, of course, to be expected. But of a dumb brute? I do not know if the implication is supposed to be that a beast of burden is capable of "sin" and I have not bothered to research it. If a Refuter is reading this and wishes to instruct the community about this theological principle via a Comment, you are certainly welcome to do so. But I am even more perplexed by another matter. How would you accomplish the task of stoning an ox to death?

I have an ox. It's standing in the field and is not even a moving target, say. I pick up a stone I can easily grasp and throw it at the animal with all my might. What happens? Nothing much, I would guess. Maybe the ox slowly turns it head and looks at me as if to say, "What the f*ck?" If I repeat this action over and over again, I can easily predict the ox will turn its back to me and saunter off to get itself out of annoying stone-throwing range.

To an order of magnitude, oxen at that time would probably weigh in excess of 1000 lbs, and would be about 6 feet at the shoulder. What could an average rock-throw do to such a beast? It would be hard to cause the least of a scratch or bruise. Obviously, one would have to work a little harder at this sacrament.

What if one hundred people hurled one hundred rocks simultaneously? If this technique were to be applied without forethought, it would merely result in one hundred non-wounds, but probably a very angry ox. The attack would have to be coordinated to concentrate on the same area of the animal's anatomy, I would think; perhaps the skull. It could do some damage, I admit. Still, I am skeptical of lethality. Oxen, I am led to believe, are pretty hard-headed. Maybe if you made a day of it, it could work. Maybe. Do you have to feed all these people to keep them motivated? Is it BYOB? This event could be expensive.

So, that's one possibility. It takes a village. But what if you're pretty much on your own?

Then I might fashion a slingshot. Yea, that could be the ticket. Perhaps that will illicit at least a snort and a hoof stamping. But I think I need a really big slingshot - no - a catapult. If I could just get my hands on some Lebanese cedar. Out here in the wilderness. Maybe a cedar vendor will just happen to pass by on his rounds. Let's say he does. Now I need some nice tanned leather for the sling. If I could just kill that damned ox, I know where to get that.

Assume that falls into place. Now I need a great big boulder to hurl at the offending animal. About 200 pounds ought to do it. Where am I going to find a 200 pound boulder in this wasteland? Oh, I know, I'll pray for one. Doh!

Can somebody help me load this thing for Chrissakes? Okay, on three! I misse d. I can't believe I missed!

Alright, no more fooling around. I'm going tie that ox to a post, grab a fifteen pounder and just beat him senseless over the forehead. I don't know if that counts as stoning or not. Moses was not really clear on the rules. But as I sit exhausted on my dead ox, I just have one more question.

Why?

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So, You Want To Be A Blogger?

Here's a little blogging advice: don't. Your blog will take over your life. The beast has to be fed. Your achy-breaky heart can't tolerate the slightest decline in readership, so you must post! Today! And tomorrow! And the day after!

The garbage will start piling up in the kitchen because you don't have time to put it out. Look, you're blogging. Your spouse is mad at you because you're blogging and you're not doing your share around the house. By the time you've got 200 regular readers, you're headed for divorce. You're also about to lose your job, because you're always late to work stopping to snap those all important photos for your blog. That's the reason you're always late getting home too. The only one that's happy to see you when you're late is the dog.

Then there's the twitter notices to make sure your readers know about your new posts and you're attracting new readers. There are the spreadsheets to update, to track your pageviews, and how fast your blog is growing. You're obsessed.

Listen to me now, before it's too late.  Blogging will destroy your life. How do I do it? I would tell you, but now it's time for my medications.

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Never Say Yes, A Poem by M.W. Thomas

Jim Plunkett of Ewell’s Landing, Missouri said “Yes”

And ended up poling a piano across the lake on a homemade raft

To his brother’s cabin

When the raft and the piano sunk to the bottom

And he spit and gurgled and swore in a language Missourians know well

Then all he could think was “Oh, no!”

Miss Lulu Simon of National City, California said “Yes”

To a sailor at the Acey-Deucy Club after two Miller Lites, an umbrella drink,

And a shot of Cuervo

After a bouncy romp in the back seat of a ’72 Camaro with loose shocks

He broke her poor little drunk heart into five way-too-easy-pieces

And all she could think was “Oh, no!”

Let me explain you something:  Say “No” to “Yes”

Por ejemplo, Raul Montegon of San Juan, Puerto Rico said “Yes”

He would rid the city of all its feral cats (for a fee and a throw with an exclusive puta)

But the cats were smarter than Raul

And they ambushed him at the Castillo de San Cristobal with medical instruments

They extracted his eyeballs, cut out his tongue, and amputated his thumbs

And all Raul could say was “Oh, bo!”

