Mike Gruss Archive
The temperatures are cooling. The hoodie is out of the closet.
Back-to-school sale ads fill the dead time on TV, and the pool is winding down for the season.
Ahh, summer is over, it seems, just a few weeks after it started. Which means it's time to crack open a cool and refreshing Oktoberfest beer.
(Cue the sound of a record scratching.)
Do you want to make it a combo?
Which is the modern-day equivalent of "Do you want fries with that?"
Which is another way of saying "Oink-oink, fatty."
Which is a problem.
The combo meal is a conundrum. To makeitameal or not?
Cover your ears. Sing loudly to yourself.
Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker’s father. Bruce Willis is already dead in “The Sixth Sense.” And the people who insist upon covering their ears and running for the hinterlands after hearing the words “spoiler alert” should always be ignored.
Here's the dirty truth Barack Obama and Mitt Romney don't want you to hear.
Mike Gruss doesn't care about your ad.
Or your response ad.
Or your response ad to a response ad to a response ad.
The truth is, Mike Gruss just can't keep up with all the negativity.
That bright thing in the sky is the sun. And that giant thing obstructing you from seeing the sun, a sort of man-made eclipse? That's my hat. I am sorry. I regret to inform you: I have become a giant hat person.
It's not polite to talk about age in mixed company, but Chesapeake, the city, all 350 square miles of it, has a big birthday next year, and already it's shaping up to be a most peculiar celebration.
The 'Peake is turning the big five-oh! Get out the flamingos and the giant reigniting birthday candles because it's party time.
Adhesive letters, the kind best used on the side of post office boxes and available at the hardware store, advertised my business.
I found a piece of scrap wood in the garage for the sign. I packed a lawn chair and a book, for reference or on the off chance that business was slow, then I set up at the end of the street and waited for my first case.
One showed up in a Harvard T-shirt. Another, an Oxford University cap. Others chatted about the advanced placement classes they took in high school.
No one displayed a Mensa card but that wouldn't have been unexpected. Hubris, or maybe a 12-letter word for hubris, was thick.
Think about the name of your subdivision.
The name of the strip mall closest to your house. The name of your street. The name of your kid's elementary school.
Chances are, it could be anywhere. Named for anything. Not specific to the region or Virginia. Just a meaningless descriptor. Pleasant-sounding adjective followed by a little-used type of land. (Sprawling Pastures.)
I've been invited to a T-shirt party.
A party where everybody will be doing party-like things - heynicetomeet-you, didjahavesomeofthisdip, whatdoyoudoinnorfolk - and as an added bonus, no one will be worried about showing up underdressed because everyone will be wearing a T-shirt.
The party is tonight. I'm going, and I'll be rockin' a T-shirt.
But I'm nervous. What to wear, you see?
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