# Writing > General Writing >  Auntie's Anti-Humor

## AuntShecky

> Please note:
> The following thread, "Auntie's Anti-Humor," contains several separate humor pieces. When commenting on an individual work, *please indicate the title in your reply.*





Take Me Out to the All-Star Game (Not!)


[We first met the Snotenlocker family back in December 

http://www.online-literature.com/for...721#post649721

but we haven't seen em since, a fact for which we can thank our lucky stars. But here they are again, just back from a family outing to the Midsummer Classic. Disclaimer: the spelling and grammar in the following are the sole responsibility of the original poster, Debi Snotenlocker. Reader discretion advised.]


From the On-line Journal of _Mrs. Debi Snotenlocker_

Well, we're just back from our trip to St. Louis. I asked Brad why did we have to travel half-way across the country just to see a baseball game, and he goes, its not just any game, its the All-Star Game!! And I go, why can't you just watch it on TV, and he goes yeah, but its on Fox. So if we see it at the ballpark, we won't miss the first out of every inning.

Brad was hopped up about the All-Star Game. He goes its real important because it decides who gets home field advantage for the World Series. But I thought the World Series is between just two teams and the All Star Game has a bunch of different players from all the teams. What do I know I'm not a sports fan. BTW, Brad even voted for one of his favorite players, but no, the guy didn't make the team. I asked him if they had a Mr. Congeniality, and he said they tried it one year, but the competing finalists started fighting amongst themselves in a bench-clearing brawl and they all ended up on the DL for the rest of the season.

I was ok with the trip until I found out how expensive it was gonna be. You would not believe how much those tickets were gonna cost. I'm too embarrassed to tell you the amount, but if whatshis name, the guy who ripped off all his friends for billions of $ sold em, the judge would've slapped another 150 yrs to his sentence. And thats not counting the airplane tickets! When I found out how much it would cost for all SIX of us to fly, I told Brad why don't you just rent the Space Shuttle- its cheaper!

So on Tues. morning we all get to the airport and right away theres a problem. The security chick asked Milwaukee to put her iPhone in the little basket and she absolutely refused! Then when the triplets found out they weren't allowed to sit up front with the pilot, they threw a HUGE temper tantrum! So then all kinds of armed guards put us in a little room and questioned all of us for hours. They must've thought we were secret agents for whatshisname, the guy with the beard who hides out in those caves. Then finally it got all straightened out, thank God. 

Of course we missed our flight and had to hang around the airport for the next one going to Missouri. That went ok, except for the part where I got the daylights scared out of me when I thought I saw a great big HOLE in the plane!!! But it turned out just to be a hole in the plot of the in-flight movie. (I don't know what the title was, but it was the one that had Matthew McConaughey without his shirt on.) Just before our plane landed in St. Louis, the triplets saw the Gateway Arch from the windows and started screaming about wanting to go to McDonalds. Brad told them to wait til they got to the ballpark and they could get really big hot dogs. You can order the Mark McGwire special, hold the steroids. 

We arrived in St. L in one piece, not counting the couple o pieces of missing luggage. Of course we were late, but when we got to the stadium, it was only a couple of hours into the pre-game show. I TOLD Milwaukee she shoulda taken some books from her Summer Reading List! She woulda been half way thru War and Peace before the game even started. Our seats were way way up. Two rows up from us there was an Indian guy sitting on a mountain of snow and answering questions about the meaning of life. Tripor maybe it was Trap-goes: Look how high up were are! All the people look like ants! Then Brad told him they are ants. Somebody spilled something sticky under your seat. We saw the President of the United States throw out the first pitch. Brad asked me if I thought the ball went left, right, or stayed in the middle of the plate and I said what do I know I'm not a politics fan. 

They were just into the third whatchamacallit of the game when Brad almost got thrown out of the ballpark. All he did was order a beer from the conquistador concierge concessionaire. He asked for a Miller, and the guy says whatsamatter, Buddy, can't you read? Then he pointed to a huge sign that said Busch Stadium. The fans weren't rude though. They were pretty friendly. The old guy sitting next to him was fashionated fasinated fascinated with my daughter and expectialy the triplets, Trick, Trap, and Trip. Gee lady he goes. All you have to do is get pregnant two more times first with twins and then with quadruplets. Then you can hit for the cycle.

My daughter was NOT a happy camper. I go whatsamatter, we spent all this $$ and you're not having a good time. And she goes none of the dudes here are hitting on me. All they do is diss me. They say I'm a lousy Brewers fan and they all love the Cardinals. WHY did you make me wear this thing? I go why don't you like that shirt? Grandma put a lot of time and effort into it. She even sent away for the EZ Sequin Studder so she could whatyacallit emboss your name on the back! You should be proud and grateful! Milwaukee just rolled her eyes and started using up expensive minutes to text all her friends with words she shouldn't use to describe the woman who gave her birth. 

Finally, finally the game ended but I didn't see no fat lady singing, unless you count the chubby woman who was trying to rustle up some last-minute customers for her souvenir stand. Like I say I'm no sports fan but Brad told me that the American League won the game 4 to 3. He also said that the National League hasn't won the All-Star Game in thirteen years. Big deal. Thats about as long as its been since that cheapskate Brad took me out to dinner.

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## DickZ

Great story, Auntie. As good as he was at this kind of writing, Ring Lardner has nothing on you.

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## Lyn05

Hi AuntShecky, I really enjoyed this! :Smile:

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## AuntShecky

From the Saturday, July 18 Edition of the New York Daily News:
“*WASHINGTON -Employment at the Treasury Department is no laughing matter. That’s why embarrassed Treasury officials nixed plans yesterday to hire a humorist to do standup comedy . . .to boost morale and relieve stress for workers in the Bureau of the Public Debt, which manages the nation’s $1.2 trillion debt*.” 

A comic at the Treasury Department? That’s like booking a kid’s birthday party clown for a funeral. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed, but what would have happened if a comedian actually did draw this gig? We'd like to think it might go something like this:

“Hey, good morning, Ladies and T-men! My, what a nice looking bunch o’ federal workers! I'm really glad to be here, but I almost didn't make it. A funny thing happened to me on my way to the Bureau. I was just about to cross the street, but I got trampled by a herd of stockbrokers rushing to the bank to cash their multi-million dollar bonus checks!

“Have you heard about all those snot-nosed kids? Those MBAs who ran their companies to the ground are getting rewarded for it! That’s like giving A-Rod of the Yankees $250 million to ground out to second base. Oh, wait. . .
And here are you guys, working your behinds off trying to come up with ways to manage a $1.2 trillion deficit. Now take my debt – please!

“What’s that noise, what d’ya got Ebeneezer Scrooge rubbing nickels in the back office?”

([Heckler]: Those are crickets, you idiot! You stink!”) 

“Well, pardon me, young man. Maybe you'd prefer a job where you could be alone, I don't know – why don't you transfer to the Department of the Interior and go commune with a moose out in Yellowstone Park! Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. One point 2 trillion bucks. Where the hell are we gonna get that kinda dough? Maybe we should get Oprah over here and she can stash a surprise under your office chairs!”

“Cripes! Is this an audience or a plate from the US Bureau of Printing and Engraving?

“Well, listen, things are tough all over. From now on, the State Department isn't using diplomatic pouches anymore. Instead they're gonna borrow a couple of kangaroos from the National Zoo. Even the CIA is laying off their cryptographers. They're just going to go with a pint of lemon juice and a candle. . .

“And I'm sorry to tell you guys at Treasury that you can forget about Starbucks for your coffee break. But the Bureau says feel free to help yourself to all the weeds behind the parking lot and brew up all the chicory roots you want. 

“And finally, I got an idea to help you guys and gals come up with a way to deal with this big one point two trillion dollar nut. Next time you get a dunning notice for the debt, just do what the rest of us citizens do. Stuff it into the pile of bills on top of the refrigerator!

“Hey, you guys have been great! I'm Jackie Joey and I'm here all week. Don't forget to try today’s lunch special down in bureau commissary, it’s the creamed chipped beef! It may not be filet mignon, but the savings are substantial!”

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## AuntShecky

Question about the previous posting, Reply #4, above. Is the national "deficit" the same as the National Debt? Or are we up the creek and underwater in TWO frightening streams? Reminds me of the oft-quoted line by Senator Everett Dirksen: "A million here, a million there. Pretty soon you're talking about REAL money!"

Also, this morning Contessa Brewer on MSNBC's "Morning Meeting": "These days a billion is the new million, like 60 is the new 40."

Except, pretty soon, the trillion will be the new billion!

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## AuntShecky

_It seems that every time something changes in our culture, we always blame the same culprit– the “economy.” Certainly financial stress is a cause of the fatal epidemic that is killing our country’s newspapers, but that’s not the only cause. Rapid changes in technology, as well as our collective attention span, allow citizens to get their daily news from sources other than print: the Web, “Twitter,” and cable television, the last the favored venue for the 18-25 demographic which turns to Jon Stewart on Comedy Central. As a result, the daily newspaper is moribund.

That’s the premise for the following “non-sense,” ironically an obituary without an obituary page_:

*Farewell, East Hogwash Pennysaver (1948-2009)*

After sixty-one years, The East Hogwash Pennysaver , “Your source for upstate irrelevance,” has ceased publication. The first issue of the Pennysaver, (Vol. I, No. 1) appeared on Wednesday, November 3, 1948 with the headline, “Dewey Wins!” Unfortunately, even though it was quickly established that it was not Thomas Dewey, but indeed Harry S. Truman who had won the Presidential Election, The Pennysaver has never to this day printed a correction. 

Over the decades the Pennysaver continued to stand by its stories, despite overwhelming evidence of facts to the contrary. To this day, the editorial board maintains that the 1969 Apollo space flight never landed on the moon, but instead was simulated in asound stage in Roswell, NM. The paper has also been a zealous proponent of the status quo of the nation’s diet. The “Save the Doughnuts!” campaign has denounced the banning of trans fats as “the greatest conspiracy to befall mankind since Adam was scammed into eating the apple.” 

The Pennysaver extensively covered the sensational case of the region’s best-known career criminal, Butch “Snaggle Tooth ” Kratchlow, and commemorated the anniversary of his capture and trial for thirty years. According to the soon-to-be unemployed publisher, Upton Hearse, “The Pennysaver has always prided itself on hard-hitting journalism. Take our printing presses! You should see how much pressure those puppies can push on a roll of newsprint!” 

The newspaper’s demise brings to a close its twenty-five-year old alliance with the region’s prominent supermarket chain, CostCutter. Over the years the supermarket has endowed the Pennysaver with advertising revenue, while the Pennysaver promised not to print disparaging reports about the supermarket chain, such as the Bad Clam Scare of 1984.

Fans have decried the inaccuracy of the Pennysaver’s sports coverage, in which the names of horses appear in the wrong race or track. Scores for night baseball games, including those played in the same time zone, never find the light of day. According to the Pennysaver, The Chicago Cubs, not the White Sox won the 2005 World Series.

Critics and rival publications have often pointed out the Pennysaver’s alleged penchant for “sloppy journalism,” as is printing the word “Avenue” when the actual address is “Street,” and vice versa.

Readers often express frustration that front page stories which say that they are “continued on page 5,” seldom are, as Section A of the first section is only four pages in length. Over-scupulous editing occasionally caused entire paragraphs to be deleted, so that when coming across a sentence such as “Snerdgrass said that more legislation is needed,“ the reader has no idea who Snerdgrass is.

“To hell with the critics,” Wringland said, which Hearse seconded. “Yeah,” he said, “They won’t have the little Pennysaver to kick around anymore.”
 
Still, the paper will be missed by many loyal subscribers. According to Mrs. Mavis Rumpsdale of 515 Locksley Ave (er, St.), “ No more newspaper? What am I ‘posed to line my birdcage with? Junk mail?”

The Pennysaver was predeceased by a member of the editorial board who leaned so far to the right that he fell out of his swivel chair directly into the Hudson River, as well as Tiffani von Zaftig, the effervescent “Social Scene” editor, who floated away when a copy editor inadvertently opened a window.

Survivors include a handful of bloggers for the Pennysaver’s on-line edition and those hired in a recent “outsourcing” move. One of the final articles appearing in the The Pennysaver concerned a meeting of the East Hogwash School Board by a writer reporting directly from Mumbai.

Funeral arrangements , like the Sunday edition, were incomplete, but sources say the rites may include wrapping a copy of The Pennysaver around a dead fish.

-–30 --

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## DickZ

> Question about the previous posting, Reply #4, above. Is the national "deficit" the same as the National Debt? Or are we up the creek and underwater in TWO frightening streams? .....


The deficit is the annual shortfall between how little comes in and how much goes out. The debt is the *cumulative* shortfall of all the individual annual deficits, taken over the years - i.e., the debt is sum of all the deficits. They are related, but different.

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## Virgil

> Question about the previous posting, Reply #4, above. Is the national "deficit" the same as the National Debt?


I think Auntie the deficit is the amount we are out of balance for any given year. The debt is the total accrual of every year's deficit.




> Or are we up the creek and underwater in TWO frightening streams? Reminds me of the oft-quoted line by Senator Everett Dirksen: "A million here, a million there. Pretty soon you're talking about REAL money!"
> 
> Also, this morning Contessa Brewer on MSNBC's "Morning Meeting": "These days a billion is the new million, like 60 is the new 40."
> 
> Except, pretty soon, the trillion will be the new billion!


 :FRlol:  I agree. Soon trillions are insignificant.  :Wink: 


I enjoyed your reads. Did you actually go to the All Star game? Holy smoke that would have been awesome.

Of the three, I found the one about the Pensyvania newspaper the most interesting. This seemed to draw me into something less familiar for me, and therefore more engaging. I thought this funny:



> Still, the paper will be missed by many loyal subscribers. According to Mrs. Mavis Rumpsdale of 515 Locksley Ave (er, St.), “ No more newspaper? What am I ‘posed to line my birdcage with? Junk mail?”


 :Biggrin:   :Biggrin:

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## AuntShecky

The Pur-“Suit” of Happiness

Have you ever come across an idea that is stunningly brilliant and yet so simple that you can't help slapping your forehead and exclaiming, “Damn! Why didn't _I_ think of that ”? That’s how I felt this morning when I saw the AP news item about the Bronx woman who is filing a lawsuit against the college in which she earned her bachelor’s degree because she hasn't found a job.

The information technology major had undoubtedly fallen for the propaganda that has been thrown at America’s youth for decades: “If you want a good job, get a good education.” Even if a kid is poor, if she studies hard enough she can be accepted into a college. And if her parents can't afford to pay tuition? No problem! College students can borrow thousands of dollars in student loans, backed up by the only collateral available – “future earnings.” (No matter that the student loan sharks would pursue her to the grave, like Harpies at the backs of a hero in a Greek tragedy.)

The New York City plaintiff had the golden degree in her hand, with the added bonus of the school’s “Office of Career Advancement” promise of “leads and career advice.” But for her, this touted “career” proved harder to find as real meat in a so-called “burger” from a fast-food joint. Four years of her life down the drain and a mortgaged future, what’s a poor gal to do? The only thing any red-blooded, pull-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps American would do–- sue the two-faced, white-wine-swilling, brie-scarfing liars! 

I wish the disgruntled graduate nothing but luck in tilting at the college and the broken windmills of its promises. (And if we're going to hold the country’s educational system accountable for decades of flunking, what happened to all of those “educational malpractice” lawsuits? American kids are a bunch of fat, dumb, text-messaging zombies, and somebody’s got to pay!)

It’s way too late for yours truly now, but as I say, it never occurred to me to slap my alma mater with litigation, but it did cross my mind to see if they wanted to strike a deal: they pay me a certain amount of cash per month and in return I promise never to mention that I ever set foot within forty feet of the campus. I actually went over there with my proposal, but nobody knew who the hell I was.

But now the proverbial wheels are turning, and I'm thinking, why look for work at all? Theoretically, I could make a decent living just by suing the pants off everybody who has ever let me down in my entire life. For instance, I will file a lawsuit against:

–The United States Post Office for having lost my acceptance letter from “Who’s Who in American Colleges and Universities” in my senior year, yet somehow managed to deliver those hundreds of rejection slips from The New Yorker and other magazines. Maybe I'll go after all the editors in the entire publishing establishment for failing to recognize Sheer Genius the minute it slid over the transom and landed directly in their laps.

– whoever is still alive from the second term of Nixon’s administration for having created a recession and its dearth of good jobs in the years following my college graduation. (And while I'm going after seventies-era culprits, I'll sue whoever is responsible for the pain and suffering caused by disco.)

–the stuck-up features editor at my local paper who sat at her desk reading her mail while she was supposed to be interviewing me for a reporter’s job. “Multi-tasking,” my foot!

–Thoroughbred wagering experts who swore up and down that an exacta with “Snail’s Pace” and “Molasses” in the third at Aqueduct was a “sure thing.” The two nags were things all right – losers, for sure. And while were at it, I'll see The New York State Lottery for saying “You gotta get in it to win it.” Well, I was “in it,” all right, but I didn't win it.

-And finally, I might continue pursuing legal compensation even into the Afterlife, if the thermostat proves to be a bit uh, “warmer” than advertised. If that’s so, I doubt I'll have any trouble locating an attorney willing to take my case.

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## AuntShecky

Tanking with the Sharks

As a matter of personal principle, I refuse to watch any of the so-called “reality” shows, but according to the local listings guide from the Sunday newspaper, last night marked the premiere of still another program from a network too cheap to pay scriptwriters. The show is called “Shark Tank,” not to be confused with jumping the shark, _Swimming with the Sharks_, _Shark Tale_, and "Shark Week" on the Discovery Channel. This show has nothing to do with any of the deadly selachian species or even Big Vinnie who'll lend you three G’s for two weeks at 80%. This ratings-grabber apparently is about would-be entrepreneurs presenting their brainstorms in front of a panel of five self-made millionaires who decide which candidate’s idea is worthy of investment. With the judge’s seed money, the lucky winner can start his or her own company.

I'm not ready for prime time myself (at least not without appearing on _Extreme Makeover_ first!) But I do have some Hot Ideas for anyone out there who might want to give it a try. If you manage to – to use the reality show term– “make it through,” I hope you'll remember your ol’ Auntie and stake her a cut of the gross. Speaking of gross, here are my proposed goods and services: 

–You've heard of the Global Positioning System that keeps motorists who are too macho to ask for directions from getting lost? How about GPS–The Home Version? This device is designed for folks who keep losing household items, such as their reading glasses or the remote. When you can't find an item, just type it on the keyboard, the screen will light up and a voice will give you the pinpoint location of the missing item. It won't merely say “The last place you looked, Dummy!” It will be more specific than that. For instance, type in the word “Keys?” and you'll get an instant answer: “In the left rear pocket of those gray cargo shorts that make you look like an elephant.” You say you kid doesn't know where his arithmetic homework is? Just ask, and the GPS will tell you: “In Fido’s digestive tract.” If this device catches on, watch for a later upgrade: GPS Home Version 2.0 which will assist you when you lose your temper, self-esteem, or soul.

–This next invention is for trendy types who embrace every fad the minute it rears its ugly head in the fashion mags. Of course, I'm talking of course permanent tattoos, from which the discomfort involved while getting one seldom exceeds the excruciating regret afterward. Naturally, a modest tattoo of a heart or a butterfly can't hurt, and even more vivid skin paintings can be camouflaged with long sleeves. But what if you've got an important job interview lined up or you're going to meet your prospective in-laws for the first time? How can you conceal the eight-inch long dragon beginning at the nape of your neck and crawling around the contours of your left cheek. That’s where “No-Tell Tattoo” comes in. Just spray it on and in three minutes your face will look as clean-cut as the mug of an insurance salesman. Interview over? Just wash off “No-Tell Tattoo” with soap and water, and your face-art is once again as repulsive as the boozy night you got it.

–Once you've finished reading an downloaded book, how do you dispose of the file? Here’s a way to keep disposables out of the landfill –AND cut the cost of your home heating bills. Just throw the trashy E-book into the fireplace. We call it Kindle-kindling.

– And finally, we've read how it costs the equivalent of the national budget of Bolivia to buy a ticket to Yankee Stadium or that new football place in Texas. That tells me that Professional Sports is where all the money is. So I've got two ideas that will totally transform the way we look at Major League Baseball players.

First, since players switch teams more quickly than it takes the network to go to a commercial between innings, my idea can help major league teams cut the cost of constantly changing the names on the backs of uniforms. Pity the poor clubhouse worker who, after spending hours sewing on an outfielder’s name, finds out that the slugger has been traded to Cincinnati. The answer? Detachable name tags – no sewing,no ironing – just Velcro! No muss, no fuss, no worries about the proper way to spell “Tulowitzki” or “Gorzelanny.” When a player moves from one team to another, he takes his own Velcro name tag with him and attaches it to the back of his new team uniform. It doesn't matter if the player’s name is short like “Dye” or long like “Saltamacchia.” Our name tags will make it through waivers like multiple copies of bureaucratic forms through a hurricane. But wait! That’s not all! If the team orders before midnight tonight (or the trading deadline, whichever comes first), we'll throw in an absolutely FREE, a generic, one-size fits all name tag beautifully pre-printed with the letters “A Player to be Named Later.”

