Uncle Mort, staring down the barrel at his 104th birthday on July 4, lives in utter fascination of the moment — whatever he’s doing, wherever he is. Aunt Maude says he can entertain himself for a good four hours in an empty room with a fly swatter. “Add a fly to the mix, and his day is made,” she laughs.
He gabs about the tiniest shreds of minutia. One of his domino buddies claims Mort’s verbal discourses have been timed at 250 words per minute, with gusts to 300.
Mort’s arrival at the general store on a Saturday morning typically means domino-shuffling is soon to commence. Recently, though, the table was turned — so to speak— because of a distraction resulting from a casual glance at the newspaper rack. The stark headline foretold numerous Walmart closings. This was “big news,” begging for dissection. Clearly, the domino game would have to wait.
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“The closings will complicate many lives, way beyond mere inconvenience,” he commented. “Think of the thousands of husbands who had signed off on their funeral plans and now must make critical changes.”
Gripped by the puzzlement, his friends couldn’t imagine what Walmart has to do with husbands’ earthly exits.
Mort clarified, “I know several guys who’d planned on cremation, with their ashes spread at Walmart, thus guaranteeing spousal visits at least twice a week.”
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“Some of my best spontaneous conversations have been at Walmart with other husbands resorting to idle conversation while wives shop,” another guy mentioned. “It’s either talk or watch the greeter welcoming customers.”
One fellow told about a recent Walmart session. A “new friend” dominated the conversation immediately, describing what he called “two minefields in life” that get him “off the subject at best and off the track at worst.”
The minefields? “Neon and nylons,” the guy laughed.
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Another member of Mort’s foursome spoke of a second “mart” in the news.
“Kmart says shoppers with firearms need only abide by state law without checking ‘em at the door.”
He claims, “Saturday night specials are compatible with blue light specials.”
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They were all agog about Los Angeles’ re-entry into the National Football League, as well as excited about L.A.’s proposed new $2 billion sports palace purported to make Jerry Jones’ AT&T Stadium look, uh, “so yesterday.”
Someone rekindled the conversation about San Antonio getting an NFL franchise.
One guy thought they might consider “Toros” for the team nickname. “Political correctness being what it is, they’d need to clear the mascot idea with the bulls and the lawnmower people,” he laughed.
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Soon the subject turned to the upcoming Super Bowl. Mort asked if they knew the toughest job on the planet.
He claimed it has nothing to do with world peace, terrorism, immigration or any other topic covered in TV debates by presidential hopefuls.
Mort feels maybe the toughest sell of all might be TV guys trying to convince advertisers that 30-second Super Bowl spots are worth $5 million a pop.
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At morning’s end, they started analyzing NFL playoff games. Talk wasn’t as much about play on the field as the bizarre sideline incident neither players nor officials had ever experienced. It was a “goof” prior to the overtime session of the Arizona Cardinals-Green Bay Packers game. Team captains and officials gathered for the all-important coin flip to determine first possession. The blunder assures there’ll be additional “coin toss training” before the Super Bowl.
You remember the moment — when the coin failed to flip. The official tried again, this time successfully. In the future, maybe instant replay will be called into play, thus giving the networks opportunities to wedge in even more commercials.
What constitutes a flip? Must the coin turn a given number of times? Whatever, it should be a slam dunk. Someone said striped shirts failing to execute successful flips should be “flagged, benched or banished.”
Reflection on the botched coin flip overwhelmed the four old guys. The session ended, though, when the clock struck 12, the “gongs” almost drowned out by a quartet of stomach growls. The geezers were hungrier for food than for conversation or dominoes. So they went home.
Dr. Newbury, a former president at WTC, is a speaker in the Metroplex. Email: newbury@ speakerdoc.com.