Category Archives: Phil

Wordless Wednesday? Not This Week, I Need Your Votes!

The Annual Blogger’s Bash Awards voting is going on now! You can vote for #ThePhilFactor for Funniest Blog by clicking HERE! You don’t even have to be a blogger. Anyone can vote! Have a great Wednesday! ~Phil

The Rules of Childhood

Childhood is full of unwritten rules that for kids, seem to make life more manageable. Adulthood is full of written rules that seem to make life more difficult. “I called it first!”  “No fair. Do-over.”  “Ghost runner.”  “Not it!”  Childhood rules made life so much more enjoyable. No litigation or arguments. The rules were simple, fair, and everyone knew and respected them. Most of us at one time or another yearns for the days of our youth when life seemed simpler. We only had to worry about school, homework, and if our friend had gotten out of their punishment so they could play after school.

Adults often say things like “youth is wasted on the young” and bemoan the fact that children don’t seem to appreciate how good they have it. I believe that children are far wiser than we give them credit for and in some ways, far more wise than we are. I bemoan the fact that too many adults have grown up too completely. The lessons of our childhood would serve us well if only we knew how to apply them later in life. Imagine if we could use the age old rules of childhood in adult situations! For instance, if you find yourself in a meeting at work and the boss says, “I have a very important project with a lot of paperwork and long hours that I need to assign to someone.”  By childhood rules you instinctively yell out, “Not it!” while putting your finger to your nose. Everyone else in turn follows your lead. Boom. Done deal. Problem solved. Because co-worker Bob had a doughnut in his mouth at the wrong moment and couldn’t yell out “Not it!” he gets the job. Or perhaps if you’re involved in a multi-car fender bender as soon as Johhny Law shows up, “So what happened here?” Last one to touch their nose and yell “Not it!” gets the ticket.

Or how about “dibs”?  How many situations in adulthood would that come in handy for? What once saved us the last cookie or piece of cake would come in very handy on the dating scene.

Who here wouldn’t want to yell out, “Do over!” and get a free second chance at a situation you’ve screwed up? You’re out on a date, you have a few too many drinks, your lips get loose and you spill some horrific personal information upon your new romantic interest. Why can’t you call the person up the next day and demand a do-over? You get a new date, and a second chance at a making a good impression. Or how about in bed? Who hasn’t wanted a do-over at least once after something you’ve said or done? (Of course this doesn’t apply to me)

Children are blessed with graciously short memories and tons of forgiveness. Why do adults have to be so uptight in this regard?  Adults hold grudges sometimes for the rest of their lives over perceived personal slights. I think little boys handle these situations with a maturity adults can only aspire to achieve. “Eddie told me that you said my bike was a piece of crap.” “Yeah, so what if I did? What are you gonna do about it?” Pow! Bam! Slam! Kerplooie! Fight over and they’re best friends later that afternoon. Nothing brings two people closer than a little fisticuffs.

What about the ghost runner? That wonderful childhood concept to replace an absent player in a game of kickball. Wouldn’t that be a great concept for adulthood? Don’t call in sick when you don’t want to go to work. Send a ghost runner! “I’m  sorry I can’t make it boss, but don’t worry.  I’ll have a ghost runner at my desk today.” Rather be out with friends than with your significant other? Send your ghost runner! “Yeah, honey, I’m really sorry I can’t make it to your cousins wedding. I’ve got a ghost runner though!” Or for the ladies how about, “Oh, I’m sorry honey, I’ve got a headache. Why don’t you go have sex with my ghost runner. Again.”

If you enjoy my nonsense and want to call dibs on more Phil fun you can subscribe to The Phil Factor on your Kindle and you can enjoy my humorous murder mystery novel White Picket Prisons available for Kindle, Nook, iPad and just about any other e-reader. As always if you enjoy what you read here please click the Facebook Like or Share buttons.

How I Will Spend My Powerball Winnings

When you see tomorrow that I won the Powerball don’t be jealous. I promise I’ll share. In fact, when I win the Powerball I promise to give money to every single person who shares this blog link on their Facebook page. In addition to that I have a few other goals for the money I’ll be winning tonight.