As we all know, professional sports is a “young man’s game” and not only are the athletes in tip-top physical condition, they engage in a strenuous training regimen. High-end teams keep their Elite Closers in a large orange crate packed with Excelsior and only bring them out on extra special occasions, like Great-Grandma’s crystal gravy boat on Thanksgiving. But even the most pampered player is vulnerable to Injury! Not a day goes by without a top player hurting himself and going on the DL. A relief pitcher bends down to tie his shoe and comes up with a strained back. An infielder trots after the ice cream truck and pulls a hammy. What’s up with that? Well, I'll tell you what’s wrong with this picture – there’s something dangerous and deadly about uniforms! The remedy – Safety Togs! Admittedly, the prototype is pretty pricey – but you can't put a price tag on safety. Our specially-woven material allows for complete mobility and yet surrounds the team owner’s multi-million dollar investment with soft, cushiony clouds of . . .Bubble Wrap! 

Of course, we'd have to figure out a way of attaching the Velcro name tags without popping
the bubbles. You can say what you want about the satisfying crack of a bat knocking out a home run, but for me, no sound of the game is as awesome as the “pop, pop, pop!” of a bubble-wrapped runner sliding into second.

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## DickZ

This is certainly very clever and entertaining, Auntie.

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## AuntShecky

Debi Does Vancouver

_{When we last visited the Snotenlockers, they were typically causing a scene at the ‘09 MLB All-Star Game. Debi, the materfamilias, has been working on her spelling and blogging skills with the assistance of a fourth grader from Central Falls, Rhode Island. She files the following dispatch from Vancouver, British Columbia, the site of the XXI Winter Olympics.}_ 

February 2010 was one of the BEST months ever! (I mean, if you don’t count Brad’s very romantic Valentine present to me – a factory reconditioned electric drill from Huge Lots.) About three weeks ago when I was in a supermarket check-out line, as my last item – a 10 ounce box of store-brand frozen lima beans – slid across the sticky black conveyor pad, the cashier started to shriek,“Congratulations, lady! You WON!” It turns out I was the lucky winner of a trip to the Winter Olympics, all expenses paid (except for airfare, hotel accommodations, tickets, miscellaneous purchases, and gratuities.) Wow! Imagine little old me, Mrs. Debi Snotenlocker, going all the way to British Columbia in Canada. That’s a a _foreign_ country! I was so amazed that I almost forgave Cost Cutter for discontinuing my favorite brand of soft margarine and refusing to accept coupons downloaded from the Internet.

The catch was the free trip was just for one person. Brad begged me to let him go instead of me, but I told him sorry, but the prize was “non-transferrable” and that he could stay home and care for Trick, Trap, and Trip in my absence. He was so ticked off he said that the minute I went out the door he was going to turn the Thermostat down to below 32, flood the basement stairs with the garden hose, and load the triplets and himself into the Laz-E-Boy to make a 4-man bobsled. But he was just kidding, I think. Of course Milwaukee, my teenaged daughter from a previous relationship, was no help. She was counting the minutes until my departure so she could raid my closet — and hide my mom jeans.

Before I knew it I was on my way to the Olympics. But I almost didn’t make it out of East Hogwash International Airport. It took me twenty minutes to explain to security that the woman in the passport photo was me and not one of Marge’s sisters on _The Simpsons_. The flight going over itself was all right, except it was downright cold on the plane. I asked the stewardess for a blanket, but she said it would cost extra. “Fifteen dollars just to keep warm?” I exclaimed. “How much for letting me sit next to Kevin Smith while he sweats a lot?”

When I arrived in Vancouver, I expected the weather for the Winter Olympics to be well, wintery. It wasn’t even chilly. The funny thing is that it was like Spring way up here in the Great White North, but down in the States, Washington was being buried with one honking giant slalom of a snowstorm. They should’ve booked the Olympics for D.C. and did the health insurance thing up here. 

It was so warm I thought I saw tropical plants growing. But it was just part of the Russian ice dancers’ costumes. Hey, I’ve got a lot of respect for ice skaters. My Mom always said that Ginger Rogers used to do everything that Fred Astaire did, except she did it backwards on high heels. So imagine doing it on skates! I would love to try it
myself, but I have to ply Brad with 4 or 5 bottles of Muckenmeyer’s just to get him to take a turn around the dance floor at the American Legion Post, let alone on a rink. Brad Snotenlocker actually ice dancing with me would be the real “miracle on ice,” if you get my drift. 

Hockey, now that’s something Brad would go for. When he explains the difference between NFL and Canadian-style football, I don’t understand it. But now I know something Brad doesn’t, and that’s the difference between Canadian and U.S. hockey players. When an American hockey player knocks an opponent’s teeth out, he usually doesn’t say, “Pardonez moi.” I loved the Olympic women’s hockey. It looks like a good way to lose weight. Not just playing it, I mean after the game. Every time a woman hockey player takes off her uniform, she drops 20 lbs. instantly. 

After all the excitement, it was a let-down to have to leave. But it was good to be home. The minute I got in the door Brad and the boys asked me what I brought them. I wasn’t able to get Brad what he asked for -- Apolo Ohno’s autograph -- but I did buy him a DVD of Apolo’s favorite commercials. For the triplets I searched all over for the hottest souvenir– red mittens with a white maple leaf on the palm. They were really hard to find! But I did manage to come up with five of em, two and a half pairs. Unfortunately somebody’s got to “share,” but it will be a “teachable moment.” 

For as long as I live, I will remember my Olympic moment in the sun. And any time I want to reminisce and gaze at a gold medal, all I have to do is open my kitchen cabinet and look at the front of the flour bag.

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## Hawkman

Hello Auntie,

Firstly I commiserate with you and your fellow countrymen on failing to beat Canada in the Ice-hockey final.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading this column. 

Though I lack the fine focus of a truly transatlantic perspective, thus depriving me of a truly complete understanding of some of the more specific cultural references, the general tone and flavour shines through.

The Stand-up routine of the ‘US Department of Schtick’ was highly entertaining. “The Pur – ‘suit’ of happiness” speaks volumes to anyone who, having survived academia and been told the same lies (on either side of the pond it seems) finds themselves marooned in an ocean of so called ‘prospects.’

“Tanking with the Sharks” is hilarious and a joy to read and the demise of the local newspaper article was very funny.

While reading, I was constantly reminded of the late, great, James Thurber, whose work I always loved.

Thank you.

H

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## AuntShecky

Gee, this was very gracious and kind of you, Hawkman.
Even before I read your reply above, I was rethinking the assessment of your (Scottish play*) piece, and now believe that your material is considerably higher up the brow than the silliness from the likes of yours truly.

*According to an old superstition among actors, it's supposedly extremely bad luck to mention a certain Shakespearean play by its title.

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## DickZ

Very entertaining piece, Auntie, as per your usual. To one such as me, who is currently experiencing Olympics withdrawal due to the fact that there's nothing on television anymore, it really hit home.

I wonder how long the DVD of Apolo Ohno's favorite commercials might be - there were so many commercials - so maybe it's a double or even a triple disk version. Fortunately I now have a DVR so I could plow right past those commercials, which must have occupied at least 40% of the televised time.

And what a shame that so many readers of today wouldn't know about Gold Medal Flour - or flour of any brand - and hence fail to grasp the meaning of your excellent closing line. I don't think any of my own four 'children' - now ranging in age from 35-40 - have ever even considered buying a bag of flour.

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## AuntShecky

Thank you, DickZ, for taking the time to read this. 

I agree with you completely about the endless onslaught of commercials on NBC, whose commentary, as an article on Slate wryly pointed out, measured really high on the"Sap-o-Meter." (Nevertheless, both Bob Costas and Mary Carillo were entertaining and insightful, and NBC's camera work was first-rate.) You can read more of such opinions, as well as the superior comments of our fellow LitNetters on the "General Chat" thread titled"Oh, Canada."

You mean I'm the only one who still buys Gold Medal flour? I don't bake my own bread, but I (and presumably Debi S.) use a great deal of it to make pizza dough, cookies, gravies, etc.

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## DickZ

> ...You mean I'm the only one who still buys Gold Medal flour? I don't bake my own bread, but I (and presumably Debi S.) use a great deal of it to make pizza dough, cookies, gravies, etc.


Most of the young people these days are too busy to engage in the kinds of activities you're talking about. For pizza dough, they call Domino's, for cookies, they grab a bag of Famous Amos from the grocery shelves, and for gravy, Heinz puts it into cans. 

When you're so busy twittering hundreds of people what you had for lunch and reading their moronic answers, or when you're engaged in other equally inane activities on your Blueberry machine - or whatever they call those things - you don't have time to do things the old-fashioned way.

I'm sure there are a few exceptions to this over-generalization, but not too many.

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## AuntShecky

Some Irish Legends

Although more people of Irish descent live in the United States today than have ever lived on the Emerald Isle itself, few of us know much about our ancient Irish heritage, or the majestic mythology concerning the great heroes of ancient Eire, such as Cuchulain or Finn MacCumhail (pronounced like “McCool.”) Ask somebody who Ossian was and he'll probably answer: “O’ Sheen? Didn't he used do background vocals for U2?”

Nearly every American is Irish for just one day of the year, March 17, which is not really a legal holiday in the United States. Over on the Auld Sod, The Feast of Saint Patrick is an official holiday but as celebrations go, it’s relatively subdued. People go to Mass, perhaps march in or enjoy watching a parade in larger cities such as Dublin, and mark the occasion with a special dinner, which seldom, if ever, consists of corned beef and cabbage. Saint Patrick, or “Padraig” himself, was born in Britain around 389 AD. The son of a prominent Roman citizen, he was kidnapped and sent to Ireland as a slave before eventually escaping. Later in life he became a missionary, returned to Ireland, and almost single-handedly converted the entire island to Christianity. The saint experienced mystical visions of a terrifying hell. Such a frightful prospect doesn't seem to faze the revelers over here in North America, then, as it seems a bit incongruous that a day to honor Ireland’s patron saint would be characterized by boisterous drinking and carousing. Sure, and they'll even be dyin’ the beer green now! 

Even the Chicago River is dyed green. Several cities, especially highly-populated ones on the East Coast, sponsor parades either on the weekend before St. Patrick’s Day or the day itself. The huge parade in New York City is the oldest and the most famous, and in recent years some interests representing controversial views have fought hard – and won– the right to be included in the festivities. As a result numerous groups of different backgrounds are represented in the parade, except perhaps the leprechaun contingent. So far no one has ever really seen the little people marching in the parade. That’s because they're so small, they keep disappearing down the potholes on Fifth Avenue.

Irish folktales and legends abound with legends about Ireland’s beloved saint. One of the most famous of these is how “himself” did banish all the “saarpents” out of Ireland by forcing them all to plunge off a cliff into the icy Atlantic. It is a scientific fact that there are no snakes in Ireland, though skeptics believe that the cause was nothing more miraculous than the Ice Age. But perhaps some snakes knew how to swim and emigrated across the big pond to our shores, where in the fullness of time, the snakes prospered and evolved into modern-day landlords and bankers.

You might say such 21st century villains have thick skulls, and there’s an Irish legend about that, too. In his beautiful little volume, _The Celtic Twilight_, William Butler Yeats explains that the rich pre-Christian traditions had a kinship with other so-called “pagan” traditions. The seafaring Icelanders whom the Irish called the “ancient Danish pirates,” believed that the thicker the skull, the greater the man. They would test this theory by bashing them in. Centuries later a man was being tried in court for breaking a neighbor’s skull. His defense was that some heads are so thin, one cannot be responsible for them. The defendant turned to the prosecutor and said, ” That little fellow’s skull if ye were to hit it would go like an egg-shell.” Then remembering what the Icelandic formula of thick crania equal greatness, he quickly turned to the judge and said, “But a man might wallop away at your lordship’s skull for a fortnight.”

Despite centuries of grinding poverty and scorn, many members of the Irish peasant class were rich with the blessings of wisdom and the legendary Irish “wit.” For instance, a struggling Irish blacksmith once told his apprentice, “If working was a sin, Bill, not an innocenter boy ever broke bread than you would be.”

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day! May yer pockets ever be heavy, yer troubles always be light, and your corned beef never be greasy.

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## Niamh

Interesting post Aunty! 
I dont like being a spoil sport  :Blush:  but we do do more than go to mass or watch a parade on St Patricks Day. There does be gigs, Ceili's and concerts all across the country, some street fairs and entertainment, as well as the parades (mind you some of the parades are awful!). Its a really big celebration. A lot of drinking is involved.  :Tongue:  but did you know that the sale of alcohol was banned on st patricks day up until the 1970s? Its still banned on Good Friday.  :Nod:  Thought you might like that interesting fact.  :Smile: 
A lot of people pin shamrock onto there coats and tops.

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## AuntShecky

I was going by what relatives and friends be tellin' me about the good saint's day. Nevertheless, I think that there still is a spiritual element amid the ould sod that is tragically lacking over on these secular shores.
Thanks for readin' tis, me lass!

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## Niamh

speaking of auld sod... did you know auld sod is also an expression used for a similar puprose as "sad sack" over here?  :Smile:

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## AuntShecky

That explains a lot re: yours truly.

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## AuntShecky

A couple of decades ago when the _Star Trek_ movie franchise neared its peak, a certain one-liner popped up in the culture: “Beam me up, Scottie. There’s no intelligent life on this planet.” The joke got old when everybody and his grandmother took to wearing t-shirts with the quote printed on it. Lately, that line has been rattling in my
head like a loose ball bearing sucked up into the black hole of a vacuum cleaner.

For instance, I get a kick out of extremely cerebral professionals mocking the belief in God, while these brainy scientists themselves, speculating upon the existence of alien life-forms in far-off galaxies, allow for the “possibility” that the equivalent of little green men from outer space could actually invade Old Mother Earth. Yesterday the illustrious astrophysicist Stephen Hawking* released a statement that not only might aliens invade our planet but actually exploit earthlings similarly to the way in which rapacious European explorers destroyed native cultures in the New World. 

Far be it from me to question the perspicacity of a genius such as Dr. Hawking, but his scenario has Hollywood swarming all over it. Hence, with no movie cliché or product placement ad left behind, we present the following ditty, which we like to call:

Take Me to Your Booking Agent

Nobody at SETI noticed the quirky pattern that had been repeatedly spiking the computer graphs, or if he had, he would have chalked up the unusual recordings to sun spots. In any event, there was no such person as an intergalactic language specialist to translate the monitored message, which roughly read “I’m going out of town on business, Hon. Don’t wait up.” Likewise, the numerous UFO sightings over New Mexico and Colorado were dismissed as “routine military operations.” There were denials upon denials, debunkings after debunkings until the actual Invasion could no longer be concealed. For a reason not immediately known, the uninvited visitors were for the time being concentrated in the airspace above a suburb of Los Angeles. 

No mega-powered telescope was necessary. The clear and present danger could be seen all-too-clearly with the naked eye. Row after row of futuristic spaceships hovered above, lined up like hungry freeloaders waiting for a table on “All You Can Eat Night” at the Olive Garden. The transport vehicles were so ultra high-tech that they made the state-of-the art props in James Cameron’s _Avatar_ look like stray pieces of an erector set. Down on terra firma young people aimed their cellphones skyward to click pictures. Businessmen placed frantic calls to their brokers and screamed, “Sell! Sell!” At municipal buildings scores of empty baby strollers descended down the exterior steps, and on street corners wild-eyed doomsayers in their robes and sandals had already edited their signs, the final word of “The end is near” crossed out and changed to “here” with a reliable Sharpie. 

No sooner than you could say “Ewok” did the Mother Ship break out of formation and plunge downward, landing as softly as a piece of confetti, smack dab in the middle of an intersection of beautiful downtown Burbank. A custom-built Maserati slammed on its delicate brake mechanism, but not before rear-ending a 1992 Yugo. A fully-loaded van from the County Animal Control Department jumped the curb and upon impact with a hydrant, the rear panel doors swung open, releasing a pack of canine suspects who joyously howled and reveled in their last-minute reprieve. And in yet another example of life following art (of the spot ad kind), a truck carrying a shipment of milk chocolate bars crashed into a second truck hauling crates of creamy peanut butter. Meanwhile, from all sides of the mother ship mammoth loudspeakers had sprouted, blasting out the opening bars of “Thus Sprake Zarathustra” accompanied by a thumping back beat. 

By the time the hatch of the Mother Ship opened, sliding sideways like a supermarket’s automatic door, the indigenous traffic had for most part gotten the hell out of the way. A short set of stairs flipped down and a figure dressed in a metallic spacesuit marched down the steps like a beauty pageant contestant on a runway. The alien’s appearance was neither reptilian nor insect-like; in fact, it (or he) looked completely humanoid, though nothing like Michael Rennie, nor, for that matter, Keanu Reeves. The other-worldly visitor swaggered to the middle of the street, stopped directly beneath the swaying and still blinking red light, and raised what only could be described as a bull-horn. He put the low-tech microphone to his lips, and in perfect English started to address the terrestrial crowd:

“Greetings, People of Earth! We come in peace for all mankind, and if you want to keep it that way, we strongly suggest that you fulfill our demands.” At the word “demands,” the crowd’s initial, stunned silence was broken by shrieks and screams of various decibel levels. High school kids who had not yet surrendered to full panic mode had begun texting like mad. One message read “OMG! Were [sic] abduckted !![SIC] L8tr!” and another “There [sic] gonna chop us up for happy meals!!! lol.”

In the interim, the local law enforcement agencies had been placed on high alert, the military ordered a flotilla of fighter jets on stand-by, and the color-code of Homeland Security had segued from a comforting lemon yellow to an alarming fire engine red. Not far away from the site of the historical-- if not pre-apocalyptic--event, stood a duet of two operatives from an agency so covert neither the C.I.A. nor the F.B.I. nor even the AARP knew of their existence. Both men wore black from head-to-toe from the lenses of their sunglasses to the tips of their Florsheims. 

“Looks like we’re gonna have to call for backup,” one agent said to the other.

“Where’s Chuck?”

“Aw, he’s headlining at a gun rally in El Paso. Who else is available?”

Meanwhile, the spokesalien was outlining the “non-negotiable” demands. “First, we want a shot on ‘Dancing with the Stars.’ “

“Whew!” exhaled one of the secret agents. “That’s a relief. We’ll have to bump the octomom and the balloon boy's dad, but it’s doable.”

“Secondly, we want to produce, star in, and direct our own reality show,” the alien continued. “But it has to be on one of the major networks. Don’t try to palm us off on one of those off-label cable channels.” 

“That’ll work,” the secret agent said. “There’s at least a couple o’ shows getting the ax after Sweeps Week.”

The alien had reached the bottom line of his wish list. “And finally, for the inevitable feature film of our, uh, ‘visit’ we want complete control of the entire production. That includes a 100 % share of the gross. I repeat: gross. The merest mention of the word ‘net’ and your pretty blue marble becomes charcoal.”

“Did he say what I think he said?”

“I’m afraid so. The dreaded ‘g’ word! We’re gonna have to haul out the heavy artillery. Where’s Denzel? Where’s Bruce?”

“They’re both up in Iceland putting a cap on Eyjafjallajokull.”

“Ijahka what ill?”

“No matter. I’ve got an idea.” The agent whispered into his partner’s ear.

“You know,” the partner said, “it’s just so crazy, it just might work!”

Later that evening the visitors from the planet, whose name could never be pronounced let alone spelled, were feted to a welcoming gala in which, the pretext was, their demands would be cheerfully accepted and formalized. After a festive dinner of chicken a la king and apple pie a la mode with a Tang chaser, the evening’s entertainment began.

A forty-foot screen descended from the ceiling and the HD DVD began. As the movie progressed, the earthlings in the audience coughed, whispered among themselves, played games on their personal electronic devices, or took the opportunity to catch a quick catnap. The visitors, however, were gradually showing signs of physical and emotional distress. Several aliens clutched their stomachs, some headed for the rest rooms, a few didn’t make it. “The pain! The pain. . .“ the head alien complained. “Can’t take it. . .must retreat. . .head back home.” Although his head looked as if it had begun to weigh more than a bulkhead, the alien looked up at the two secret agents. “I must. . .ask. What is this powerful, invincible weapon?”

“This? Why, it’s the 2005 remake of _War of the Worlds_ starring Tom Cruise. What, don’t you like. . .”

But before the agent could finish his sentence, the entire contingent of aliens had left the building, raced to their respective transport vehicles and shot off into the far reaches of the universe, presumably in search of another world in which the phenomenon of the excruciatingly bad movie remains unknown. 