Yusif and Hammad of St. Paul, Minnesota said “Yes”

And that is how they started campaigning door to door for Hubert Humphrey

(Remember Hubert Humphrey?)

One particular Sunday was their best ever afternoon of Persuasion

Hammad said “Praise Jesus!” Yusif praised Allah

And they punched each other in the face and mailed all the checks to Reverend Moon(Oh no!)

Busbee Irwin of Brisbane, Australia said “Yes”

And commenced to kickboxing with a kangaroo and he played defense

Well at first

And almost rope-a-doped a roo until he found

A kangaroo has a third foot tucked under his tail, a fourth

That pops out of his right eye, a fifth out of his left

And has a Bruce Lee fist for a tongue… Oh, no!

Donna May of Slippery Rock, Pennsylvania finally said “Yes”

And agreed to change into her gym clothes with all the other girls

In the change room

They all said, “Eww!” and began picking off the scabs that covered her whole body

Until the pus ran out of her and her body shrank to the size of a dried pea and ran down the shower drain

And when the plumber arrived all he could say was “Oh, no!”

Yes-People you’re going down

You know that “No means no”

But “Yes” does not mean “No”

And that is a problem.

Jim Watkinson of Ketchikan, Alaska said “Yes”

And leaped from the dock of the salmon processing plant

Into the inner passage

And though it was July, it was a scrotum-shrinking swim

An otter floated by and thinking Jim was after his clams beat him with his feet

Until Jim thought he would drown, but his friends pulled him out and paid him his five dollars.

His sister posted the video on YouTube.

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How To Improve Your Gas Mileage

Tom Brady noticed he was getting poor gas mileage, so he took his car to the mechanic. It turned out his tires were under-inflated.








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The Waterboard, by M.W. Thomas

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Lane Cake

What is Lane cake? That's what I asked Google when I got to page 139 of my copy of To Kill A Mockingbird. We're in Chapter 13 and to Scout's dismay, Aunt Alexandra has arrived from Finch's Landing and declared residency at the house in Maycomb "for a while." Being well regarded in town, she is welcomed almost as royalty.

In greeting, Miss Maudie makes a Lane cake that Scout says was "so loaded with shinny it made me tight." Miss Maudie Atkinson is known for her superior Lane cakes, which are...?

That question led me to a 2013 article by Tom McNamara called The Cake That Made Maycomb Famous: The Lane Cake. You can read the article (which includes a recipe), but the upshot is that it is a cake with a sugar and bourbon ("shinny") filling usually involving finely chopped raisins or pecans. Judging from the comments section, many of Mr. McNamara's readers expected coconut in the filling. It is topped by a standard Boiled White Frosting.

Have ya'll ever had Lane cake? Do you make Lane cake? If so MIO wants to hear from you. If you have your own recipe, you can email it to myirrefutableopinion@gmail.com, and I'll be glad share it in this space (with your permission, of course.) I may even pick my favorite and try it myself!
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Watchman: Is Your Head Exploding?

Jem dead? Atticus a racist? These are the spoilers spilled in the pages of the NYT Review of Go Set A Watchman. Do you have the vapors? If so, you seem to be in good company. Say It Ain't So tweets the universe. The comments page drips with pissing and moaning that no doubt spells "$$$" for the publisher HarperCollins.

Given recent events, it is timely to ask why we ever accepted To Kill A Mockingbird's hero, Atticus Finch, as a two-dimensional paragon of moral purity in the first place. After all, was he not a man of his times? How could such a man in the deep south not be affected by the prevailing attitudes about race and segregation?

We are told that Mockingbird is a rewrite of Watchman. I will be interested in reading Harper Lee's original painting of Atticus for myself (I am not on the publisher's list of advance reviewers, if you can believe it.  The book is scheduled for publication on Tuesday, July 14.)

Are the Atticus's of Watchman and Mockingbird truly inconsistent with each other? Mockingbird's Atticus is six-year-old Scout's Atticus. He is seen through a child's eyes, strong and heroic, bravely standing up to a mob mentality that would railroad an innocent black man to his rendezvous with death beyond all reason.

Watchman's Atticus is 26-year-old Jean Louise's Atticus. How differently does this grown-up young woman see her father since those days? How much has Atticus changed over the years with age? Is he different twenty years on, or does Jean Louise simply see him differently? Or did the character evolve in Ms. Lee's mind in a zig-zag of cultural criticism?

Unlike the TIMES reviewer, I have not had the opportunity to explore these questions with Ms. Lee's book for myself yet. But to me, the Tale of Two Atticus's is at least potentially the legitimate stuff of American Literature. And if it makes my head explode, maybe that's because it's good writin'.
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