1. Once I am worth over 500 million dollars I will immediately relax, which I haven’t done in years. I will quite possibly relax to the point that someone will call a medical examiner. The best part of that is that it’s free and after I’m done relaxing I’ll still have 2 billion dollars, which will make me feel very happy.

2. Daylight savings time. It’s stupid, outdated, inconvenient and it’s time for it to end. With 500 million dollars I’m pretty sure there’s a way I could “persuade” enough legislators to take care of this. 

4. Automated asteroid destroying lasers on the moon. Need I say more? 

5. Thanksgiving. We’ve all been doing it wrong for centuries now. Do you think that the pilgrims wanted to eat the dead carcass of the largest, ugliest bird in North America? Of course they didn’t. Remember when telephones were attached to the wall and we could only go as far as the cord allowed? Well once we found a way around that we moved on to cell phones. Guess what? We now have better food than dead turkeys so it’s time to move on. When I have 2 billion dollars we will start eating pizza on Thanksgiving. Now that’s a food worthy of a national holiday. 

6.  A seat on the Supreme Court. Did you know that technically there’s nothing that says you have to be a lawyer or judge to be on the Supreme Court? Powdered wigs and black robes? Seriously how swag would that be? Yeah, I know the modern day judges don’t wear the powdered wigs, but I would. 

7. Avoid the Fiscal Cliff: Hey President Obama, here’s an idea for you: Start a Federal lottery. Federal government keeps half, half to the winner. The ultimate 50/50 drawing. If the government did this on a monthly basis they’d make a fortune. See? Not enough of you wrote me in for President this year. This is just the kind of visionary I am.

How about in the comments section here everyone write one crazy thing they would do in the unlikely event that someone other than me wins the Powerball tonight? Then after you do that, click on the Facebook share button and we’ll get a good long discussion link by shared link amongst all our friends on what we’ll do with our winnings. Also, if I win I’ll buy you each a copy of my book White Picket Prisons, which you can take a look at by clicking the little banner link at the top of this page. 

 

 

Channing Tatum: Sexiest Man Alive? Hardly.

People Magazine recently named their Sexiest Man Alive, and again, it wasn’t me. Yeah, I know, shocker. Channing Tatum?!!? Puh- leeze! I scrape stuff off my shoe that’s sexier than Channing Tatum. Have you noticed they always choose actors? Not once have they considered a blogger. First of all, I wasn’t even interviewed. How fair is that?

Go on, compare his picture, which you have to Google to even find, while I put mine right here for all to see, with mine in the top left of the page. His picture, my picture. His picture, my picture. His picture, my picture. I’ve been doing that all night and I still don’t see it. Sexier than me? Who is doing the rating? Ray Charles? Stevie Wonder? (Why aren’t there famous blind women?) I’m mean, c’mon, as far as I know he is completely “between jobs” right now. Meanwhile I have a full time job with health insurance and everything!

And his abs in Magic Mike? Completely airbrushed. My abs? Never been airbrushed. Not once. They are au naturel my friends. Both of them. And those dance moves. Yeah, Channing, we saw Napoleon Dynamite too. Way to go. Pedro for President.

And how about Facebook, the social convention by which all human value is measured. Does Channing let you be his Facebook friend? No, of course not. He is snooty. Snooty? Snotty! I of course will quote Ferris Bueller and let you be my Facebook friend. Check. Scoreboard, Phil again. And talk about snotty! He goes by his full name, Channing. He’s too good for Chan isn’t he? Do see me going by Philip? Of course not. The Philip Factor would sound stupid and snotty. 