*http://www.tgdaily.com/space-feature...tephen-hawking

http://blogs.wsj.com/speakeasy/2010/...-about-aliens/

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## Il Dante

> [COLOR="Green"]
> Although more people of Irish descent live in the United States today than have ever lived on the Emerald Isle itself, few of us know much about our ancient Irish heritage, or the majestic mythology concerning the great heroes of ancient Eire, such as Cuchulain or Finn MacCumhail (pronounced like “McCool.”) Ask somebody who Ossian was and he'll probably answer: “O’ Sheen? Didn't he used do background vocals for U2?”


Actually, I have heard of Cuchalain the Valiant... and I'm not even Irish!!!! Great essays, though.

Actually, I heard about Cuchalain on a Celtic music CD... there's some sort of ancient Irish declaration that goes "I am Ireland. I'm older than the old woman of Baere. Great my glory. I that bore Cuchalain the Valiant. Great my shame: my own children that sold their mother." Mise Eire. Pretty dramatic stuff.

Also, I really enjoyed your alien post. Highly witty and enjoyable! You've brightened up my day.

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## AuntShecky

*When Life Imitates Art, Part II* 

Here's a portion of "Tanking With With the Sharks," Reply #10 above, originally posted by yours truly on 8/10/09:





> As we all know, professional sports is a young mans game and not only are the athletes in tip-top physical condition, they engage in a strenuous training regimen. High-end teams keep their Elite Closers in a large orange crate packed with Excelsior and only bring them out on extra special occasions, like Great-Grandmas crystal gravy boat on Thanksgiving. But even the most pampered player is vulnerable to Injury! Not a day goes by without a top player hurting himself and going on the DL. A relief pitcher bends down to tie his shoe and comes up with a strained back. An infielder trots after the ice cream truck and pulls a hammy. Whats up with that? Well, I'll tell you whats wrong with this picture  theres something dangerous and deadly about uniforms! The remedy  Safety Togs! Admittedly, the prototype is pretty pricey  but you can't put a price tag on safety. Our specially-woven material allows for complete mobility and yet surrounds the team owners multi-million dollar investment with soft, cushiony clouds of . . .Bubble Wrap! 
> 
> Of course, we'd have to figure out a way of attaching the Velcro name tags without popping
> the bubbles. You can say what you want about the satisfying crack of a bat knocking out a home run, but for me, no sound of the game is as awesome as the pop, pop, pop! of a bubble-wrapped runner sliding into second.



And here is the real-life counterpart, from the other day:

http://bleacherreport.com/articles/3...e-wrap-is-here

*Somebody had better cut me a check, or I'm calling my attorney*!

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## Hawkman

Re "Take me to your Booking Agent"

Auntie, that was magnificent. Flawless and funny. I had been wondering what your attitude to Sci-fi might be, now I know. (titter, titter). I wonder what you would make of my two books...

Best,

H

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## AuntShecky

Has a whole year gone by already? I guess time flies even when you're not having fun! Its graduation day again at the upstate campus of Downstate University in Hogwash. In case you didn't make the ceremony at the Rentacenter Civic Center in beautiful downtown East Hogwash because of a scheduling conflict -- that 24-hour _Friends_ rerun marathon was just good to pass up! - the text of this years commencement speech appears below. The university president has already welcomed the distinguished guests and candidates for graduation, asked the owner of the black Hummer to move his vehicle as it was intimidating the owner of the blue Kia, and reminded Bradley Freen  again! to submit in his history thesis if he expected to receive a diploma. With the concluding words of President Porterhouse Mistake III, we join DUHs 2010 Commencement already in progress. . .

. . . would like to introduce our Commencement Speaker. We are sorry to report that our original choice was unable to honor us this year due to an emergency. So we wish Z. Hunter Raconteur of the Crookings Institute best of luck in his appointment to have his shirt re-stuffed. We are fortunate in that we were able to get another speaker at the last minute. And so, here he is direct from the East Hogwash Motor Inn and Cocktail Lounge, put your hands together for. . .Mr. Wacky Jackie Joey! 

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, President Mistake. Distinguished fellas (and gals), honored alumni (and may I say you've really got cajones to admit you actually went to school here), parents (some of who-- whom?-- I've run into down at the pawn shop) and last but certainly least, graduates. I can't tell you what an honor this is. Maybe if it really was an honor, I could tell ya! 

 Anyway, I'm not really what you'd call an educated person. One good thing about graduating from college is that you get to write all kinds of fancy initials after your name: B.A., M.A., U.N.E.M.P.L.O.Y.E.D. (Oooh. I hope I spelled that right!) And you know somebody has a phony doctorate when he writes after his name: f.i.d. (I guess you don't have to have a Ph.D. to get that joke. Or maybe you do.)

Like I say, I'm not much on book learning. But there is someone in the family who finally graduated from college, right here at DUH a couple of years ago. That was my nephew, Chip Joey. It took Chip only five years to finish. He would've done it in four, but it took him a full year to track down his undergraduate advisor.

I forget what Chip majored in. Maybe he majored in mining and minored in the training of mid-level military officers. He was a miner major and a major minor. And it boggles my mind how so many college kids take out huge loans or send their parents to the poorhouse to pay tuition for an undeclared major. But it does make them uniquely qualified for a future career  in politics! As undeclared candidates!

That reminds me, the other day I ran into Goose Ganderheimer. You know Goose, co-hosts a sports talk show on WDUH-FM, 109.4 and a half on your dial? (Now he owes me a plug!) Anyway, last year Goose gave the commencement speech, and right after the ceremony he enjoyed talking to the grads. He said to one dude, Hey, congratulations! Now you're ready to face the real world and its challenges. What are you going into? And the kid said, Debt.

Seriously, kids, every day there are new and exciting fields to find jobs in. Some of them involve wearing a paper hat, but ya gotta start someplace. Technology, for instance. You know that they've just invented a DVD that self-destructs two hours after you're done watching it? Too bad they hadn't come up with it a couple of years ago. I know Nicholas Cage must've wished the remake of _The Wicker Man_ had self-destructed before it ever hit the theaters.

If science aint your thing, you could always do what I did and go into the Arts. As an artist, I've got great ambition. My goal is to host a late-night talk show. Its not that I'm all that crazy about doing a show every night, I just want to get a multi-million dollar settlement when Jay Leno pushes me out of my time slot. 

And you know, my girlfriend is an actress. Yep, I'm really proud of her. Last week she came home and told me she did a pilot. I was really happy for her, until she told me she also did the landing crew. And the air traffic controllers.

You probably don't believe this, but could actually succeeds in show business without a single drop of talent. I mean, look at Matthew McConaughey. Aw, I kid Matt. He was pretty good in _Dazed and Confused_. Even though it was type-casting. Maybe you'll find your niche behind the scenes. You could be a set designer or a film editor, maybe even join the ranks of screenwriters. And from what I hear their stuff is pretty rank. When we lived in LA, my ex used to work in the movie business as a sign language interpreter. One night she came home from work and rushed straight to the bathroom. Whats the matter, Honey? I still called her Honey back then, now I don't ever call her at all. Stupid restraining order! Anyway, I asked her if she was sick. No, she said, I just spent 12 hours of interpreting sign language for HBO and now I gotta wash my hands out with soap. 

There are plenty of opportunities for sign language interpreters. Looking over to the right side of the stage see that even DUH has hired someone for the occasion. . . oh, sorry. My bad. Its just a volunteer usher signaling me to wrap it up and get off the stage. Oh, well, I can take a hint. 

Listen, you've been a wonderful audience. Best of luck in all your endeavors. Your chances of getting a job are about the same as getting real butter on your movie popcorn, but lotsa luck anyway. 

 It sure was a blast giving the commencement address. Come see me at the East Hogwash Motor Lodge and Cocktail Lounge. I'm there all week! Try the prime rib. And, Brad, buddy, get on the stick and finish up that paper.


Previous commencement speeches
08 
http://www.online-literature.com/for...ad.php?t=35518

09
http://www.online-literature.com/for...055#post720055

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## AuntShecky

With the continuous reminders of the mad-made environmental disaster in the Gulf of Mexico, there is little to laugh at. Eleven human beings lost their lives, compounded by the countless loss of wildlife and wetlands, both short-term and into the future. But, as many comedians have pointed out, one can find humor in everything if it’s handled right. “Comedy,” Mel Brooks has said, “is tragedy plus time.” With this event, slightly less than 2 months have elapsed, but already late night talk-show hosts and the two Comedy Central shows which parody newscasts have already made fun of the ineptitude and pomposity of corporate executives charged with attempting to plug the enormous undersea oil leak, as well as the general ineptitude so far in cleaning up the oddly-understated “mess.”

Concerning the latter, it has occurred to some to ask, “Why don’t they use oil-eating bacteria?” Some species of these tiny plant already occur naturally in the water; genetically-enhanced super-species carry the danger of adding even more pollution or swallowing up the already-compromised supply of oxygen, not to mention the frightening prospect of introducing germs on steroids into the wild. Latter-day Frankensteins have been developing recombinant DNA technology for at least a couple of decades. What has been stalling the widespread use of beneficial DNA-enhanced bacteria isn’t a failure of science but rather the legal quandary arising over whether “living things” – the ones created by human beings – can be patented. In other words, once the petroleum-scarfing little critters are unleashed into the slimy ocean, who’s gonna get paid? 

Still, fantastic Dr. Moreau-style creatures that may someday be developed to change our lives for the better, for the worse, or just for the hell of it. For instance,

What would you get if you combined . . .
. . .a chameleon with a leopard? A creature that keeps changing its spots.

. . .an ostrich with a Road Runner? A bird that will bury offensive Internet web sites in the sand.

. . .an orangutan with a llama? Spell-check.

. . .a pigeon with a penguin? A bird that frequently soils its own formal wear.

. . .a cuckoo with a hyena? The perfect audience member at a comedy club.

. . .a parrot with a gecko? A creature who will talk you into switching your car insurance.

. . .a fox with a skunk? An attractive female anchor on a cable news network that stinks.

. . .a sloth with an [an animal that looks like a donkey and is mentioned in the Bible where it's spelled with an "a" followed by a pair of s's.]? Superintendent of schools.

And then there was the playboy who combined a chick with a mynah – and ended up with a twenty-year sentence.

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## AuntShecky

The premise for the following bit of foolishness originated in an item which may have escaped your notice among the many tragic and triumphant news stories this week. Specifically, the serious National Pork Board was attempting to slap a cease and desist order against the non-serious purveyors of a product whimsically named Canned Unicorn. The bone of contention was the use of a slogan, The other white meat. Heres the link:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/0..._n_619926.html

The precedent (legal or otherwise) for the format of this piece is from the famously hilarious Ian Frazier piece, Coyote vs. Acme, which first appeared in The New Yorker in 1990. I'd become even crazier than I already am were I to include that link, for the result could only be that yer ol Auntie would suffer by comparison. In any event, let me present this piece o humor that we like to call


Exist Strategy

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

It has come to our attention that the business world has been engaging in a legal battle over personal issues relative to my brethren and myself. The plaintiff, apparently, is under the impression that the defendant has been distributing a product consisting of meat formulated from our corporeal selves. Talk about not keeping Kosher! The original other white meat as it is called? We wouldn't touch it in a million years. We herbivores know nothing about pork. (As to whether there is any truth to the rumor that consuming pork may evoke bad dreams, please consult our equine cousins, the Nightmares.) Evidently, the root of the plaintiffs case does not in any way, shape, or form mention the moral ramifications of an industry which exploits creatures for the ever-increasing appetites of carnivores. Nor does it consider the entity called  and I shudder to write it canned unicorn meat as unfair competition. The motive for the litigation is that the defendant allegedly usurped the marketing tool! 

The defendant claims that its company never really produced the product in the first place, maintaining that my aforementioned brethren and I do not actually exist. Believe me, Sirs and/or Mesdames, we've been kicking the real v. fictional football around for millennia. Furthermore, there is no endeavor more exhausting than attempting to disprove a myth. (The respective leaders of the both major American political parties will back me up on that.) Evidently, the modern world acknowledges only those bold and aggressive enough to elbow themselves into the spotlight and make a great deal of blatant noise. By contrast, a being whose nature is to be shy and gentle does not necessarily negate its own existence.

Granted, we are a species with a reputation for being aloof and elusive. The reason we are not spotted is the same reason we are not striped; the snowy color of our coats never varies. It is said that the humans most likely to see a unicorn are virgins. Perhaps that will explain why there has never been a recorded unicorn sighting in Hollywood. Seeing a unicorn is not difficult if one knows where to look, be it in Uganda, Uruguay, or the Yukon. Sometimes one of us will appear completely unexpectedly. A story by the human writer, James Thurber, relates how a man caught a glimpse of one of us in his garden. Rather than sharing in her husbands rare delight, the wife in the story attempts to have him placed in  you should excuse the expression  the booby hatch. I won't spill the beans by revealing the denouement, but suffice it to say that she who maintains that the unicorn is a mythical beast receives her comeuppance. 

How does one distinguish a true unicorn from your usual garden variety white horse? By my golden horn you shall know me. Accept no substitutes! I am referring of course to the traveling circus which a few years back had the effrontery of sawing off one of the horns of a billy goat and passing him off as a unicorn. It is believed that our singular golden spikes hold mystical powers, but in the spirit of full disclosure, I hereby deny the completely factitious notion that ground-up unicorn horns are the secret ingredient in Viagra. Nor did our horns have anything at all to do with the notorious vuvuzelas blown during the FIFA World Cup matches. I know that I speak for my fellow unicorns when I say that I cannot overemphasize how much I appreciate and cherish the gleaming protuberance on my forehead. That golden horn is the only thing that prevents somebody from entering me in the fourth race at Aqueduct. In this shaky economy, though, one never knows--in order to make ends meet, I may have to consider a job using my horn to pick up litter in the park.

In conclusion, Ladies and Gentlemen, I wish to reiterate that the unicorn is not a mythical beast. We unicorns would consider it a courtesy if make that demand-- all parties would cease and desist from denying our existence. If such mocking disrespect continues, we will ask other aggrieved parties, such as selkies, pookas, and djinni to join us in a class action suit. Additionally, I hear that when push comes to shove, gargoyles can be real devils. We will, however, negotiate a settlement that is both reasonable and fair. As terms of compensation for damages, pain, and suffering we are seeking only the entire contents of Ali Baas cave, the pots of gold under the worlds rainbows, and exclusive pouring rights to the Fountain of Youth. You will be hearing from our attorneys forthwith.


Very truly yours,
Ulysses U. Unicorn

P. S. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

----------


## Hawkman

Oh yes, Very enjoyable Auntie, although at one point I thought you were advocating the ingestion of Long Pig, supplied, canned and marketed to the supermarket shopper as a healthy alternative to cattle and horses!

Here's one for you..

If Unicorns, in defiance of your, or rather their defense of their corporeality, are in fact mythical beast and as such, have no basis in fact or reality, Is a thought of a Unicorn a real thought?

Best, H

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## AuntShecky

It was SOOOOO Hot! (How hot was it?)

It was SOOOOO hot that. . .

. . .Crowds sought out formerly ignored fat people just to sit next to them and enjoy the shade. 

. . .Vanilla Ice got his first paying gig in years.

. . .Sports celebrities actually _drank_ the Gator-Ade.

. . .A rabbi, a priest, and a nun joined the Naked Cowboy stripping on Broadway.

. . .People headed to used car lots in droves, just to catch the breeze from the salesmens mouths.

. . . Banks too big to fail worried that their frozen assets might thaw.

. . .Community theatres were cancelling their productions of _Ninety-Two in the Shade_, _Steambath_, and -_Some Like It Hot_? No, we dont.

. . .It was also too darn hot for the devils scenes in _Damn Yankees_, the firemen in _Fahrenheit 451_, and somebody should help that poor cat and fiddler get off the roof.

. . .Beauticians all along the eastern seaboard frantically tried to scratch off the h on their bottles of hair conditioner.

And finally, it was so hot that on the campus of Columbia University, you could fry an egghead on the sidewalk.

----------


## AuntShecky

When life

http://www.bing.com/videos/watch/vid...snhp&gt1=42007

follows "art":

p://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=914595#post914595

----------


## Hawkman

> When life
> 
> http://www.bing.com/videos/watch/vid...snhp&gt1=42007
> 
> follows "art":
> 
> p://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=914595#post914595


Well I can certainly vouch for the fact that this sort of unicorn is definately edible! yum, yum! H

----------


## AuntShecky

An excerpt from the online journal 
of Mrs. Debi Snotenlocker
(Edited to simulate a modicum of literacy.)


OMG talk about your bad hair day! LOL. I had to go all the way over to the East Hogwash Free Library to use this ancient computer that they let EVERYBODY use, even stinking kids who probably never wash their hands. EWWWW!

I miss my laptop soooo much. Last night it was literally TOTALED after I accidentally left it on the kitchen counter. Me and machines dont get along. Like that stupid TiVo. Every time I want to record Dancing with the Stars, the TiVo gets it mixed up with Do You Think You Can Dance? and vicey-versey. Same with CSI: NY and NCIS: Los Angeles. All we ever get is Law and Order: SVU. And a ton of commercials for SUVs.

I TOLD Brad that he didnt hook it up right. Hes not all bad. A pretty good father to the triplets. Like hes got this big dream to teach them all how to play golf. But he hasnt made much progress so far. Trick is more interested in seeing how far into the ground he can pound a tee with his foot. Trip and Trap keep chasing each other with the 9 iron. But Brad is convinced that hes a kingmaker for three Tiger Woodses. I told him if thats the case dont bring them down to the pancake place. They got a hostess there who looks like shes waiting for a callback from Playboy magazine. Brad goes: Oh, the boys dont pay any attention to her. And Im like Im talking about you.

Brad even sees a project in my daughter (from a previous relationship.) Hes like Why cant Milwaukee try out for American Idol? and Im like Whatre you, nuts? She cant sing her way outa a paper bag and Brad goes Thats just what I mean. Well, Milwaukee overheard us and she thought it was the awesomest idea EVER! She warmed up to that puppy and hugged the living daylights outa it. So every night she practices the song shes gonna sing for her American Idol audition. I swear if I hear that damn song Aint No Mountain High Enough one more time Im gonna climb that mountain myself and jump right off of it! I go, Im glad your [sic] showing some interest in something, Milwaukee, but dont you think you oughta be doing your geometry homework? Then shes gets all smart mouthed and says that triangles aint gonna put her on top of the Billboard charts.

BTW I had to run all the way over to the East Hogwash Elementary School yesterday. They told me I had to come in for a parent teacher conference. So I met the teacher. It was amazing. She looked a little like the hostess at the pancake place! Her hair was so big it went halfway up to the ceiling and she musta spent half her salary getting her nails done. Anyway I show her the composition she sent home. I admit that Trip, er Trap isnt the sharpest knife in the fourth grade, but even he doesnt make this many spelling and grammar eras [sic]. I think you got his paper mixed up with somebody elses. So this teacher rips the paper right outa my hand and looks at it. Then she goes Whoops. My bad. I think I sent home a copy of our latest union contract by mistake. Im terribly sorry, Mrs. Slotenknocker. I shoulda said, Thats Snotenlocker, you dingbat. But I didnt.

Anyway, I told Brad all about this last night when I was cooking dinner. Your [sic] right, Debi. Our education system sucks out loud. Maybe we ought to put the boys in private school.

I go, You mean some religious school where they spend half the day telling little kids theyre no damn good? I dont think teachers should tell kids that their [sic] going to hell. Thats the parents job.

All of a sudden Brad got a look on his face like he just thought of the awesomest idea on the planet. He snapped his fingers. Aha! We dont have to stay with public schools or private schools either. I got the perfect solution.

Im like, What are you talking about? And hes like Two words. Home schooling!

And that was when I dropped a huge pan full of baked ziti all over my laptop computer.

----------


## AuntShecky

If you have the ability not just to make a New Year’s Resolution but actually to keep it, let me be the first to congratulate you. Me, I don't want to set up a situation doomed to fail faster than a frozen custard stand in Antarctica. Not only that, around Dr. Martin Luther King Day, I've already forgotten every one of my earnest promises to improve myself. I suppose I could write the resolutions down, but then, I'd probably lose the piece of paper. Anyway, here’s a little something I like to call:

SEVEN RESOLUTIONS MADE TO BE BROKEN 

In 2011 I hereby resolve that:

1. In what everybody calls a “tough economy,” it’s not only wise to be frugal, it’s a necessity. Still, I won't go so far that I save all of my calendars from this year so I can use them again when the dates fall the same as they did in 2010—in 2021! (I can almost hear all of you saying: “You should live so long!”)

2. Speaking of cheapness, I'll try to curb my habit of checking the coin slots of vending machines and pay phones (if they still exist) for loose change.

3. Whenever I come across a piece of “bubble wrap,” I will resist the urge to pop the bubbles. (In public, I mean.)

4. When the “Swimsuit Issue” of Sports Illustrated comes out, I will resist looking at it and thereby retain the microscopic shred of self-esteem I still have.

5. I'll try to refrain from betting on “Snail’s Pace” across the board in the fifth at Aqueduct, despite the fact that he's 0 for 13, and he's due!

6. Upon receipt of a greeting card, I won't turn it over to check out the price, at least until the person who gave it to me leaves the room. (Hey, at least I've gotten past the point of shaking the card in the hope that some folding cash falls out!)

7. Finally, I resolve not to recycle any more humor pieces, including this one from 2005.

So, to all my Fellow LitNutters:

Happy New Year 
from your irresolute Auntie!

----------


## Hawkman

Happy New year to you too, Auntie  :Biggrin:

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## DickZ

Happy New Year to you, Auntie, and to everyone else. 

You just reminded me of the fact that at our health club, all the machines will be full for the first couple of weeks of the new year. Fortunately, when all the folks who are there just for their resolutions finally poop out after two or three weeks, the place will get back to normal. 

Then we won't have to wait for a machine.

----------


## AuntShecky

Today my little neck-o- the-woods is experiencing a Weather Emergency. This time its an ice event, yesterday, sub-zero temperatures; and last Wednesday a major snow event, in which, around here at least, Mother Nature dumped just under fourteen inches of  since local meteorologists don't have the descriptive vocabulary of The Inuits  the white stuff.

I don't want to get into a debate here whether global warming is a hyped-up myth or not, but I do think the better term is climate change. Storms seems to have increased in number and intensity, recent summers have made senior citizens think twice about retiring to Florida, and winters well, in comparison to the Bad Old Days, are so wimpy they make clerks at The Gap seem like longshoremen.

Back when I was a little whippersnapper, and my contemporaries all seem to agree with me, winters were colder, icier, and yes, snowier. Even so, we had to have a real Snowmeggedon in order to get a snow day an unscheduled day off from school. We might have had a couple of feet of snow, and still have to trudge through unplowed streets and unshoveled sidewalks, all the while trying to keep our brown paper lunch bags from being covered with, with-- oh, hell-- the white stuff. (Yes, I walked to school but not because schoolbuses hadn't been invented yet. I'm old, but I'm not that old!) But even when it was so bad that the public schools closed, the parochial schools defied the transitory vagaries of this world and remained open. Maybe the nuns thought if we got buried in a drift or froze our catechisms off, it would build character.

In recent decades, kids (as well as school administrators) aren't taking any chances. One flake, and its Katie, Bar the Door and call the TV stations. Perhaps out of fear of accidents and thus Big Lawsuits, some schools are so determined to make robocalls in the middle of the night to inform parents that their childrens schools will be closed, enraging at least one father in the D.C. area:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn...l?hpid=topnews

But in most cases the opposite situation prevails, and most parents would rather know than not know, even if it means being suddenly awakened at 4:30 am. Education, as well all know, is an industry for which the transmission of information, i.e.,Communication, is not a high priority. Most school systems wait until the very last minute to decide whether to close or not to close. As a result, nobodys sure if his school is open or closed till he sees it on the TV screen or on the computer website --provided that the Storm of the Century (I think we're on our 15th one now) hasn't knocked out the electricity.

Hence, humbly presented for anyone who may want to commiserate and/or scoff,-- and forgive/nail me for the deplorable use of the second person pronoun -- is an updated version of a little ditty which crawled out of me brain way, way back in 2004, one which we like to call:

Snow Foolin? (or) How Long Do the Little So-and-Sos Butts Have to Be Sitting In Their Desks Before the School District Can Collect the State Dough?

Here in upstate New York, everybody's a weather veteran. We know torrential rains, broiling temperatures (in April), sub-zero wind chills (also in April), and tornadoes. We put the "in" in "inclement," a word that is seldom used except in front of "weather." One would think we'd be inured to winter by now. Still, nothing beats a good old snowstorm for shutting down the schools.

How do you know when it's a snow day? As soon as you wake up, look outside. The air may be thick with fluttering white flakes, reminiscent of the ticker tape parade thrown for Snooki on publication day of her book. The skies may look clear now, but it has snowed all night long. Ordinarily, seeing snow piled halfway up the window is no cause for alarm. Unfortunately, you live on the second floor.

You've lived through crises before, such as the National Day of Mourning declared upon the Ryan Reynolds/Scarlett Johansson breakup. Thus, you know what to do in an emergency: turn on the TV. As usual, you will see senior legal correspondents discussing the latest celebrity scandal. As usual, ignore them. Direct your eyes to the bottom of the screen where there is an alphabetical loop listing the school closings in the region. At the moment the scroll is on the pre-, elementary, middle, junior high, and senior high schools named Aardvark, and your kids attend Zuyder Zee Consolidated.

Because you have no idea how many schools are closed -- are there five or five hundred? -- you don't know how long the scroll will run. You're dying to duck into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, but you're terrified that if you glance away for just a nanosecond, you'll miss the all-important listing. (Not that the other schools aren't important, but let's face it, you don't really give a rat's behind about Gilboa or Onteora Central.)

Meanwhile the closings are leisurely sauntering by like a bevy of yuppies at the Victorian Stroll. Right after Richfield Springs and Rotterdam comes the Litany of the Saints, commencing with St. Ambrose. By the time they reach the Philips --St. Philip the Elder, St. Philip the Younger, St. Philip the Neglected Middle Child, and St. Philip the Third Cousin Once Removed -- you find yourself in the beginning stages of caffeine withdrawal, and your bladder is approaching burst mode.

The scroll, alas, has reached Zebulon Pike Country Day School and has returned to the Aardvark schools. No Zuyder Zee! Is it open, closed, or what? Maybe the Principal (Z.Z.s Top) is a late riser. Maybe he's calling it in right now!

At last the kids are up and in front of the tube to relieve you. They hate going to school so much that not only are they reading the scroll, they are cheering it on. It's as if they had a bet on a rallying longshot at Aqueduct Park. They're pumping their fists and yelling, "Come on! Come on!" Finally the name Zuyder Zee Consolidated surfaces reluctantly like Punxsatawney Phil dragged out of his den on February 2.

But Z.Z. Consolidated is not closed. And it's not exactly open, either. Your kids are in the academic equivalent of Limbo known as the "two-hour delay."

You're aghast at how swiftly your kids' facial expressions morph from elation to confusion to bleak despair in fewer than ten seconds. The only other human on the planet who can do faster emotional segues is Mary Hart, the anchoress emeritus of _Entertainment Tonight_. 

Since 100 minutes have evaporated since you began your vigil in front of the screen, the process of getting the kids fed, deloused, dressed and out the door is more intense than a "normal" school day.

You eventually get to work with the hope that the boss doesn't make any "mommy track" wisecracks. You remove your gloves, hat, boots, and two or three of the six layers of standard winter wear. The very second you sit down at your desk, the phone rings. Then you hear the news that every parent dreads, the two words that make a regular snow day seem like a week in Cancun: "Early dismissal."

----------


## hillwalker

Ah yes - the good old days when we had sixteen foot high drifts of snow (yes - I was there in the winter of 1962-3) and we were cut off for nearly two weeks. That was back in the days when TV was black and white, we had no telephones out in the sticks, and the school bus either arrived to collect you and trundle the 16 miles of cross-country lanes to school or it didn't. An hour frozen at the end of the farm track waiting for its non-arrival was rewarded by having the rest of the day free to go sledging, breaking the ice on the cattle troughs or just generally getting soaked through.

Climate change - well, the so-called perfect storms are chicken feed when you consider the cataclysmic floods and tidal breaches that must have fashioned the landscape even in not-so-distant geological time. Just because we haven't seen Nature really flexing her muscles in living memory doesn't mean our current climatic regime is the norm. It's very much the lull before.....

H

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## DickZ

Very well-written and entertaining, Auntie. 

I'm in Washington, DC, and when the first flake is sighted during the day, the entire federal 'workforce' hits the road for home simultaneously. And before that first flake is sighted, you better believe that all these folks are glued to their windows watching for it. The next day, only essential workers have to report, so the roads stay quite clear of traffic because I don't think there are more than three essential federal 'workers' in the whole city.

And yes, I have given up driving and using electricity (except for my computer) because I'm so concerned about this global warming. Most of the others who are so concerned keep using gasoline and electricity, while hoping that everyone else will stop doing just that. 

However, if it weren't for the global warming, we'd really be freezing now. So I might start driving again and using all that terrible gasoline anyway.

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## AuntShecky

Hill, and DickZ, thanks for the comments.^^^ Thank you as well AllAfricanBooks, and welcome to the LitNet!

If you're gluttons for punishment, here's some more
anti-humor:

You’ve heard of the “Age of Aquarius?” Well, that one is “Hair” and gone, giving way to a new one, which we like to call

The Age of the Credulous

Way back in the 1970s, the Television Gods offered an anthology series under the umbrella title, _Love American Style_. The often cheesy but occasionally cute show featured short, star-studded sitcoms interspersed with even shorter vignettes. One entr’acte depicted a bachelor seeking what is currently called “a friend with benefits.” The would-be Don Juan, however, wrongly assumed the amateur status of his intended pick-up, for when he asked her, “Hey, Baby, what’s your sign?” she replied, “Dollar!”

Asking a civilian that same question today might yield a different answer: “I dunno.” It’s not as if twenty-first century people are no longer interested in their personal horoscope, as if struck by sudden rationality. Thanks to a recent development in the field of astrology, people no longer know exactly what particular sign they were born under. Astronomers say that there now lies a previously undiscovered astrological sign--ominously the 13th-- in the zodiacal line-up. On top of that, the particular astrological persuasion you have been told was your birth-right is not the ”right” one. For instance, up to this point you might have thought of yourself as a non-assertive Virgo only to find out you’re a Leo in full roar. Changes in the celestial positions of the various constellations have brought about this reconfiguration, but it’s anybody’s guess why it took 3000 years for astrologers to notice:

http://www.associatedcontent.com/art...the.html?cat=9

This undoubtedly comes as quite a shock to the superannuated hippies still trying to turn hemp into a cash crop from their four-decade-old communes or New Agers needing help in deciding whether if today would be an auspicious day to sample that new 30-oz latte. Wait till they find out that the Zodiac is about to suffer through even more changes, including the discovery of two more new signs:

*Piraticulus* (“The Parrot.”) Babies born under this sign will grow up with an inexplicable desire to sail the high seas and plunder other ships. They’ll also be fond of wearing eye patches, Gilbert Roland shirts, and an earring (only in one ear.) This is the sign for people born during “Arrrr!” months.

*Astraperigee* (“The Fading Star.”) This is the astrological sign for people who readily admit what month they were born in but are evasive about the exact year. Astraperigees are likely to choose professions which will put them in the public eye and on Page Six. When they’re not doing a cameo role or a reality show, they like to spend their spare time making deranged phone calls and trashing hotel rooms.

Don’t be surprised if corporations see the Zodiac as still another marketing opportunity, like acquiring naming rights to sports venues or, as in David Foster Wallace’s _Infinite Jest_, calendar years. For example:

Global parent companies of restaurant franchises might claim a sign called Diarches (“The Double Arches.”) The constellation monopolizes the heavens especially during the time when Jupiter aligns with Mercury–rendering it “super-sized” and “fleet,” just like fast food. Diarches is most prominent when the Moon is in the Seventh House – of pancakes! 

Similarly, huge discount retailers might hold the rights to a constellation called “Scatolus Magnus” (“The Big Box.”) People born under this sign are unusually docile, accepting "flexible" hours and no benefits, but they “take pride” in calling themselves “associates” and “team players.” As a constellation, The Big Box tends to outshine smaller “Mom and Pop” constellations in the galactic neighborhood and to out-source the stars above American factories to China.

Satellite television providers might claim “The Dish,” which is the sign for people born on weekdays between the hours of 9 and 4. The astrological influence of The Dish will seem fairly consistent, except when affected by local weather conditions, sunspot activities, and those times when The Dish Runs Away with the Spoon.

And finally, a bank that is “Too Big to Fail” might force a corporate merger of a “previously existing” sign, Aquarius, and rename it “Aquirius.” Rather than the current group of stars which compose Aquarius, a different constellation will be assigned to the new sign. The night sky will be dominated by a group of heavenly bodies resembling an enormous capital “S” with two vertical lines of smaller stars running through it. Aquirius will be the astrological sign for those born on July 1 (when the fiscal year begins) as well as on April 15 (income tax day.)

Let’s face it, though--the “sign” that influences every American’s life really is the dollar. Maybe the working woman on _Love American Style_ was right.

----------


## Jack of Hearts

> Piraticulus (“The Parrot.”) Babies born under this sign will grow up with an inexplicable desire to sail the high seas and plunder other ships. They’ll also be fond of wearing eye patches, Gilbert Roland shirts, and an earring (only in one ear.) This is the sign for people born during “Arrrr!” months.


Ahoy, Auntie.



J

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## Hawkman

What a hoot! You're on form with this one Auntie  :Biggrin:  

Best, H

----------


## AuntShecky

Note: Portions of the following so-called humor column have previously appeared elsewhere on the Online Literature Forums and have been recycled for reuse (or refuse) here. This material may contain stale jokes and cultural references well beyond their expiration dates. Reader discretion advised for this lame-brained piece o claptrap which we like to call

My Punny Valentine

The old calendar on the wall tells me that this coming Monday, February 14 is Valentines Day. Its one of those non-holiday holidays in which you most likely will have to go to school or work, but if you dare forget that it's Valentine's Day, you'll find yourself either in the dog house or mercilessly teased by your little classmates, not to mention your dog. 

Those of us old enough to remember when a mouse was something that made us call the exterminator and not a device allowing us post claptrap on the Internet used to refer to February 14 as The Feast of St. Valentine. In recent decades the Saint has been dropped, after the Church drummed him out of the ranks in 1969, apparently for administrative reasons. Maybe the Church decided to go into a different direction. In any event, there is no evidence that the Bishop formerly known as St. Valentine screwed up. It wasn't like he was involved in a scandal, like posting a shirtless photo of himself on Craigslist or anything like that.

In many parts of the world,  if not Kansas City, then whatever overseas town the greeting company outsourced its jobs to -- Valentines Day is a Joe Biden-style big deal. Likewise florist and high-end purveyors of chocolate candy get on their knees every night and thank the God of their choice for Valentines Day, Mothers Day, Fathers Day, and Thinking of You Because I Just Heard Your Job Writing Greeting Cards Has Been Outsourced to Bangalore Day.

Valentines Day (or Night) is important for tony restaurants and even the ones whose owners aren't named Tony. Thats because on February 14 guys spring for romantic dinners for two as a special treat for their wives and sweethearts -- separately, of course. Or so I've been told. I can't vouch for this personally. It's been so long since we've been out at night that I can't remember who was sitting at the bar next to us, either a couple of Austrians drinking Australian beer or a couple of Austrian beers downed by Australians. 

I hear tell though that for one night only you get to dress up and order anything you want from the menu instead of sitting at home choking down store-brand macaroni and cheese while watching Jeopardy! Maybe a violinist or two will stroll over and serenade your table and you can gape in delight while one of them deftly dips his bow and lifts your steak right her your plate! 

Maybe your hubby or insignificant other will deign to dance with you to a beautiful love song, something up-to-the minute and straight off the pop charts, like: What the Hell by Avril Lavigne, Pinks romantic ballad,  [email protected]*! Perfect , or Pitbulls passionate Hey Baby (Drop it to the Floor) not to be confused with time-honored classics such as the deathless lyrics of Gwen Stefanis Hey Baby, Hey Baby, Hey Baby (etc.) or the immortal 1992 masterpiece by Sir Mixalot: Baby Got Back. If songs like these fail to put you in a romantic mood, I don't know what will.

Its really funny how almost every popular song is about love, but among all those thousands and thousands of songs over the years, only one well-known song mentions the word valentine. We're talking of course about My Funny Valentine, composed way, way back in 1937 by Richard Rodgers and his first -- some say his best  lyricist, Lorenz Hart. (That was way before my time, but it was playing in the background when my parents called the exterminator to get rid of the mouse.)

Anyway, it was a great song, but at one point it was almost too popular, performed so often that folks in the Business were getting sick of hearing it, so much so that when club owners (some of whom could have been named Tony) booked chanteuses for their establishments, the owners specifically had it written in the contract that My Funny Valentine would not be included in the repertoire. (Aspiring _American Idol_ contestants apparently never got the memo.) 

One of the lyrics in that song asks the musical question: Is your figure less than Greek? Well, it sure isn't. Maybe its Italian, because its shaped like a boot. And unlike the Greeks, I've never been seen bearing gifts. 

Speaking of gifts, they can be a real buzz killer on Valentines Day, if you don't get em, but especially if you don't give em. This time of year is not really the time to choose a mate. (Thats for the birds in more ways than one.) Actually, this is the time when guys are likely to break up with their girlfriends, just so they don't have to bother getting them a Valentines Day gift. The timing, though, is very tricky. The guy wants to get it over with BEFORE February 14, but if he does it too soon, he'll be stuck with nobody to make the sandwiches for the Super Bowl party.

Then of course, on February 15 and the days following, he is free to makeup with his friend with all the "benefits." Its a well-known fact that in the days leading up to Presidents Day, thousands of re-engaged young women suddenly become fascinated with Major League Baseball, specifically the team headquartered in Arizona. Such a girl becomes a devoted fan in the joy of getting her diamondback. The boyfriend's back in her good graces, too-- at least until Easter.

----------


## YesNo

> The old calendar on the wall tells me that this coming Monday, February 14 is Valentines Day.


I almost forgot. I keep thinking I've got another week to go.



> Maybe your hubby or insignificant other will deign to dance with you to a beautiful love song...or the immortal 1992 masterpiece by Sir Mixalot: Baby Got Back.


One of my favorites. 

Nice humor piece!  :Biggrin:

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## Hawkman

Yep! I think you earned your corn with this one, Auntie. Very enjoyable. I particularly liked the part about the mouse  :Biggrin:  

Live long and prosper - H

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## DickZ

> . . .
> Maybe your hubby or insignificant other will deign to dance with you to a beautiful love song, something up-to-the minute and straight off the pop charts, like: What the Hell by Avril Lavigne, Pinks romantic ballad,  [email protected]*! Perfect , or Pitbulls passionate Hey Baby (Drop it to the Floor) not to be confused with time-honored classics such as the deathless lyrics of Gwen Stefanis Hey Baby, Hey Baby, Hey Baby (etc.) or the immortal 1992 masterpiece by Sir Mixalot: Baby Got Back. If songs like these fail to put you in a romantic mood, I don't know what will. . .


I'm impressed with your whole article, but even more so that you would know the names of all those modern 'songs.'

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## AuntShecky

Well, it’s said that writers have to suffer for their art, and your ol’ auntie is no exception. So in order to write this latest ditty, I had to break my long-standing vow against watching the Academy Awards telecast. Man, talk about suffering!

For a while it looked as if I could have watched _Masterpiece Theatre_, or, shockingly enough, actually _read_ something, as when I tuned in at 8:30, the ABC affiliate in my neck o’ the woods did not come in on my TV set. Instead of carrying the Oscar pre-game show, “On the Red Carpet,” the local station chose to broadcast dead air as a public service. But wouldn’t you know it, a few minutes later the stupid awards show came on after all.

The irony of the whole thing is that I never had to sit through any of it, had I but known that early this morning the good people over at WDUH-FM (One-oh-four-point-seven-and-a-half on your dial) were going to email me the following transcript of their complete coverage of the star-studded event. Thus, into the annals of cinematic history comes the latest bit of anti-humor which we like to call

If Sportscasters Covered the Academy Awards Ceremony

“–elcome, East Hogwashers. Muckenmeyer’s Discount Beer is very proud to present a very special edition of ‘Biff and Goose in the Morning,’ though of course it’s evening where you are on the East Coast. We’re broadcasting live from the Kodak Theatre out here in sunny California. I’m Biff Bennington, your co-host along with the lovely and talented Goose Ganderheimer. . . Goose, how’d ya like to tell our listeners how we happened to come by this gig?”

“Sure thing, Biff. Funny thing happened over in our studios in East Hogwash. Our usual arts, entertainment, fashion, and social scene reporter, Kristi Diaz-Bullekopf, was all set to come out here and cover the Oscar telecast for WDUH. She had her plane tickets, her reservations at the Holiday Inn, every thing all ready to go, when she thought she’d had time to finish some work before heading for the airport. She was writing a blog about tips on haircoloring tips, I believe it was. Well, all of a sudden Kristi broke free of the chains and sandbags that had up to that point anchored her to her desk and before you know it, she floated, up, up, and away. All I can say, Biff, is that at this point, Kristi will be ‘mist.’ ”

“Oh, Goose, that’s so sad.”

“You said it, Biff. At the time of the tragedy, that blog she was working on, 'To Frost or Not to Frost' turned out to be Kristi’s swan song.”

“Yep. She was so light-headed, er light-hearted. That is why Muckenmeyer’s Discount Beer –‘When it’s the price–not the quality–that counts’ has decided to dedicate this edition of 'Biff and Goose in the Morning' to Kristi. And that’s also why you and I are out here to cover the big Oscar show.” 

“Speaking of fashion, look at the skimpy dresses these Hollywood chicks are wearing, Biff. I’ve seen more fabric on a sweat towel in the East Hogwash Boars locker room.” 