Raise your hand if you’ve read Chan Tatums’s blog? Of course you haven’t! He doesn’t have a blog. I do. I have a blog, a full-time job, and health insurance. Chan? No, no, and no. Ask yourself this, who have you spent more time reading about this year, him or me? We all know the answer to that. You’ve been to my blog at least once a week. How many times a week do you go out of your way to read what Chan thinks? Oh wait, that’s right, we’re not even sure Chan has thoughts. Also, you see my picture everytime you visit this blog. Because of that you’ve definitely looked at my picture more than you’ve looked at Chan Tatum’s this year too. Do you know why? That’s right, because I’m sexier. Case closed. In fact my argument here is so watertight that I doubt Channing (read with sarcastic tone) will even attempt to refute it. In fact Chan, if you disagree, feel free to post a comment here stating your case.

If you enjoy my nonsense and want to support my bid for Sexiest Blogger Alive you can subscribe to The Phil Factor on your Amazon Kindle, follow me on Twitter @ThePhilFactor and my humorous, murder mystery novel White Picket Prisons is available for the Kindle, Nook, and iPad. If you liked what you read today feel free to leave a comment below and hit the Facebook “Share” button when you go back to your page. Also, if you’re not my Facebook friend yet, feel free to friend me. I doubt that’s an offer you’ll get from Chan.

 

The Curse of Bradley Cooper

People Magazine recently named their Sexiest Man Alive, and again, it wasn’t me. Bradley Cooper?!!? Puh- leeze! I scrape stuff off my shoe that’s sexier than Bradley Cooper. Have you noticed they always choose actors? Not once have they considered a blogger. First of all, I wasn’t even interviewed. How fair is that? Go on, compare his picture, which you have to Google to even find, while I put mine right here for all to see, with mine in the top left of the page. His picture, my picture. His picture, my picture. His picture, my picture. I’ve been doing that all night and I still don’t see it. Sexier than me? Who is doing the rating? Ray Charles? Stevie Wonder? (Why aren’t there famous blind women?) I’m mean, c’mon, as far as I know he is completely unemployed right now. Meanwhile I have a full time job with health insurance and everything!

And how about Facebook, the social convention by which all human value is measured. Does Bradley let you be his Facebook friend? No, of course not. He is snooty. Snooty? Snotty! I of course will quote Ferris Bueller and let you be my Facebook friend. Check. Scoreboard, Phil again. And talk about snotty! He goes by his full name, Bradley. He’s too good for Brad isn’t he? Do see me going by Philip? Of course not. The Philip Factor would sound stupid and snotty. 

Raise your hand if you’ve read Bradley Cooper’s blog? Of course you haven’t! He doesn’t have a blog. I do. I have a blog, a full-time job, health insurance and the ability to use what I’ve learned about personal hygiene. Cooper? No, no, no, and a big NO on the hygiene. Ask yourself this, who have you spent more time reading about this year, him or me? We all know the answer to that. You’ve been to my blog at least once or twice a week. How many times a week do you go out of your way to read what Bradley Cooper has to say? In fact, you see my picture everytime you visit this blog. Because of that you’ve definitely looked at my picture more than you’ve looked at Bradley Cooper’s this year too. Do you know why? That’s right, because I’m sexier. Case closed. In fact my argument here is so watertight that I doubt Bradley (read with sarcastic tone) will even attempt to refute it. In fact Bradley, if you disagree, feel free to post a comment here stating your case. 

Addendum: I had written all of the above last night with the intention of posting it this morning. Today I got up, took my dogs out, and as I re-entered my home I turned for a moment and as I turned back, the door I had just opened, much to my surprise, decided to meet me halfway, causing a 1 1/2 inch gash in my forehead that required four stitches. Bradley, you and your witchy ways may have delayed me from posting this, but I was not to be deterred. My hope is that the new scar on my forehead will only increase my ruggedly, handsome good looks to the point that People Magazine will see the error of their ways and I will supplant you. 

If you enjoy my nonsense and want to support my bid for Sexiest Blogger Alive you can subscribe to The Phil Factor on your Amazon Kindle, follow me on Twitter @ThePhilFactor and of course, scroll down a little and click the Facebook “Like” button below.