“You bet, Goose. I guess that’s why they have to have ‘seat warmers.’ " 

“You didn’t tell me we were supposed to wear tuxedos, though. I mean, who’s gonna see us, we’re on the radio–“

“But look at _you_, Goose. *Who* are you wearing?”

“Well, get a gander at the back of my jersey. You can see it loud and clear: it says “Don Mattingly.” 

“Oh yeah. Nice L.A. touch. It sure is great to be here at the Oscars, but I’ve got a confession to make. I really don’t know that much about the movies. In fact the last Best Picture I saw was _Chariots of Fire_.”

“Yeah? Is that the really old one with Charlton Heston in it? I don’t know nothing about no movies neither. But I do know the first picture I ever saw and that’s when my mom and dad took me to the drive-in to see _Francis the Talking Mule_. (Or was that the day they bought a tv and the first show that came on was _Meet the Press_?)”

“Well, let’s take a look at this year’s nominees, shall we? Oh, here’s one that’s right up our alley– ‘Best original score.’ “

“Oh, I know! I know, Biff. Best original score– that would be August 31, 2004. Indians 22, Yankees zip.”

“You’re on a roll, there, Goose. Try this one– ‘Best visual effects.’ “

“I got it, I got it–oh, crap, I lost it in the sun! You try one, Biff. Of all the Major League Umpires, who has the most animated feature?”

“Not now, Goose. Right now we’ve got the winner of the Best Costume Design in the batter’s box and it’s _Alice in Wonderland_! Wow, just look at the size of that head!” 

“Oh, are they on the Best Actor category all ready?”

“No, Goose. It looks like the two co-hosts are doing a comedy bit. She’s wearing men’s clothes and he’s in drag. Let’s listen in--”

“--Hot damn! There’s a Charlie Sheen joke! I win the pool, Biff!”

“‘Fraid not. That joke’s too lame. Sorry, Buddy, you’re DQ’d. On deck is the category for Best Picture, but first we’re going to break for a message from Muckenmeyer’s Discount Beer. We’ll be right back. . .Ya think they’re serving Muckenmeyer’s at the glamorous Oscar parties tonight, Goose? Back there in the Green Room?”

“Hey, one sip of Muckenmeyer’s and everything’s green, including your -–“

“Damn it, Goose, hit the mike! Hit the mike!--
. . .Okay, we’re back. Biff and Goose here at the Oscars. And it’s the bottom of the ninth with the Best Picture Nominees on deck. Holy Cow! There are ten of ‘em! Wow, that’s one more than the total number of teams in the AL Central and West _combined_! Okay, let’s look at the roster: Leading off is _Black Swan_. Second, ah, at last a sports-related movie: _The Fighter_. Batting next is _Inception_ –“

“Oh, yeah, like the big party that comes after a wedding. . .”

“Then _The Kids Are All Right_--” 

“--Must be about rookies–“

“ -Followed by _The King’s Speech_, then the one that reminds me of a Red Sox-Yankees game, _127 Hours_–

“Or _this_ show, Biff –“

“_The Social Network_, _Toy Story 3_ ,(1 and 2 must’ve been traded to other teams) _Winter’s Bone_ , and _True Grit_ .”

“That last one’s gotta be about the hot dogs at the concession stand at Memorial Stadium on the Upstate Campus of Downstate University at East Hogwash. What’s this? Somebody just handed us a telegram, Biff.”

“A telegram? In this day and age? Why didn’t they send us a text message or a Twitter or something. . .Oh, gosh. It’s from the legal department of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. They say we’re unauthorized to mention their trademarked words ‘Oscar’ or ‘Academy Awards.’ ”

“What are you talking about, Biff? You mean we can’t say ‘Oscar’? What do they do when Sesame Street comes on? Bang on the lid of Oscar the Grouch’s garbage can?”

“Hey, you don’t want to fool around with these lawyers. They’re so tough even Disney wouldn’t hire ‘em. Well, it looks like they’re coming up on the finale of the Os--, er, awards presentation broadcast. A bunch of school kids from Staten Island are singing ‘Over the Rainbow.’ The NFL ought to book them to sing the National Anthem at next year’s Super Bowl.”

“Not a chance, Biff. They’re way too good. They went through the entire song and didn’t flub one line.”

“Well, maybe there’s no a fat lady singing, but the ball game’s over. This concludes our special episode of “Biff and Goose in the Morning.” Tune in tomorrow morning when we’ll back in our WDUH studios to discuss why the East Hogwash Boars didn’t get an invite to the March Madness tournament for the 73rd year in a row. For Muckenmeyer’s Discount Beer and speaking for Goose Ganderheimer, this is Biff Bennington saying ‘So long from sunny California.’ “

“Are you sure we can say ‘California,’ Biff?”



If you're a glutton for punishment, here's some more
Biff and Goose:
Words of Whizdom 2010

Christmas Morning Play by Play

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## Hawkman

Thumbs up, Auntie  :Biggrin:  a very enjoyable, rip-roaring guide to the main event. I actually think if they covered the thing that way it'd be a better show. Despite being a film buff in the distant past, when my youth was only twenty years behind me, I'm afraid to say that I took absolutely no interest in the awards. The Uk news told me who'd won best picture and best actor the next day, and that was only because of the British contingent! So, sadly I missed all the gushingly false tears and inane jokes from the compares. Somehow though, I think I'll survive...

Live and be well, H

PS, have you ever seen Simone? Brilliant movie satire on hollywood, and it stars Al Pachino, so you know the actiing will be good.

BFN

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## AuntShecky

Thank you, Hawk, for your very generous response to Auntie's take on the Os--er, awards ceremony show. I usually don't watch it because it's usually just awful and totally irrelevant as I haven't been to a movie theatre in 15 years.

I prefer watching the old movies on TV. The other night TCM showed _On the Waterfront_(1954), which is one of the finest movies I've ever seen. I've been informed that one of the reviewers at the time said that Brando's acting in _On the Waterfront_ was the greatest performance ever recorded on film. I'm no expert or"cineast" (is that how it's spelled?), but I whole-heartedly agree.

As far as the failed telecast on Sunday night, there have been much funnier jokes about it than the ones yer ol' Auntie tried to come up with, for instance Jimmy Kimmel's parody of the winner for Best Picture and on the morning news show I watch daily, one of the guests was a big wheel at a cable network as well as host of his own show. His comments on the award telecast were very funny, but especially his opinion of the singing public school kids. I thought they were adorable, but this guy said that the Osc- awards telecast just wasn't the appropriate place. "And what was with the colorful teeshirts those kids were wearing," he asked. "What is this--a telethon?"

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## AuntShecky

How Now, Brown ---Wha?

When success is the goal of launching a product, the conventional business advice is to “find a need and fill it.” Marketing executives have tweaked that basic guideline by creating a need for otherwise useless products. We have that tidbit of wisdom to thank for those wonderful contributions to western civilization such as the Pet Rock, the Snuggie, and cures for previously-unknown ailments such as the heartbreak of Restless Leg Syndrome.

Now, another product that we simply cannot live without has backed into the room. On his cable TV show yesterday, Dylan Ratigan mentioned that a website is offering a product designed for stressed-out urban dwellers who hanker for the natural ambience of the country and the relative simplicity of rural life. Now citified professionals can get a whiff of everything they've been missing with a new designer fragrance –“ L’essence de petarades des vaches” or “Cow Fart in a Can.” (The online article was unclear as to whether it’s a conventional can that requires an opener or if it’s an “aerassol” spray.)

Just think. You're a middle-manager forced to sit through a mid-afternoon meeting while some boss drones on about quarterly statements, core competencies, and spreadsheets.When the Head Gasbag demands, as he always does, to “think outside the box,” why not kick it up a notch and start stinking outside the can! That’s what I call taking the bull by the horns. The workplace have always dealt with the stuff found in the barnyard, so it may as well smell like the real thing. 

Pop open the can and in an instant your cold, sterile office will be transformed into the bucolic serenity of the lower 40. Suddenly, minds once preoccupied with number-crunching will dream of the rustling of a breeze through the cow pasture, its earthy fragrance wafting upwind, maybe bringing with it visions of a corn-fed gal in pigtails and gingham just a-waitin’ for ya ta finish yer chores and meet ‘er up there in the hayloft. 

In addition to improving employee morale, there are financial benefits that are beginning to smell really good. For instance, think of the scratch you'll save the company by opening one of these puppies (er, calves?) around half-past eleven, quarter to twelve. The employees who used to sprint out the door to the cafeteria or the Food Court will rapidly lose their appetites. They'll stay and work straight through lunch. 

Grab yourself a requisition form and order a fiscal year’s worth of Nature’s Gift to the Pheromonically-deprived. Have it delivered overnight so your co-workers won't have to wait one extra minute to breathe in the bovine goodness. Come on, make your "moo-ve." Be sure to “stock” up so you'll have enough products to last till the cows come home. (If you're really lucky, maybe on the way home they'll stop off at a Taco Bell.)

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## AuntShecky

Unless you've been living under the proverbial rock, you've heard about the 20-inch cobra who broke out of the Bronx Zoo over the weekend. It’s still MIA. Don't be fooled by the imposter claiming to be the escapee and posting lame-o “jokes” on Twitter. That’s the Anti-Cobra. The One, True, Living Cobra has slithered all the way up the Taconic Parkway to beautiful downtown East Hogwash, where it has been spotted ‘knocking ‘em dead’ nightly at Al’s Chuckle Barn. A portion of the cobra’s monologue follows: 

“. . .[S]o I thought I'd try my hand at stand-up comedy. ‘Course actually having a hand would help. For me the hardest part about doing stand-up is standing up. 

“I'll tell ya why I decided to split the Big House. I was sick of doing time, especially when I was completely innocent of all charges. My lawyer was lousy! The judge kept getting him mixed up with me!

“Not only that, I had to get away from all the emails and cell phone messages from people thinking that COBRA had something to do with health insurance. If they think I'm gonna help some out-of-work construction guy get a Viagra prescription, they're crazier than Charlie Sheen! LOL, my asp!

“What’s that – a heckler back there? Listen, _I'm_ the one who gets to do all the hissing around here!

“Yep. I've been a cobra all my life. Back in college – Ah, I remember it well, I've got total recoil. Anyway, back in the day, I flirted with the idea of converting to another species. I was gonna be a garter snake, but I changed my mind. There’s not a chick on the planet who would let me get anywhere near her legs!

“Few years back I was going to audition for _Snakes on a Plane._ Didn't even make it to L.A. Airport security wouldn't let me through the gate. They told me to shed my skin. But I don't do nudity.

“If I don't make it as a comic, I've got something to fall back on-- the real estate business. What, you've never heard of reptile landlords? I won't have any trouble with tenants coughing up the rent. I've got some boa constrictors in my posse, and I'll just send ‘em over. They'll squeeze the life out of those deadbeats.

“Listen, fangs a lot, Ladies and Gentlemen. You've been an awesome audience. I'm here all week. Try the Prime Rib. Me, I'm partial to rodent tartare. I can't believe I swallowed the whole thing– _whole_!”


UPDATE 4/3/11
The escapee was apprehended and back behind bars at the Bronx Zoo. Can a reality show be far behind? It could fit the Animal Planet lineup, but the real housewives on Bravo could use some soft and feminine contrast, don't cha think?

By the bye, the cobra is a "she." The zoo is sponsoring a naming contest so that two-legged species can endow her with a moniker. All I can say is if the winning entry has anything like "aunt" or "Shecky" in the name, I'm ssssuing!

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## Virgil

:FRlol:  Some good laugh lines in there Aunty.  :Biggrin:  I saw that story. Is she still on the loose?

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## AuntShecky

deleted ____

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## AuntShecky

Maybe it’s my peevish mood, but today there are two anti-humorrhoids for the price o’ one.

Up first is a parody (sort of) of a work whose creator probably doesn’t deserve to be spoofed. I’ve yet to see the two movies based on _Diary of a Wimpy Kid_, but the online version is cute as all get out. Well, it’s said that “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” (also, as Fred Allen noted,” the sincerest form of television.) Here we go with the first ignorable piece-- typos, misspellings, glitches, and adolescent patois and all, though she gets the apostrophes right--which we like to call

‘Dairy’ of a Nerdy Chick or like, Milking It For All It Is Worth

Day One

I wanted to start each journal entry with “Dear Diary,” but it keeps coming out as “dairy.” It’s even weirder when I try to type my shorthand for “going to.” Some how I’m gonad have to disable the stupid Spell Check.

Day Two

It’s not even fifth period and all ready it’s a really, really bad hair day.

It started this morning when I got nailed for being late for Home Room. No fair! It wasn’t my fault at all! A bunch of college kids were blocking the steps and holding everybody up. They had basketfulls of condominiums and were passing out the little foil packs to everybody entering the school, one to a customer. The industrial arts teacher was ahead of me when a college kid goes, “Excuse me, Sir, are you sexually active?” And Mr. Crashaw is like, “No, I’m married.” 

Lunch was the absolute worst! I was gonad sit with my BFFs. Kayla, Kyline, Madysson, and Edna and my self usually like to sit at the same table and text each other. But they like totally ignored me. I saw my EX- BFFs in the back of the cafeteria laughing with all those stuck-up b-words!

I hate those rich chicks! First of all, I don’t know why they don’t go to like some hoity-toity private academy instead of East Hogwash Junior High School. On the upside it’s good they’re so dumb because they push my average higher on the grading curve. 

Secondly they diss us poor kids for not having fancy food like they have. And today I didn’t have any lunch at all! The Zero Tolerance Monitor at the front entrance confiskated my peanut butter sanwich + threw it into the trash can next to the Metal Detector. Sometimes the b-words have caterers come in, swear to God. They use silver spoons to eat fish eggs out of little jars and they guzzle what they say is champaine. I don’t think there’s any like real booze in it. But I bet ya it like cost big bucks. 

The leader of their little whatyacallit –“click”-- Mindy Worthington-Farquar, is the snootiest. Her daddy is like so rich he let her have some huge designer– Pucci Gucci Coo or whatever-- reboot her gym suit. Mindy doesn’t even have to update her own Facebook page. She has Mark Zuckerberg on Speed Dial. The other day when she missed the late bus she had the principal drive her home. But first she made him put on a showfer’s uniform.

But it looks like the rich b-words and my EX bffs are gonad get their like come up Pence. Ethan, Evan, Aiden + Butch got a bunch of those condominiums and made like water balloons out of them to dump on the heads of those mean girls. LOL! I’m gonad get my cell ready to catch it all on video. G2G!

Day Three

When today started out it looked like I was gonad finally catch a break. Mrs. Symansky goes, “ Mary Ellen Briggs, report to the Guidance Office” Whooo! That rocks! Not because I like the guidance counselor so much. But because any day I can get out a first period gym is like Christmas.

On my way out of home room I accidentally on porpoise elbowed Ethan’s back. I’m like, “Whoops, sorry” and he’s like “Listen, 4 Eyes, when you go see old Crome Dome tell ‘im what he wants to hear. Lay some really, really lame-o stuff on ‘im like ‘I want to make a difference.’ They love nerdy crap like that. But whatever you do, don’t tell him you want a job just like he has or he’ll think you’re just brown-nosin’.” And I’m like “Ok, Buddy. Thanks for the tip.”

Ol’ Crome Dome was at his desk waiting for me. “Oh, Mary Ann, glad you could make it.”

He got the name wrong but I let it pass. “Good morning Mr. McClanahan.” He had a big paper cup full of coffee on his desk but didn’t offer me any. Sooooo typical.

“We’ve been looking over your permanent record and I must say your grades are pretty good.” I go, “Thank you.” And thank you Mindy, Muffy, Sterling, + Cooper.

“I know it’s early yet , and you’re still in EHJHS, but all of us are cureyus. Have you given any thought to the future? Long term, I mean. College plans? Career goals?”

“Well, Chrom--, er, Mr. Mac, I’m not really sure yet. One thing I do know is that whatever I decide to be I really, really want to make a difference.”

Chrome Dome gave me a humongus homongus big smile that showed every one of his yellow teeth. Then he goes “Why, that’s really admirable of you, Mary Sue! “ He wrote somethin down and then he’s like, “Now, just so we don’t get you started down the wrong track, we want to eliminate the inappropriate courses at the get go. Tell me, can you 4 see any job that you don’t ever, never want to do?“

“Why, yes, Mr. Mac.” I go. “ Funny that you ask. There is one thing I don’t ever want to be.”

“Yes?”

“The last thing I ever want to be is a junior high school guidance counselor.” That was when Chrome Dome sent me straight to the Principal’s Office.

Whooo! This was my lucky day after all! The Principal wasn’t there. He went downtown to score Mindy some Justin Bieber tickets. You just know the line in front of the Rentacenter Civic Center box office is gonad be like soooo long. 

Expecially if they’re handing out condominiums in front of the place. 




Another piece impersonating "humor" immediately appears below.

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## AuntShecky

(Note--This is the second of todays humorrhoids. The first is posted immediately above.)


Sometimes I think Im living in an alternative universe. I may be wrong, but I distinctly heard several mentions of a global unemployment crisis going on. Evidently I was wrong. The job picture cant be as bad as everyone says it is, not if somebody is going pay a guy to lounge around the beach. I kid you not! Its the real deal.*

Im not envious or outraged or anything like that, but I am moved to post the following ditty which we like to call

Its A Lousy Job, But Somebodys Got to Do It

Through the knothole in the nine-foot-high fence I could see all sorts of activity going on dudes in hard hats operating heavy machinery, climbing up on girders, drilling with jackhammers, pounding nails. I sighed and shook my head. Those lucky stiffs!

As much as I wanted to experience the vicarious thrill of laborious construction work, I had to get to my own place of employment: an expansive stretch of pristine white sand flanked by the endless blue sea, with the warmth of heat of the sun above me, the coolness of the ocean breeze in my hair. The names Boyle. Lance Boyle. Occupation: Professional Beach Tester.

How, you may well ask, did a nice guy such as myself end up in a place like this? Well, it was completely random. Sheer chance, you may say. Not long ago, I intended to get a refund for tickets to Charlie Sheens show. When I saw the three-block queue snaking around the corner, I got on the end. As it turned out, I was in the wrong line. Long story short, I got the job. As I say, it was dumb luck.

Im glad to be working, dont get me wrong, but I havent been this bored since I was a kid and sat in front of the TV waiting for Geraldo Rivera to open up Al Capones vault. All I do all day is sit around, soak up rays, read trashy novels, and Tweet. And I had to kiss my quiet nights at home goodbye. If I have to sip one more glass of Merlot or chat up one more beach babe Ill go completely psycho. 

Boredom isnt the only occupational hazard. I must spend hours just shaking the sand out of my Speedos. The strong sunlight is beginning to fade my "tat." Things took a tern for the worst when the seagulls started stealing my nacho chips. 

The other day I thought Id finally found a ray of hope when the wind blew a sign right across my toes. It said BikinisHalf Off. At last a break in the monotony, I thought. You can imagine my heartbreak when I discovered that the sign originally hung in the window of Dottie's Duds next to souvenir stand. 

Yesterday I had enough. Just to occupy myself I helped a guy moor his sailboat. Then I held the pail of lacquer while a surfer was refinishing his board. The high point of the day was when I got a chance to clean the oil slick off a pelican. Thats when the boss caught me.

Stop that! she yelled. Go lie down this instant and earn your pay!

Sorry, Maam, but Im on strike, I explained.

Good, because youre through. Hand in your beach chair and your SPF-40. With that she Trumped me with the Full Donald: Ya fired!

So I lost the job. Big deal. Lance Boyle has been fired from better jobs than this. But Lance Boyle is nothing if not resilient. I got another gig that very day. 

Not that its much better. I have to sit around a plush suite and watch every televised MLB game** for the entire season. As I say, the job is no home run, but I know times are tough and Ill try to keep it.

All I have to remember to do is keep my nose clean, post my Tweets, and resist the urge to change the channel to C-Span. 


*Beach tester


**baseball game watcher

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## Hawkman

G'day, Auntie, I had, in fact, already perused these little gems, noting that the first one appears to be an experiment in 3D posting, although the orientation of the secondary image is such that the human binocular arrangement of optical receptors is incompatible with the alignment of the display, thus failing to render the tri-D image to optimum effect. However, as a representation of the mindset and educational accomplishments of the distaff portion of American youth, the first of the pieces is both witty, and amusing.

As for the second, you once again reveal that truth is stranger than fiction. You might be interested to learn that on the website www.comparethemeerkat.com they are advertising a position with a 6 month contract with a pay packet of £40,000 stirling, as ambasador for Meerkovo. (this is a genuine advert.) I'd apply myself, but I know nothing about twitter or facebook, both prerequsites for a successful application!

Live and be well - H

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## AuntShecky

(From the online journal of Mrs. Debi Snotenlocker, the Happy Housewife of East Hogwash, USA):

Debi Snotenlocker’s Storybook Moment

I almost forgot about the big historical event today. No, I don't mean Opening Day at Belmont Race Track. Yesterday I stopped at the Cost Cutter to pick up a pint o’ half and half, and they had a huge display of products with a big sign over it: Every Snack You Need for Your Royal Wedding Watching Party! They weren't kidding. ‘Cuz nothin’ says Merry Old England like frozen pizza bites, tortilla chips, and sushi rolls.

This morning I was up before sunrise. As usual, Brad was miffed. He’s “Gee, Debi, if you got up at 5 in the morning for this thing, how come you wouldn't get your butt outa bed to go trout fishing with me?” 

And I go, “When you tell me that Brian Williams or Anderson Cooper are bringing their film crews down to the Esopus Creek, then we'll talk.”

I guess that was pretty snotty, but I was all cranky from staying awake most of the night reading up on English history in the encyclopedia. I found out about King Henry the VIII (all those kings had Roman numerals after their names, like the Super Bowl.) You always see pictures of him as a fat guy ready to chomp on a drumstick. I didn't know they had KFC back in the 1500s. Hollywood had nothing on that guy-- he had VI wives! The king divorced the ones he didn't like except for the ones whose heads were chopped off. (He must've done that when he was strapped for cash and couldn't cough up the alimony.)

Another king who lived less than 100 years ago fell in love with a woman who was a commoner and had a previous relationship. Not only that, she was an American. Wait a minute– a king can murder his wives but he can't marry anybody he wants? What’s up with that? Anyway, in 1936 this King Edward VIII said he would give up his whachamacallit–his kinghood --“for the woman he loves.” How romantic is that? Back when I was setting the date for our wedding, I couldn't even get Brad to change his Bowling Night.

But who in her right mind would want to be the wife of a guy who blew off the throne for her? I mean, she must've been under a lot of Pressure. She probably had to think long and hard before telling him, “Not tonight, Dear. I have a headache.”

Well, I wanted somebody to watch the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton with me. Trick, Trap, and Trip didn't want to have anything to do with it, once they realized that it wasn't a Disney DVD with talking animals. I offered to change the channel to the coverage on Fox News, but no dice.

You'd think Milwaukee, my teenage daughter from a previous relationship, would be psyched about this storybook wedding. Forget it! Two years ago I had to twist her arm to get the go to the All Star Game, but since then she found out how many millions MLB players make. So now she spends hours on her cell phone Googling rookies to see who’s an eligible bachelor. She is like shopping around for a Major Leaguer, or as my grandma used to say, “setting her cap” for one. I go, “You know, you could be a princess just like Kate. Prince William has a kid brother. What about him?”

“Yeah?” She says, “What’s his batting average?” 

So I ended up watching the Royal Wedding all by my lonesome. It was beautiful! I saw the Beefeaters with their red uniforms and puffy hats. They looked like they just stepped off a gin bottle. I really appreciate getting to see all this because we don't have a monarchy over here in America, unless you count The King of Beers, Queen-sized mattresses, and Royal Crown cola. But we “Yanks” (also Mets and Red Sox fans) weren't forgotten. At the end of the ceremony, the band in Westminster Abbey played “My Country ‘Tis Of Thee.”

Naturally I was looking for celebrities in the crowd but didn't have much luck spotting anybody. I saw somebody in the row behind the boys’ choir who looked like Larry King, but it could've been a gargoyle. I heard Fergie of Black Eyed-Peas was going to be there, but not the Fergie who is Prince William’s aunt. I don't know if Donald Trump got an invite. But I think I did hear somebody demanding to see the royal marriage license.

As far as I know, the reception wasn't going to be televised. Too bad. I'd love to see the traditional wedding rituals, like we have over here, where the groom smashes the cake into the bride’s face.

Even though I only got to see the wedding on TV, I betcha it would've been a thrill to be there in person. Lots of tourists are buying tons of souvenirs, like key chains and commemorative plates. I heard that you can even buy a refrigerator with a full-color photo of the royal couple on the door. (This might work for somebody who is on a diet. Just one look at Kate’s skinniness would make you change your mind about that pizza or tortilla snack.)

One of my nicest possessions happens to be a souvenir, a gorgeous coffee mug. So what if it says “Welcome to Finger Lakes Racetrack” on it? At least it’s not Brad’s precious set of shot glasses from Vegas. One of them has two turtles going at it with the inscription: “Faster, faster!” And the other one has two pigs doing the same thing, only this time it says “Makin’ bacon.” He says he’s saving them for a special occasion. 

So, if the Queen of England ever decides to cross the pond and pay a visit to East Hogwash, I hope she goes to somebody else’s house for teatime.

----------


## Delta40

I think you capture the unique US cultural outlook toward a Royal wedding beautifully. What a great way to separate yourself by bringing all the familiarity of your own lifestyle to the wedding!

Loved the comment about Trumpy!

----------


## DickZ

Very entertaining, Auntie. Much better than the wedding itself.

----------


## AuntShecky

> What a great way to separate yourself by bringing all the familiarity of your own lifestyle to the wedding!



Not _my_ "own lifestyle"--Debi's.

----------


## AuntShecky

so remember the name, Muckenmeyers Discount Beer when its the pricenot the quality that counts. Youre listening to WDUH, one-oh-nine-pont-four and a half on your FM dial. We take you now to the Rentacenter Civic Center in beautiful downtown East Hogwash for the Fourth Annual Commencement of the upstate campus of Downstate University at Hogwash, where University President Porterhouse Mistake is wrapping up his opening remarks. All of us here at the WDUH community offer our heartiest congratulations and good wishes to the Class of 2011 as we join the graduation already in progress:

- off your cell phones. We have another friendly reminder that for the duration of our time here, this venue, just as on the entire campus at DUH, we are a drug-, alcohol-, smoke-, perfume-, sugar-, tree nut-, ground nut-and trans fat-free zone. Please accept our apologies for the delay of the ceremony as well as gratitude for your patience while the Haz Mat team took care of the Reeses Peanut Butter Cup wrapper in the south end of the Rentacenter parking lot. Im told that the process normally doesnt take as long as it did, but this time the wrapper originated from a twin-pack. 

Now, before we get to our commencement address and the awarding of the degrees, I beg your forbearance as I have been called upon to make just one more announcement. The History Department would like to inform Mr. Bradley Freen his final thesis is overdue. . . Thats odd. I seem to be experiencing a bit of déjà vu. If thats the same fella who failed to finish his course work last year and the year before-- one imagines that the principle on his student loan must be approaching the figure of the National Debt. 

At this point it is or would have been my distinct privilege to introduce our previously- announced speaker today, best-selling novelist and star of the popular reality show, _Shore Enuff!_  the inexplicable Woozi. Just a couple of hours ago I received a text message from Ms Woozis publicist to the effect that there has been a scheduling conflict. Ms Woozi has decided to honor a previous commitment by keeping her appointment at Geris Spa and Tanning Salon. Therefore, I am sorry to say that she will not be gracing us with her presence today, though Im sure Woozi will be here in spirit! I might add that nothing kept her spirit and her considerably ample flesh from schlepping up to the Bay State to grab that honorary doctorate from M.I.T. but, in keeping with the decorum of the day, Ill let that pass.

Im certain all of you will be gratified to know that one of East Hogwashs favorite sons has been gracious enough to step in at the last minute. Esteemed faculty, beloved parents, underemployed alumni, and of course, the Class of 2011: Let me introduce someone you may already know a man who never met an old joke he didnt like--highly respected local businessman, owner and operator of Buckys Gasn Go, give it up for the ever-available Lloyd Bucky Sinclair!

(Sporadic applause.)

Thank you profs, moms, dads, and grads. As you see it took me a whiles to get up on this here whatchamacallit 


(Whispered) Podium

-Podium cause you can see Im on crutches.  Just a little mishap the other day when I pulled a hammy from constantly goin and up down on the ladder to change the price per gallon. 

But as you can see, I made it down here all right. Maybe next time youll come and see me. Just about every day you can find me at Buckys Gas n Go, down at the inner section of US 20 and County Route 66, right across the road from Slappys Tae Kwon Do Academy and kitty corner to Fluffy Puppy Pet Groomers. Were about five minutes downwind of the Town Landfill and Waste Treatment Plant, you cant miss us. Especially on a hot day like today. 

When you visit us, why not stay for lunch? Im happy to say that the trouble over the burritos got settled out of court. Even if you dont have a hankering for Mexican food, our delicious franks and assorted hot snacks will be available as soon as we can get the equipment up and running again. My lovely wife, Mrs. Sinclair, assures me that shell have the microwave all cleaned out and disinfected as soon as she is damned good and ready.

Meantime we always have plenty of bagged snacks on hand at the GasnGo chips, prentzels, you name it. Every snack item sold at the GasnGo carries has a guarantee that its expiration date is not past three weeks ago. Thats our pledge to you, our valued customers. Sometimes I gotta take a hit, but thats all part of runnin a small business.

Speaking of small business, my eight year old twins, Mitt and Newt Sinclair, will have the grand opening of their lemonade stand the day after summer vacation starts. I know that all o yahs are good Americans who buy locally, so of course, youll visit the boys lemonade stand. Their lemonade will go down good with the bagged snacks, especially since the lemonade stand will be open during the hottest time of the day, and during them hours the GasnGo wont be sellin any other cold beverages.

(Sound of a slap on the forehead) Whoops! Silly me. I almost forgot why I was here! With yahs graduating and all, Im spossed to tell you some things that will jumpstart yahs on the Road o Life. Im not much on book learnin myself, but I guess I picked up a couple of things from owning and operating the Gas n Go. So here are some guidelines all of yahs should follow.

(Sound of a piece of paper being unfolded.) Lemme put my readin glasses on. There aint nothin wrong with my eyes my arms are too danged short. Anyway, here we go:

One. Rotate your Tires.

Two. Always remember to have your oil changed and your sparks and points checked on a regular basis.

Three. Before Old Man Winter strikes, dont forget the antifreeze. How do you make antifreeze? Hide her nightgown.

Four. Even after you finish school, keep on learnin. When yahs go to the fountain of knowledge, yahs should open the gas cap o your brain and tell the attendant: Fill er up! 

And Finally-- Five. Whatever kind of a job you get after graduation -- it iould be runnin a jackhammer, trainin a bunch of raw recruits, or dentistry, remember the motto of the Oil Biz Drill, Baby, Drill!

Well, Grads, that just about wraps it up. I wish yahs all best of luck out there in the real world. I know times are tough all over, not just for you and me but for everybody, even the Parent Company of the Gas n Go International Windfall Oil, Inc. Last quarter Windfall posted a profit of only three hunnerd and sixty five point one billion. Our CEO was forced to sell one of his nine mansions. 

But congratulations, Grads! As my personal gift to you, every diploma given out today will contain a coupon good for a dollar off a lube job only at Buckys Gas n Go between June 24 and Labor Day. PLUS if you present a valid receipt from Mitt and Newts lemonade stand, Ill actually look under the hood.




Previous DUH Commencement Addresses
2010

2009

2008

----------


## AuntShecky

I had almost forgotten about this little ditty posted way back on in July of Ought Nine. (Maybe I _should_ have forgotten about it!)

http://www.online-literature.com/for...3&postcount=13

Then, I opened the Sunday newspaper today and saw this:

http://comics.dp.cx/#beetle_bailey 

Even the first name's the same. 

Yours truly must be physic, I mean, psychic. Well, I'm told I've always had
"ESP"--an Extra Stultifying Personality.

PS. The quotation marks are around the wrong "art" in the title.

----------


## AuntShecky

Words of Whiz Dumb 2012

--was Led Zeppelin with Stairway to Heaven. Youre listening to WDUH, one-oh-nine-point-four and a half on your FM dial. Up next the Fifth Annual Commencement of the upstate campus of Downstate University at Hogwash, proudly brought to you by Muckenmeyers Discount Beer. Remember the name-- Muckenmeyers -- when its the pricenot the quality that counts. We take you now to the Rentacenter Civic Center in beautiful downtown East Hogwash for the ceremony, where University President Porterhouse Mistake is concluding his welcoming remarks. All of us here at the WDUH community offer our warmest wishes to the Class of 2012 as we join the graduation already in progress:

-happy to have you with us here in East Hogwash on this lovely day in May. Dont worry about those threatening cloudsif theyre anything like our typical students, theyll take their sweet time producing anything. Our ceremony will be underway presently, right after a few brief announcements. First, will the lady with the broken hip please remove her screws? Youre setting off all the metal detectors. Also, please move your walker, as it does not meet the qualifications for a handicapped parking space. 

Next we are happy to announce that this year we will have our very first graduates from our relatively new department of Martian Language and Literature. Id like the Chairman of that department, Distinguished Professor William McGonagall to stand up and take a bow. (Sporadic applause.) Well done, Professor. Or should I say Vrvlz Waashull? Now some of you may be wondering what kind of employment opportunities await those who hold a bachelors degree in Martian. Well, Prof. McGonagall tells me that two of his graduates have already received job offers from the Fox News Network. 

Finally, I have a bit of news which may disappoint some of you, and perhaps make the rest of you stand up and cheer. Weve received word that our original commencement speaker, The Situation, will be unable to make it as he has found himself tangled up in a Situation. Instead we have another speaker who has graciously agreed to step in at the last minute
to deliver this years Words of Wisdom. Today we are pleased to have, live and in person, right here in the East Hogwash Rentacenter Civic Center the author of the book that is number 3469 (with a bullet) on the Amazon Best Seller List. The book is How the One Percent Lives by a distinguished and highly successful lifestyle consultant to the Very Rich. So now, without further ado, Ladies and Gentlemen, give it up for L. Pierpoint Goldrich. (Half-hearted applause.) 

Thank you, President Mistake. Faculty, shameless alumni, debt-ridden parents, and apparent graduates, let me first offer my condolences for being forced to attend a less-than-Ivy League institute of somewhat higher learning. I beg your indulgence if I lack the common touch and if I fail to connect with any of you. As a consultant to our countrys most successful citizens, I lack experience within the ranks of the hoi polloi, the so-called 99 percenters of whom all of you are shining examples. For instance, I am more at home in the company of billionaire hedge fund managers rather than minimum-wage hedge trimmers. This is something you may know if youve happened to have read my book. If not, youll be pleased to know that immediately after the ceremony, youll be able to purchase a copy from one of the booths set up at all the Rentacenter exits. 

Having said that, as we go forward I will be more than happy to fill you in on how your superiors live. On my helicopter ride down here, I couldnt help noticing the type of automobiles in the parking lot, most of which are low-priced, previously owned vehicles. Well, ladies and gentlemen, my clientele would not stoop so low as to let their help drive around in such humble conveyances. Not only that, my clients chauffeurs have no use for parking lots, garages, or on-street parking. Instead they have car elevators. That in itself is a phenomenon known only to the Very Wealthy, but whats even more amazing is how the cars themselves can push the appropriate button for the floor they want.	

Secondly, as I look out upon the assembly I see that the fashion sense among the ninety-nine percenters differs greatly from that the haute couture of my clients. In all my years of catering to the One Percent, Ive never seen one of them ever purchase an article of clothing off the rack. By contrast, some of you look like youve just rolled out of the rack.

I may be wrong, but Im guessing that while some of you may own your own houses (which real estate salesmen endearingly insist upon calling homes), I use the term owning loosely. Im willing to bet what you say, ten thousand dollars? that most of you have mortgages. Maybe your property is, as they say, under water, or perhaps you have found yourself in foreclosure, or youve taken a second or third mortgage out in order to finance your childs college education, which evidently ends today. Of course, most of you can only afford to rent a substandard place to exist. Again, my clients are not at all concerned with any of these problems. As a matter of fact, the only problem the One Percenters have with housing is remembering exactly how many houses they own.	

Now, I bet you all think you know what Im going to say next. That Im going to tell you that now that you have an education, youll have the opportunity to succeed. That all it will take is a little hard work, and someday youll leave the ranks of the bottom 99 percent and shoot straight up to the top and become a member of the One Percent.

Wellall I can say is lots of luck with that one, kids. From my standpoint, the only way this will happen to you is if you win a multi-million lottery. Because youre sure as hell not going to get rich with a degree from DUH! Thank you, and  whats the phrase you folks like to use? Oh, yes. Have a nice day.


Previous DUH Commencement Addresses


2011

2010 

2009

2008
http://www.online-literature.com/for...ad.php?t=35518

----------


## Hawkman

Hello Auntie, 

Just thought I'd leave, what JOH calls, "a dropping", on your thread so you know at least one of your chums has read it! lol. I must say, I was hoping for a more worked up story about the lady with the broken hip setting off metal detectors, perhaps involving airports, security guards, strip searches, swat teams and handcuffs - but maybe you are not feeling up to this yet  :Wink:  

This last offering is perhaps a little too true to life to be side splittingly guffaw inducing, but but it did twitch the corner of the Hawk's beak as he cast an eagle eye over it looking for rabbits, but there was not a hare out of place, Maybe I'll flap around and see if I can't drive Bambi to jump off a cliff so I can pick over his bones at my leisure. Failing this there are always tortoises to drop from altitude.

Live and be well - H

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## AuntShecky

Dear Hawkman,
Thank you for your reply which reads like a storyboard for a Wile E. Coyote cartoon. Warner Brothers take note!
Auntie

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## AuntShecky

Its been ages since weve heard from Debi Snotenlocker. So lets check in with the Real Housewife of East Hogwash and see how Debi, Brad, and their brood are doing :

Just when I thought it was safe to get into the water - a relaxing, uninterrupted bubble bath - the screamers are out of school again! Youd think that the boys were hard-core criminals suddenly released from the pen on a technicality the way theyve been whooping it up and sowing seeds of destruction wherever they step! The other day I was running some errands when I ran into their teacher at the liquor store. She was spending a big chunk of her last paycheck of the semester on a bottle of champagne. I guess she was getting ready to celebrate the upcoming season of two Snotenlocker-free months. From the looks of her, it was all she could do to restrain herself from breaking out into a chorus of I Will Survive. But the minute she spotted me her face turned all solemn. Oh, youre the triplets mom, arent you? You have my deepest sympathies. Then, instead of saying Enjoy your summer, she said she was heading right to Church to say a special Novena for me.

Whats even worse, Milwaukee (my daughter from a previous relationship) is not exactly setting world speed records getting herself a summer job. Brad suggested she go down to Mr. Bumpety Bump Burgers and put her name in, but Milwaukee stubbornly refused. She claims that the grease they use to cook the French fries in would ruin her complexion. I said, What are you talking about? They dont make you smear the stuff on your face! 

And she goes, No, but the little droplets fly through the air, land in your pores, and cause acne. 

Thats Milwaukees excuse to sleep until one pm every day, eat all my lo-cal Smart Chips and drink up all my diet decaf soda. For the entire day she just parades around in her bathing suit, while she and her friends constantly send each other text messages on their phones. I dont understand it. She doesnt do anything! What do they talk to each other talk about? Texting?

Then Brad got on my case trying to get me to agree that wed all go to the Company Picnic on the Fourth of July. Its not that he ever has a good time there, but its free. Not only that, it doesnt take any effort on his part. But hes got a short memory, that guy. How many years have we driven over to Seedy Grove, eaten lousy food, and put up with his pompous boss and obnoxious co-workers? Every year its a disaster, and every year he promises me that it was the last time. This time I really put my foot down. No more virulent attacks of poison ivy making Trip, Trap, and Trick look as ugly as the goat-scaring troll under the bridge. No more eating tainted macaroni salad, followed by massive quantities of Kaopectate. No more bits of fingers blown off by illegal firecrackers somebody smuggled in from North or South Carolina or wherever. 

So no. This Fourth of July, I absolutely refused to spend all night in an emergency room. Not this year. Not this gal. No sir. We argued back and forth over this for days. For a while there I was afraid that Id have to bring out the heavy artillery-- I mean that, um, big gun that I never, ever want to use but the one thats guaranteed to turn Brad into a jellyfish. But thank Heavens he backed down before I had to resort to that drastic bargaining chip!

Anyhow, before we knew it, the Fourth of July was here and we had nothing planned. As far as Brad and the oys (and of course, my high-tech, non-active daughter) were concerned, that suited them just fine. Let me tell you something, getting Brad to get up and do anything is like asking the check-out girl at the Cost Cutter to accept an expired coupon. Look at yourselves moping around like mental patients. (Actually, the five of them were lounging around the yard, but you know what I mean.)  Its a_ holiday_, for heaven's sake. Why dont you do something you all enjoy, like sports? I gamely suggested.

Brad yawned, stretched, and look a swig of beer. Like what?

You could rent a pony and try polo or whats that other weird thing that rich people do with horses? Dressage.

Ugh.

Or you could put up a net and try tennis. Youve already got the grunting part down pat.

Hmmph.

How about softball?

What? No way! Softballs for wusses and for chicks who cant get dates.

Come on, Brad, Im running out of suggestions. _Youre_ the sports expert around here. That was no lie. He watched so much sports on TV that the remote has been stuck on the ESPN channel for a year and a half. 

Touch football?

Wrong season.

Basketball?

Ditto.