Monk See, Monk Do

So I went to a blood lab to have my blood drawn to see if I’ve finally gotten my cholesterol level lower than my S.A.T. score. I dutifully handed the receptionist my paperwork and proceeded to the empty seat nearest the least objectionable looking person in the waiting room. The little, old lady sitting next to me knitting didn’t look like she’d be any trouble, although I swear she glanced approvingly at my ass as I sat down next to her. Just as long as she didn’t jab me with a knitting needle we’d get along fine for the next 15 minutes. And although she had a weapon, I was pretty sure I could take her in the battle for the shared arm rest.

The waiting room is nearly full and I think to myself, “This is going to be a bit of a wait.” I begin to scan the room looking for a good magazine or newspaper left behind. As my eyes roam, scanning the coat closet, the end tables, and the empty seats I spot something a lot more interesting. Tibetan monks! I had to rub my eyes, refocus and look again to be certain I was seeing what my brain had just told me was there. Sitting across from me, swaddled in orange off-the-shoulder robes and sandals were two Tibetan monks. What?!!? I don’t exactly live in an international metropolis. I live in an average American suburb in upstate New York. Upstate. Not New York City. I’d have to drive 6 hours to get to New York City. There just are not Tibetan monks wandering around my neck of the woods very often.

The monks and I regarded each other warily. There was two of them and one of me. They didn’t appear to be armed, but with those loose robes it was impossible to tell what they might be concealing. I gave them a nod and a slight flex of my biceps as I folded my arms across my chest. If there was going to be any trouble I wanted them to know exactly what they were up against. As the phlebotomist called their names in turn, the monks each went back and returned a few minutes later with a small bandage on the inside of one arm. I was still in my seat, arms folded, maintaining my gaze. By now, I was sure that these two knew just who the alpha-dog in this waiting room was. They spoke to each other in hushed tones as they exited the waiting room. I don’t know Chinese, but I think I heard the words “Phil Factor” just before the door shut behind them. I breathed a sigh of relief as it appeared that the confrontation was over and I thought to myself, “I hope those two morons realize that after Labor Day, the sandals and off-the-shoulder look is completely out of season.”

Phil of the Future

I went to the dentist yesterday. Look Ma, no cavities again! Yaaaa for me. I have an extensive history with dentists dating back to when I broke a tooth in the second grade. That one broken tooth has resulted in all manner of dental interventions from two root canals to several different caps and a post drilled into my gum and I assume the bone underneath. In fact, an oral surgeon once uttered “Oops!” while working in my mouth. That’s reassuring eh? I also had a wisdom tooth that needed to be broken out of my jaw piece by piece with a hammer and chisel, while I was awake. Despite all of that, I have no fear or anxiety about dental procedures. In fact, for me the most frightening part of going to the dentist is… receiving the appointment reminder postcard in the mail.

What? Yes, that’s right. The appointment reminder card freaks me out. Every time. Again, not because I fear the dentist. I like my dentist. We chit chat about our kids who play baseball. My hygienist is delightful and I’ve seen her for the past 15 years. It feels like I’m just visiting old friends when I go to the dentist. So why does the appointment reminder card freak me out? It’s simple. It’s because the reminder card is in my own handwriting. At the conclusion of each appointment I’m handed a postcard on which I dutifully fill out my own name, address, and next appointment. My hygienist then takes the card and five and a half months later mails it to me.

So why the freak out? I’ll return home on any idle Tuesday and get my mail. As I rifle through the assorted bills and junk mail suddenly I come across a handwritten postcard that stands out because it’s handwritten, as so little mail we receive these days is. Usually when I receive mail with a handwritten name and address I don’t recognize the writing. This time however the writing is oddly familiar. I know it, but at first I don’t know to whom the script belongs. I think, “why do I know this writing?” It’s just a brief moment, but for some reason I hate that moment of knowing that I recognize the writing but I’m not certain whose it is. It’s kind of an eerie feeling as if someone is fucking with me. Like it might be a serial killer dressed in a clown costume taunting me by mail before he stalks me in earnest and eventually sneaks into my house to leave my bunny boiling in a pot on the stove for me to discover. Yes, for that one tenth of a second before I recognize my own handwriting, it’s that kind of thing that flashes through my mind. Is it just me, or does everyone else hate getting mail from themselves?