Ive been often told that many, many people have a flattering opinion of me, that they always say, Oh, that Debiwhat a sweet woman! Im like that--I cant help it-Im known far and wide for my good-natured temperament. But on July 4 I lost it. And, Im sorry to say, I started yelling. What is so difficult about this? Why is spending time with the children such a chore? Mention the name Brad Snotenlocker to anybody, and you know what hell say? Oh, yeahhes the guy who inspired the name of the company that makes reclining chairsLazy Boy! Go ahead sit there and rot. See if I care!

With that, I started to stomp across the lawn toward the house so I could get a cool, medicinal beverage to calm me down. But before I knew it, I inadvertently stepped into a loop of our tangled garden hose. One split-second later I was on the ground. The last thing I remember was seeing the kind of stars you dont see on the flag on patriotic holidays. 

When I woke up, I was in  you guessed it a hospital emergency room. Only this time I wasnt chewing my fingernails with worry while one or more of the kids was getting patched up. This time _I_ was the patient on the stretcher.

Vaguely I heard a question from a female voice. Social security number? Maybe the nurse shouldve asked me that before she administered the morphine. 

You took a nasty fall. Were going to X-ray your ankle. Also were going to monitor you in case you might have a mild concussion. Mothers maiden name?

Huh? At that point I wasnt even sure I knew my own name. 

You wont be able to walk around on that foot, at least for tonight. Sowould you prefer a bedpan or a catheter?

Better give me both. I dont want any more accidents.

You'll be glad to know the doctor is optimistic, Mrs. - (a quick look at the chart) --Shoemakerknocker. Well probably just keep you overnight for observation. But its a shame youll miss the Fourth of July fireworks.

Yeah. Too bad. But therell be plenty of fireworks once Brad gets the hospital bill. It would have been better for everyone concerned if I had health insurance. But the insurance companies kept turning me down. They all said I have a pre-existing condition. Well, I cant argue with that. Ive been living with a pain in the butt for eleven years.



Fairly Flailing Tales #1

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## Hawkman

Hi Auntie,

Well this was very entertaining  :Smile:  A well structured, witty tale of the domestic bliss of an American housewife. Loved the interaction between your protagonist and the teacher, and her inventive descriptions of the members of her household. Great fun.

But Auntie, you need to look at your opening sentence. It begins in past tense but doesn't stay there, "Just when *I thought* it *was* safe to get into the water - a relaxing, uninterrupted bubble bath - the screamers_ are_ out of school again!"

I was a little confused by the reference to the "Big Gun," as in context it reads as if this is the employment of the standard metaphore or similie, but there is no exposition. What would Debbie's big gun be? This leaves one assuming that she actually has a gun. If it was your intention to convey this, then just saying .44 magnum would be funnier, I feel.

My only other quibble pertains to this sentence:

"Ive been often told that many, many people have a flattering opinion of me..." 

where you have split an infinitive. Well there's quite a bit of debate over whether they are bad or not, I've split a few myself in my time, but this one is rather noticable and jarrs a bit. I'm not sure whether this is intended as Debbies's idiomatic usage. Her other colloquialisms might be considered "down home, but "not ungainly. This one is to me. I would prefer, "I've often been told", or "I've been told often", here.

Apart from these three tiny pimples, your muse presents a face of beauty. 

A fun read, thanks.

Live and be well - H

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## AuntShecky

> Hi Auntie,
> 
> Well this was very entertaining  A well structured, witty tale of the domestic bliss of an American housewife. Loved the interaction between your protagonist and the teacher, and her inventive descriptions of the members of her household. Great fun.
> 
> But Auntie, you need to look at your opening sentence. It begins in past tense but doesn't stay there, "Just when *I thought* it *was* safe to get into the water –- a relaxing, uninterrupted bubble bath - the screamers_ are_ out of school again!"
> 
> I was a little confused by the reference to the "Big Gun," as in context it reads as if this is the employment of the standard metaphore or similie, but there is no exposition. What would Debbie's big gun be? This leaves one assuming that she actually has a gun. If it was your intention to convey this, then just saying .44 magnum would be funnier, I feel.
>  
> My only other quibble pertains to this sentence:
> ...



Thanks, Hawk, for reading the humor thingie. Does finding yourself the sole responder to yours fooly's posts ever make you lonely?

Re: errors:

Opening sentence is a reference to the trailer to the _Jaws_ sequel:
"Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water. . ."

"Big Guns"--a feeble attempt at a risqué joke.

Split infinitives occur when an adverb intrudes between the "to" and the verb part of the infinitive, as in the v.o. to "Star Trek"--"to boldly go where no man has gone before."

But it's okay to split hairs. Don't forget. This is written in Debi's inimitable style. For instance, introducing dialogue, your auntie would never use the phrase "She goes. . ." or "I'm like. . ."

Thanks again.

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## Hawkman

> Thanks, Hawk, for reading the humor thingie. Does finding yourself the sole respondee to yours fooly's posts ever make you lonely?


Well, it's nice to get, "far from the madding crowd," once in a while  :Wink: 

Via con Dios - H

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## Jack of Hearts

> “Better give me both. I don’t want any more accidents.”


lol






J

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## AuntShecky

The LitNet has a very strict rule-- and a wise one!-- forbidding discussion of current politics. So _no_ comments of that nature, okay? Please _do_ comment on the humor (or lack of it), though. The following is a bit of nonsense which, having been spawn in me tiny little brain some eight years ago, is far from "current." Not only that, the character portrayed does not represent _any_ actual human being, living or dead -- for that, we can thank our lucky stars!

Stomping on the "Stump"

"Good afternoon. Welcome to our meeting of the East Hogwash Chapter of the League of Disgruntled Women Voters. Right now I have the distinct honor of introducing our special speaker today. Please put your hands together for the man who put the pain in campaign, the honorable Glibban Slimey, who is running for representative of the forty-third legislative region, District 6.5, in the first Cleaver Ward. Mr. Slimey. . ."

"Good morning, Ladies! My fellow Americans, I come to you today with a heavy heart. Perhaps it was a result of the beef burrito I had at the Hispanic Heritage Dinner last night, or the corn dogs at the VFW hall, or maybe it was the extra helping of kielbasa at the Polish Community Center. Erp! Er, pardon me.

"Many of you may already know me. You may have received my latest flyer with my familys portrait, including my non-threatening wife, Dixie, and my two lovely daughters, Jenna and Fond du Lac. You know that I am just an ordinary citizen just like you. That is why the photo on the front of the brochure shows yours truly mowing the lawn, just as so many of you do  although most of you probably dont cut the grass in a three-piece suit. (Speaking of grass, drugs are bad.)

"My concerns are the same as YOUR concerns. For instance, my opponent believes that we can solve the crisis in education by throwing money at it. This will not solve the problem. Its not the money, its the principle. Also the assistant principal, the vice-principal, and the assistant vice-principal. Make no mistake, my fellow Americans, no teachers union will be left behind. We CAN solve the problem in our schools, AND we can do it by cutting YOUR taxes.

"On the campaign trail, many people come up to me and say, Glibby, what about health care? Well sir, I am here to tell you that Glibban Slimey has your health in his hands. When I am elected, I solemnly vow to make the world SAFE from erectile dysfunction, restless leg syndrome, and the heartbreak of toenail fungus. AND I will do this without increasing YOUR taxes.

"My fellow Americans, I implore you not to pay attention to the vicious smear campaign waged by my opponent, who, may I say, never met a lobbyist he didnt like. Neither have I, but thats beside the point. And while I do not wish to dignify some of my opponents false charges with a reply, his allegation was ingenious, I mean, disingenuous. He was wrong when he said that I had been planning to run away with a female intern to join a splinter religious cult. Let me say this about that: I did not have sects with that woman! And another thing I didnt do was raise YOUR taxes.

"Soon Election Day will be here, and just as quickly it will be gone. When this race is over, I wont lie to you, I am going to go home, relax, and kick back. (Well, maybe kick back is not the right word choice.) But until that day, it will be a long, hard slog. And I need your help. Come Election Day, please get your Photo I.D., your Proof of Citizenship, and your complete financial portfolio ready so you can exercise your right to vote. Please cast your ballot for me, the honorable Glibban Slimey, and I promise you that you wont see hide nor hair of me for four more years. Except of course, for the campaign signs on your front lawn, which I promise to remove by Christma -er, Holiday. Did I mention that I will remove them without raising YOUR taxes?

"And finally, may the god of your choice bless America. And while He is blessing us, I wont raise YOUR taxes."

----------


## Hawkman

Gee, lady, he gets my vote!  :Biggrin: 

Live and be well - H

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## AuntShecky

Once again, the response is funnier than the original posting.
Thanks, Hawk!

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## AuntShecky

The Snotenlockers Hop Down the Bunny Trail

Its been ages since we heard from The Real Housewife of East Hogwash. Wonder how Debi Snotenlockers brood will manage to ruin Easter this year. Meantime lets overlook the fact that Debis Spell-Check still hasnt been repaired and check out her latest blog-post in all of its ungrammatical, unedited glory:

Men! You cant live with them. And you cant live without them. Or so they tell me. Now take my Brad. Please! Hes got this irritating way about him whenever he tries to solve a problem like finding a mislayed* item. It begins with a lot of throat-clearing and muttering to himself until it excalates* and he ends up making a big production number out of it. Actually he wants me to give him a hand, but God forbid he should come right out and ask for help. Maybe he thinks it makes him look unmanly or something. 

Like the other day he was slamming through my kitchen cabinets and moving everything around. He kept going Hmmph! louder and louder until he was sure I heard him.  I thought it was in here.

I asked him what he was looking for, and he goes My Twinkie. 

At first I didnt know what he meant. Then it dawned on me. I got bad news for you Brad. The company that makes them went out of business. No more Ding Dongs either. That was no lie but I saw something in the Paper about Yankee Doodles. You can still get them, but first you have to go to town and have macaroni for lunch.

No Twinkies? he yelled. Thats a sin!

So is pigging out on junk food in Lent, I said. And besides, its Holy Week. Have an apple.

Ya mean like Adam and Eve? Thats what started the whole sin stuff in the first place.

He was nowheres* around when it was time to buy Easter outfits for the triplets. Bringing them to the Mall is like going to -- well, Purgatory at least. Trip, Trap, and Trick always run off in a hundred directions all at once smashing every piece of expensive merchandise in there* path. When I shop for clothes for them it is easy to find 3 of the same thing, but hard to pick out the right kind of material cuz* you never know what the weather is going to be like. It doesnt matter if Easter comes in March or April. It either hits 90 or it snows. One year I bought them matching woolen suits and they sweated like pigs. So the next year I got them cute cotton outfits and they froze their little butts off.

Last Easter Brad was in charge of the grocery shopping. Big mistake. He never comes back with the right stuff. I gave him a list. Like I expesically* wrote White Eggs. But he still got it wrong.

What was I supposed to do BROWN eggs? And he goes, You dont even have to color em! They already look like chocolate.

That was just one of the catastrafees catastrophys mishaps that happened last year. Im STILL digging up pieces of plastic Easter grass out of the rug. Thats* nothing cuz when I cleaned the house the other day the vaccum vacume Hoover sucked up a bunch of tinsel. I wouldnt mind but the last time we hung tinsel on our Xmas tree it was 2007.

Last Easter the triplets had a war cuz they all thought theyre* baskets* were smaller than there* brothers.* Trip, Trap, and Trick threw eggs everywhere and started stabbing people with the ears of chocolate bunnies. Then they started squishing marshmellow* chicks in each others* faces. Finally, I had confixcate conficskate take away all the Easter baskets. I sent all 3 straight to their room and told them I didnt want to hear another Peep out of them.

Milwaukee (my daughter from a previous relationship) is old enough to know better but I had trouble with her also last Easter. She told us she was too big to get an Easter basket, but we just KNEW shed have kittens if she didnt get something from Brad and I.* So we got her a big chocolate bunny. A nice solid one, not a cheap hollow one. Naturally this offended her. She goes  I cant eat a rabbit! You KNOW Im a vegetarian.

Brad laughed at her. At Xmas you ate a gingerbread man. Does that make you a cannibal?

That was last year. Hopefully* this Easter is better. But for us Snotenlockers a holiday is the same as doing penance. Like filling out a tax form or sitting through the DVD of Les Miserables. 



*
[Sic]

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## Hawkman

Hillarious, Auntie! I'm not sure about the repeated (multiple attemepts) misspellings though. Given the idea that this is supposed to be a written blog, one kind of imagines that the first attempt would just be back-spaced out. You start out just highlighting that it's an intentional mistake with just one go at it. But then you introduce the double whammies two thirds of the way through. It's not that it isn't funny, because it is, very. But the multiple does sound more like reported speech, perhaps a technique more appropriate to including a description of Debbie's writing of the blog, or a scene in which she is engaged in a monologue. Here though, simple misspelling wouldn't be sufficient and the errors would have to be presented as mispronunciations or Malapropisms.

What say you?

Live and be well - H

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## AuntShecky

Thank you very much for reading and commenting on this, Hawkman. The Spell-Check device in Debi's PC is on the fritz, hence the mispellings. Even if it did work, it wouldn't pick up the errors in "they're/their/there" nor the misplaced (or missing) apostrophes. Trial and error method on her part. But at least she admits the possibility of being wrong as opposed to other writers who arrogantly defend their invincible ignorance.

----------


## AuntShecky

The Sixth Annual Commencement Ceremony


 nics, barbecues, or just getting together with your freeloading friends. Remember Muckenmeyers Beer, when its the price -not the quality-- that counts. Youre listening to WDUH, East Hogwash, one-oh-nine-point-four and a half on your FM dial. Congratulations to the Class of 2013 of the upstate campus of the Downstate University at Hogwash. President Porterhouse Mistake III is wrapping up his introductory remarks, so we take you live to the Rentacenter Civic Center, where the Commencement Ceremony is already in progress -

-logies for the delay. The emergency concerning live ammo allegedly connected to last weeks gun show here at the Rentacenter has turned out to be-fortunately-a false alarm. Security has informed us that it has indeed discovered magazines, which turned out to be a couple of old copies of _Barterers Digest._ Again, thank you for your patience. Another announcement, this one for the owner of the vehicle with license plate I-H8-PEEZ: your car stereo was left on. The parking lot attendants would have notified you earlier, but they were waiting for the final note of Stairway to Heaven.

And now we come to the high-point of the ceremony: our eagerly-awaited commencement speaker. Were sorry to report that the originally-scheduled speaker,Iron Man (of _Iron Man 3_), will not be with us today after his appearance earlier this morning at East Hogwash Elementary School. As you may know, EHES is a magnet school, and Iron Man could not tear himself away.

Despite that, Im very sure that you will be delighted to hear that DUH has found a replacement who was gracious enough to step in at the last minute. Hes widely recognized by the East Hogwash business community as the owner-operator of a series of short-lived establishments. Many of you may have partaken of his generosity in offering dozens of employment opportunities with pay approaching minimum wage. As a restauranteur and pioneer in culinary experiments, he recently submitted his new book, _Alimentary, my dear Watson_, to Vanna Tee Press. And did I mention that hes a former DUH grad, er, attendee? So without further ado, put your hands together and welcome Charles Chuck Wagoner!

[_Sporadic Applause_.] Thank you, President Mistake. Im honored to be on your menu today, but thats not an endorsement of cannibalism. [_Sounds of coughs, shuffling chairs_.] Members of the Class of 2013, disaffected administrators, semi-learned faculty, over-extended parents, underemployed alumni, and last but certainly least, holders of promissory notes for student loans: today is Commencement Day or, as I like to call it, the first course at the Sumptuous Table of Life. You might think its a sit-down dinner. Well, Im here to tell ya, Ladies and Gentlemen, lifes not a banquet. Its a buffet-youve got to help yourself!

For instance, youve got to go after your dreams with gusto. If Gusto refuses to help you, go it a-loan.

I learned that lesson early. When my first venture, an olde English pub set in a hot air balloon, couldnt get off the ground, I immediately went to work on my next project: a specialty restaurant called 'Cloaca.' I designed it to cater to the needs of the chronically costive, but there was a lot of obstruction. The County wouldnt issue me a building permit when I failed to come up with plans for an emergency evacuation. 

After that, I was even more determined to succeed in the restaurant business, to make a name for myself that didnt sound like Loser. I dreamed big, hoping to head a national franchise. I pictured myself getting my own show on the Food Network, where I saw myself screaming at my kitchen staff and laughing whenever my well-chosen spicy words got bleeped. But a celebrity chef has got to start somewhere.

So I tossed my losses like artichoke debris and did a do-over, using my imagination to open some really fun nightspots and off-beat eateries right here in East Hogwash. But for some reason, the clientele failed to appreciate creativity. There was also a matter of settling some personal injury lawsuits. (Food poisoning. Yeah, right. More like a case of dollar-sign-itis.)

Ill be honest with you, those temporary setbacks were bringing me down. The restaurant business at large was having its own digestive problems. Folks thought theyd just as well stay at home rather than go out for the same old, same old. By the way, if a recent meal keeps repeating on you, thats a good sign youve been to Taco Bell. Or Papa John. 

On the other side of the plate, merely offering something different doesnt really spark the palate. I dont know about you, but if I craved a new taste sensation, the first thing that comes to mind wouldnt be moose meat lasagne. And the first place Id look for it wouldnt be a Scandinavian furniture store. Besides, if youve had just one serving of moose meat lasagne, youve had them all.

In my previous attempts to bring adventure to dining in East Hogwash, I offered my patrons plenty of spills and chills. My patrons thought that meant sloppy waiters and a stingy heating system. I was just about ready to pack it in, when I happened to hear the news that the UN has recommended that the world consider insects as a protein-rich food source for humans.

Wow! That was a revelation. For millions of years bugs have been biting us. Now were going to bite them back. To me, this was one of those Eureka! moments, like a heat lamp switching on over a steam table.

Why not take it to the next level and open a theme restaurant? It would be as trendy as the gentrified neighborhood where I found my next location. I found a crumbling but stately building and bought it for a song Its Only a Shanty in Old Shanty Town. 

Right away, I started brainstorming and scratching ideas for my innovative menu on the back of a gnat-kin. First, pre-dinner cocktails: stingers and, of course, grasshoppers. Then, appetizers. Cicadas are in season this year, but a rival restauranteur, Dylan Wong of The Paisley Dragon, was already serving them sautéed in a light ginger sauce. The only thing wrong with eating cicadas is that seventeen years later youre hungry again. So I substituted freshly-caught silverfish served on a bed of crushed ice with lemon wedges and a piquant cocktail sauce  guaranteed to stick to the ribs as stubbornly as they do to your cellar floor.

Developing delicious entrees came with problems as knotty as a termites nest. My version of Surf and Turf was going to be a combination platter of water beetles and horseflies. But the water bugs wouldnt quit spinning around the plate, and the horseflies had a pesky habit of flitting down to the OTB parlor. 

I created a gourmet roach meat sandwich, served open-faced and cooked to order  -rare, medium rare, or extra crunchy. Grilling the roaches was wicked  they kept slipping down between the little grates. 

There was pandemonium the day our first shipment arrived  wed ordered them live, so theyd be fresh,-- but somehow they escaped their packaging and scampered all over the place, mingling with the others already residing in the building. So we herded them all together and made an adjustment to the description on the menu: Featuring an fine assortment of Imported and Domestic Blattaria species.

A scary incident involved one of our suppliers when he was gathering products at a local hive. The angry bear who confronted him stopped growling only when it discovered the guy wasnt after the honey, just the bees. 

Despite all the initial setbacks, we opened on schedule. The place is called 'Bzzt!' and already its generating a lot of buzz. 

But that first night -- I wont lie to you  I was nervous. Worry stuck to me like ants on a sidewalk sticky with dried-up Gatorade. What if my coconut -flavored cocoons failed to pop on time? What if the customers complained, Waiter theres *no* fly in my soup! You could say I had butterflies in my stomach. Later on, I felt better knowing that the butterflies were in the stomachs of my customers. 

Well, a little flea in my ear is telling me my times just about up. So congratulations, Class of 2013! Just to show you my faith in your future, inside each and every diploma youll find a free coupon good for half-off any Bzzt! dessert, including Shoo Fly Pie and Lice Pudding. Remember  every item on our menu is 100% Deet-free. So right after the ceremony flutter on down and enjoy! Bring along your electronic devices  the joint is crawling with antennae!

[_Crickets.]_


Words of Whiz Dumb for 2012

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## Hawkman

Had me smiling all the way through, Auntie  :Biggrin: 

Live and be well - H

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## YesNo

I liked the sandwich made of imported and domestic Blattaria species.

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## AuntShecky

Thank you for your comments, Hawkman and YesNo!

----------


## AuntShecky

Oh, the Places Youll Go (But This Isnt One of em)


Last week mentions of _Green Eggs and Ham_, the childrens classic by the late Theodor Seuss Geisel popped up all over the place, mainly in reaction to a dramatic reading of the work in an incongruous- some would say inappropriate-setting, though lets not Cruz into them thar waters.

Amid the incessant, instant cable TV commentary, one pundit recalled the incident in which Dr. Seuss confessed to an interviewer that if hed ever been asked to attend a dinner party featuring his characters as guests, he wouldnt have shown up.

Its safe to assume that had such a hypothetical invitation arrived, Dr. Seuss would have been polite enough to respond to the R.S.V.P. Maybe, just maybe, it might have gone something like this:

Dear Mrs. Wickersham, 

I am in receipt
of the mail in my mailbox on Mulberry Street.
The carrier left envelopes with windows that crinkle
and magazines with scented samples that stinkle
and fat catalogues way too heavy to lift,
more ads and junk mail but not one free gift--
very little in fact to make me smile,
including your card on the bottom of the pile.

Inside the cover shines fine embossed text
that tells of your dinner, on Thursday night next.
Thanks, many thanks, for your kind invitation
which, alas, Im declining without hesitation.

Its not that Ive got a prior engagement for then.
Its not the menu: green eggs and ham (again!)
and lots of seafood--Im a fish-loving fool
for red fish, blue fish (etc.) from McElligotts Pool.

Its not the venue (your nests not all that bad looking.)
Its not snooty waiters or your passable cooking.
Its not a flare-up of some old malady,
but Im afraid Im quite sick of the company.

The slated guests set to appear that night
would make a strong man lose his appetite.
Their skinny heads end in a point or a loop.
Theyd stick their furry fingers into my soup.

How insufferable are those squabbling Sneetches,
that boring Lorax with his ponderous speeches,
the Whos from Whoville prancing like loons,
the larcenous Grinch --better count all your spoons!

At every bash, why is it, Im the sole invitee
who always gets shoved upon the clean-up committee?
If Hortons there, Ill need more than a broom
to clear elephant traces out of the room.

So, with regrets Im sending this reply,
then Ill look for a book by some other guy
and spend Thursday evening reading instead.

Yours very truly and most sincerely, 
Ted

----------


## AuntShecky

It’s been a while since we’ve last heard from the Real Housewife of East Hogwash, but today we find Debi and her goblins in the jaws of Halloween festivities. Let’s take a peek at the latest spooky shenanigans from the irrepressible Snotenlockers.

I knew it was a bad omen when the East Hogwash School District cancelled the Halloween party. You wouldn’t believe the lame excuse the officials came up with--that Halloween had religious overtones which some groups might find offensive. Yeah? I’ll show you “offensive”– - a set of hyperactive triplets screaming, yelling, and acting like they’ve been robbed of their reason to live.

It took a lot to convince Trip, Trap, and Trick that they’d still have fun on the holiday, and that–-plus the promise of massive quantities of chocolate -- finally calmed them down. In the meantime I wracked– or is it wrecked?-- my brain coming up with some festive plans. 

I was so strapped for ideas that I actually started looking through The Pennysaver. This broke my solemn vow never to pick up that sorry rag after the rotten treatment I got when I submitted a cute poem about Dr. Seuss.* Not only didn’t they print it, they didn’t even send me the courtesy of a reply! Anyway, I found an ad that said a local pumpkin farmer was throwing a Fall Fest on the following Saturday, so that’s where we took the boys.

We loaded them up on doughnuts and cider, but that was a waste of money because all three of them lost it after they got motion sickness on the hayride. They recovered quickly enough to demand that we take them through a three-acre maze thick with 15-feet high corn stalks.

“You gotta be kidding me,” I said. “We’d never find our way out of there! We’d be lost for days with nothing to keep us alive but raw corn-on-the-cob.”

Brad scoffed at my fears. “Don’t be silly. Rats run through mazes all the time–-don’t you think we’re smarter than rats?”

“Yeah, Ma! Mice, too! “ Trip chimed in. “Betcha even three mice could do it–and they were _blind_!”

Well, we did it and lived to tell about it. And that’s only because my husband led the way safely out of the maze. But that’s only because the exit was right near a concession selling beer. The one thing Brad never fails to do is sniff out a cold one from a thousand paces.

As soon as we got home from the Pumpkin Patch, Milwaukee (my daughter from a previous relationship) met me at the front door. 

“Mom, could you get me some things at like the Cost Cutter? I need like four dozen large white grade A eggs?” 

The triplets found her request quite comical. 

“Eggs!” 

“She thinks it’s Easter.”

“Wrong holiday, Milwaukee!”

Why would a teenager need four dozen eggs? The school district cut the funding for home economics class three years ago. Right away I began to smell something rotten.

“You know, Hon, I’m really tired. Why don’t I give you the money and you run down to the store yourself?”

“I can’t! They won’t sell any eggs to anybody under 21 until after Hallo–“

Then it dawned on me that I read in the Pennysaver that the town wanted to discourage vandalism. “No way I’m going to enable your hoodlum friends. Now you march right up to your room and stay out of mischief.”

“Busted!” The triplets were ecstatic. Nothing makes them happier than to see their half-sister get herself into trouble.

Meanwhile Brad was getting ready to carve the Jack o’ Lantern. 

“What a beaut! Did I pick the biggest damn punkin in the patch or what?”

It was a monstrosity, all right. “I wish you’d gotten one that was perfectly round. This one looks all misshapen. Look at that bulge coming out of its side.”

“Maybe it’s got an toothache. What’s more frightening than an abscess?” 

I knew what was coming next– - the so-called joke Brad tries to rile me with every Halloween: “Ya want to pose for this, Debi?”

“Sorry, I’m busy. Why don’t you call your mother instead?”

About three or four hours later Brad looked distraught. “The Jack o’ Lantern’s done. I put the candle inside, but it won’t stay lit.”

I looked inside the pumpkin and found the problem immediately. “Well, no wonder–it’s all _wet_ in there. See all these seeds and stringy pulp? You’re supposed to scoop all that out.”

Brad slapped his forehead. “Stupid me! I shoulda remembered why it’s called ‘Hollow Ween’!”

For the triplets the high point of Halloween is trick-or-treating. Brad is a little two-faced about the ritual. He calls giving out snack-sized candy to the kids at the door “legalized extortion.” So I’m supposed to turn off all the lights and pretend we’re not home. BUT– when _our_ boys bring home their three pillowcases bulging with _their_ harvest of treats, Brad pounces upon their loot and devours it like a vulture discovering fresh road kill.

Of course, you can’t go trick-or-treating unless you’re wearing a costume. Every year it’s a hassle trying to come up with a gimmick. One year Brad dressed the triplets as the Three Stooges, but it wasn’t enough just to look like them, they had to act like them too. I didn’t mind the “woo-woo-woos” and the “bay rum/rum bay” shtick, but I had to put a stop to it when they started poking each other in the eye.

I found the answer to this year’s costume question on all the cable tv news shows. I got some hair gel and puffed up all three coiffures. Dressed in their Easter suits with a little flag pin in their lapels, the boys looked exactly like members of Congress. They scared the hell out of everybody.






*Maybe Debi's submission was something like Reply#82 ^

----------


## AuntShecky

It’s only been a month since we last heard from the Real Housewife of East Hogwash.(Cf. Reply #83 above^) In October the topic was goblins; this month it’s all about gobblin’. Let’s check in to see how the Snotenlocker clan spends Thanksgiving, that great American Holiday which we celebrate in two ways: giving thanks for blessings and throwing a bash in honor of the God of Gluttony.

I can’t believe it’s Thanksgiving time already! Our family kicks off the season by gathering round the toasty TV to watch the President of the United States pardon the turkey. That’s real heartwarming, but the media never follow up on the story. Chances are that within a day or two of release, the bird pulls another caper. Bam! Right back into the slammer.

At this generous time of year another proud family tradition is helping the less fortunate. So when late November rolls around, we all climb aboard the SUV and head down to the East Hogwash Community Food Pantry to donate a can of lima beans that’s only a month or two past the expiration date. It’s inspirational to know that we Snotenlockers step up and do our part to eliminate world hunger.

I wish I could say that the rest of the holiday is always a pleasant experience for me. Last year was a complete disaster. On the day before Thanksgiving, the triplets–-Trip, Trap, and Trick–-threw another famous tantrum. Each one wanted to have his very own drumstick. So Brad and I frantically searched all over town for a three-legged turkey.

Milwaukee, my teenage daughter from a previous relationship, also tried our patience by demanding a totally separate, vegan meal on Thanksgiving. Just to shut her up, I was ready to cave until my neighbor, Mindy Schermerhorn, said that she saw Milwaukee with a bunch of her friends scarfing down enormous Big Macs in the Rentacenter parking lot.

My husband always invites his mom over. She never passes up an opportunity to criticize my cooking. But I never try to get even. Last year when I was carving the turkey, my mother-in-law said she wanted the “part that goes over the fence last.” I didn’t say a word, but couldn’t help laughing when Trap said, “You are what you eat, Grandma!” As a result of that casual remark, I still have scars.

Brad was the absolute worst. It took two hours to wrap up and put away tons of leftovers, not to mention scrubbing more pots and pans than in the Mess Hall of the 10th Mountain Division. Then just as I finished washing and drying the last dish, Brad came out into the kitchen and ordered me to make him a turkey sandwich.

So this year I put my foot down. I told Brad “Either we go to a nice restaurant on Thanksgiving or you do the cooking.”

“Great!” He reacted with the same enthusiasm he showed when the Cost Cutter had a buy one, get one free sale on Schlitz. “Ya know, they say men are the best chefs. I’ll duck right out and buy a deep fryer right now!”

“No! You’re not deep-frying a turkey in the driveway. You’ll burn down the whole freakin’ neighborhood.”

“Then I’ll get a smoker–“

“No way.”

“What if the turkey doesn’t inhale? “ He furrowed his brow and stroked his chin. “I know! Maybe I’ll roast a turducken.”

“Not at eight ninety-nine a pound, you won’t,” I said. “You’re gonna roast a traditional turkey with all the trimmings or you will pick up the phone and make reservations at Chez Cher right now.”

When Thanksgiving Day arrived this year, I thought I’d get the triplets involved in some quiet activities so they wouldn’t distract their Dad from his crucial culinary tasks. The plan was to have each of them draw a turkey by tracing their little hands on a piece of paper. Their palm part could be the turkey’s round body ,the thumb part could be the bird's head,and the outline of their fingers could be the feathers. After a long hunt, I found the crayons, and it only took about forty-five minutes to get the boys to sit down. The hard part was wrenching little hands away from little throats. 

It was almost half-past one, and Brad was watching a game on TV from his favorite chair, the one named after him (“Lazy Boy.”) As far as I could tell, he hadn’t begun preparing the turkey, which looked like a bleached football somebody had kicked into the kitchen sink.

“Uh, Brad–forgive me for asking, but what time do you plan to start cooking?”

“Huh? Oh, around half-time, I think.”

“But it’s still frozen!”

“Don’t worry, Deb–- got it covered. I’ll just wrap a couple of girlie magazines around it, and it’ll be melted before you can say ‘Pamela Anderson.’ “

Five hours later when I peeked into the oven, I had more ‘mis-‘ than ‘thanks-‘ givings. The turkey was not done. As a matter of fact, it hadn’t even really begun to roast.

“This thing isn’t cooking right, Brad. Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Maybe you should call the Butterball Hot Line.”

“I already did,” he explained. “But the operator got mad and hung up on me.”

“You didn’t swear at her or anything, did you?”

“Nah. All I did was ask her what she was wearing.”

At that point, I decided to try to salvage the day. When I rechecked the stove, I was horrified. “Brad, you idiot! You never turned on the oven!”

Finally, the turkey became edible round midnight. The boys were so confused that they kept looking at the TV screen. They were waiting for the ball to drop down in Times Square. Naturally, the clean-up chores traditionally fell into my lap, and when I joined the family in the living room they were all out like lights. Milwaukee was stacking z’s, the kids deep in Dreamland, and sprawled on the couch was my mother-in-law, with her big fat mouth temporarily shut, though Brad’s pie-hole was wider than the Grand Canyon, and his feet dangled off the edge of the footrest on his namesake chair, opened all the way.

They had all fallen asleep thanks to a chemical active after consuming a large meal. It’s called tryptophan. They ought to bottle that stuff–- it’s better than Ambien. It’ll knock you out quicker than C-Span.

----------


## Hawkman

With rhyming rejections to RSVPs
and Halloween anecdotes scribbled in glee,
describing the mishaps befalling a pumpkin
which seem to preclude any apple type dunkin',
you round it all off with a tale of woe
that ends with a turkey that's cooked on dead slow.

Such narratives built from familial strife
are grist to the mill of East Hogwash's wife.
She copes so superbly with life's little ills
and graciously shares them and packs them with thrills,
like hay rides and vomiting, cider and beer;
a cold-turkey dinner when midnight draws near.

Her efforts aren't wasted; I read them this morning
and posted a comment, though quite without warning,
so when she logs on and observes what I've said,
I hope the attention won't go to her head - 
Calm and collected's the name of the game;
it's always the best way to cope with your fame.

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## YesNo

That was a nice, unexpected ending with C-Span, AuntShecky. I wish I could respond as elegantly as Hawkman has.

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## AuntShecky

Among the raging controversies bubbling up every Yuletide is the question of whether or not to use unwanted gifts as presents for others. The practice is called "regifting" which-- besides violently forcing a noun to act like a verb --doesn't really demonstrate a concern fo recycling . All it shows is that you are just plain cheap.

But in the spirit of regifting, yours fooly has decided to "recycle" previous LitNet Christmas postings in order to buy some time to think up something new for this year. The first one up is from 2007:

Your Holiday Call is Important to Us

“Thank you for calling Acme House Christmas and Holiday Ornaments Online. For Spanish, press uno. For French, press deux. For Urdu, press three. . . For English, press 27241-star-nine three-four-six.

“Welcome to Acme House Christmas and Holiday Ornaments Online. All of our representatives are currently serving other customers. Please hold until the next available operator can assist you. This call may be monitored for quality assurance – - as well as listening in on conversations between that brazen hussy in Accounting and that two-timing hound in Shipping.”

_Extended musical interlude featuring pre-recorded seasonal selections, such as “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” played by the Philharmonic Kazoo Ensemble._

_Some time later:_ 

“Good morning, Acme House Christmas and Holiday Ornament Online Customer Service Representative Lotta Hassle. May we have your account number, password, PIN number, and mother’s maiden name? One moment please while we pull up your account information. . . Oh, yes. Mr. Truelove. How may we help you today?

“Uh-huh. So that’s one partridge, one pear tree, two turtledoves, three French hens and four calling birds. Mmmph. I'm sorry to tell you, Mr. Truelove, but the partridge is on the threatened list. You would need to put in a separate order in order to secure a government variance. I'll refer you to our Partridge liaison, Ms Shirley Jones.

“The pear trees are on back order, so we'll send you a nice Ficus to hold you over. The turtledoves are out of stock, but I can get Stan, Stan, the Maintenance Man to grab a couple pigeons outside the office window. We'll stick a couple of red bows on ‘em and nobody will know the diff. Now those hens, can they be French-Canadian? Because we can ship you a trio of really fine chicks from Montreal. The four calling birds are a quartet of really vocal crows from Schenectady. Will there be anything else today?

“Five, did you say? Okay. Five. Golden. Rings. Six geese a-laying and seven swans a swimming. No problem with the bling bling. How about a combo deal? We'll ship you a half-dozen goose eggs, and the swans, uh, come in the form of ugly ducklings. You just have to be patient. Will there be anything else today? 

“Eight what? Gee, Mr. Truelove, you are one tough customer. But we're glad to have you, oh yes we are! Hoh-kay, eight maids a-milking. Just a quick e-mail to the International Dairymaids Union, it’s so udderly simple, although the cows are sold separately.

“Can we help you with anything else today? Wow! This is some kinda shopping list! Nine ladies dancing, is that right? Another teensy, tiny problema, Mr. T. This time of year, as you well know, the Rockettes are booked up the mistletoe, if you catch my drift. We could substitute nine dropouts from Miss Klutz’s School of the Dance, if that is satisfactory. 

Now, ten Lords a-leaping. Here at Acme we don’t really have any connection with the British Houses of Parliament, so -- Oh, I know! How about a selection of ten idols left over from the Survivor TV show? Just throw the box up in the air a few times while yelling ‘Oh, lord!’ Will that be all today?”

“I see. Eleven pipers piping. Good news! We can book eleven flutists from the East Hogwash High School Marching Band-- that is, if we can pull them away from their iPhones. And one dozen drummers. They don't have to be professionals, do they? I mean, we have a HUGE selection of wind-up monkeys who can bang on a plastic drum like Krupa. 

“All righty then. Let me read back the order to you: that’s twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping, ten lords a-leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans a- swimming, six geese a-laying. Five. Gold. Rings. Also, you would like four calling birds, three French (Canadian) hens, two turtledoves, one partridge and one pear tree. Is that correct? 

“Now I don't need to tell you, Mr. Truelove, that this is one tall order. And that the shipping time will take at least twelve days. On the upside, though, you can get it all for a song. “

“Well, the same to you, Mr. Truelove. And thank you for shopping ACHOO!

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## AuntShecky

This is the second of two oldies but gooeys. The first post is Reply # 87, directly above.^
The following post dates all the way back to Dec. of Ought Eight, but maybe it's not untimely, given the fact that "holiday specials" are re-run so often that any day now the film will probably snap! In the five years since, multiple TV movies on cable channels have come and --well,I don't want to say "gone." TV Christmas specials never die; they show up every year like Marley's ghost. But if you look for something festive to watch on Christmas Eve, forget it. That's the night reserved for slasher movies.

A Visit from St. Nielsen

‘Twas a while before Christmas,
not the big day yet,
but it was already Yuletide
on your tee-vee set.

Staring at holiday shows
might cause strabismus.
You could watch the Dickens
out of his Carol for Christmas.

Like clones of Santa,
there’s more than one Scrooge:
even a girl Ebenezer 
with lipstick and rouge,

George C. Scott, Disney toons,
Michael Caine and and Muppets too,
plus Bill Murray, Albert Finney,
Alastair Sim and Mr. Magoo,

and other curmudgeons
like the Grinch so unmerry,
voiced by the late Boris Karloff
or a live-action Jim Carrey.

In the season of wonder
you can’t ask for more
than two films of a miracle
on Street Thirty-four.

It’s a miracle young Ralphie
didn''t shoot himself to heaven
with his Red Ryder BB gun
going 24/7.

Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey
and Donna Reed as his wife
every year re-remind us
that “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

Sing of bells and sleigh rides
and the round Virgin yon –
but hold on for a minute -
let’s see what else is on:

On Linus, on Lucy,
on Pigpen, on Snoopy,
on Charlie Brown
with your tree so droopy,

On home-improved Tim Allen
in “The Santa Clause,”
On Nestor the donkey
with his production flaws,

On the rumpa-pum-pum
of the drummer boy,
on the umpteenth special
of some animated toy

which is hyped and piped
while sounding quite crass.
Commerce hit pay dirt
with Rankin and Bass.

Thanks to December shows
kids don't cry and don't pout,
and thanks to repeats
Rudolph’s nose won’t go out.

Why waste a holiday special
when the shopping’s been done?
That why on Christmas Eve
you’ll hardly find one.

So sure as a soundstage
glistens with fake snow,
the networks return to
the Reality Show.

But I heard a CEO exclaim
with his remote all alight:
“Happy viewing to all,
and to all, a good night!”

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## AuntShecky

Oh, and in addition to the last two reruns above^^, there was this one which was the very first appearance of Debi Snotenlocker and her brood:

http://www.online-literature.com/for...g-Play-by-Play

That's the last regifting for this Christmas --in THIS thread, I mean. They'll be two oldies but gooeys in the anti-fiction thread, but that's it--I promise!

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## AuntShecky

Yesterday folks in my neck o the woods woke up to sub-zero temperatures and a blinding blizzard. So this next ones going out to the intrepid members of the East Hogwash Highway Dept. who spent a leisurely December morning while lingering over a hot cuppa Joe at Duncan Do Naughts over on Rte. 43. 

Cruller-Chompin Clowns

[With apologies to Stephen Sondheim]

Arent the roads slick?
Nothings been cleared.
Snow keeps falling and falling
worse than last year.

Send in the plows.
There ought to be plows.

Were getting snowed in.
Travels risky, I fear.
No milk runs or quick trips
to pick up cold beer.

But where are the plows?
Send in the plows.

Just when I thought
I could dash outdoors,
I found that its our town
the road crew ignores.
The storms getting dense,
another foot it will bring.
Even having 4-wheel drive
wont mean a thing.

Where are the plows?
Were stuck anyhow.
Theres no sign of a plow.

Well, maybe next Spring.

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## Hawkman

A nice selection there Auntie. I rather liked the re run of the twelve days, but if you really need an English lord, the simplest way to attract them is to offer them either a gaiety girl or an American heiress. Provided that you can come up with the bait you'll probably be in a position to complete mr Truelove's order. 

Must say that a little sweet charity is appropriate to the season, even if it's supposed to be directed towards match girls. Yuletide has been known to be a bit hard on them, together with statues of princes and swallows. No snow here though, just rain. Damp and dark is the order of the day in my neck of the woods.

Live and be well - H

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