That bad elbow has been officially diagnosed as Sugar Cookie tendonitis but you don’t care, you’re never giving up your sport.
“Yeah but, Doc, I can’t stop eating Christmas cookies now, the Olympics are coming up!”
If your house caught on fire you would be torn between either rescuing your spouse or his fudge rum balls.
“Sorry Ma’am. The only thing we were able to save of your husband was his fudge rum balls.” “Yahoooo! No wait . . . I mean darn the luck.”
While you love the puppy you got for Christmas you’re convinced you’d love him even better if he was covered in chocolate and had a chewy nugget center.
“Oh! Him so potentially dewishious!”
You’re faking a limp just so you can justify carrying around that humongous candy cane.
“No! I’ll be okay! Just get me my humongous candy cane!”
You’ve started referring to your troubles as your truffles.
“Nobody knows the truffles I’ve seen . . .”
You lied and told your children all their gingerbread men had been abducted by aliens so that they could conduct eating experiments even though it was really you conducting the eating experiments.
“You mean to tell me, Earth Lady, you actually ate all your children’s gingerbread men?” ” Please! Stop! Can’t you see I hate myself enough already?”
And the final way to tell if you’ve become addicted to Christmas treats?
You resorted to eating some old-fashioned Christmas Candy that you found painted to the bathroom shelf of your grandmother’s house and were so ashamed you checked yourself into Christmas Treat rehab.
Question: Does Christmas Treat Addiction get any uglier than this? Answer: No.
And there you have it, Dear Readers, how to tell if you’ve become addicted to Christmas Treats.
I broke my glasses because my brain, Peanuts, placed them directly underneath where my foot was supposed to go.
My Brain, Peanuts
Peanuts and I have been wearing glasses now for 20 years due to adult onset blurriness, and you’d think my brain, Peanuts, would have figured out a way to not step on them.
But no, every once in a while Peanuts has to test me to see if I’m still paying attention (and I never am).
I don’t get it because there’s nothing Peanuts and I hate doing more than having to get new glasses. What was Peanuts thinking?
So I got my husband, 37, to tape them back together for me, because he’s an engineer so he knows about things like that.
Except that I didn’t trust his taping judgment once he was done and added more tape myself.
So now I’m officially a nerd.
I’d take a picture to show you but I think it might be too early in the morning for that. Oh what the heck, let’s live dangerously shall we?
Me in my new nerdy glasses:
Well, wait a minute . . . let me see if I can take the picture from a better angle:
Oh that’s better. I like this of me in my nerdy glasses a little better because you can’t really see the tape all that much.
Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh yeah, the careless behavior of my brain, Peanuts.
So now Peanuts and I will have to stumble down to the glasses store and get those nasty drops put in. Then once we are legally blind, we will be guided out front to pick out frames from the two or three thousand styles displayed right in front of our eyes somewhere.
The conversationwith the professional four-eyes care specialist will go something like this:
Me: How do these look on me?
Her: Oh those look good on you.
Me: Really? Well how about these?
Her: Oh!!! Those look good on you!
Me. Really? What about these?
Her:Oh those!!! Look good on you.
Me: How about these?
Her: Oh those, look!!! Good on you!!
Me: And these?
Her: Oh those look good!!! On you!!
Me: Oh but what about these?
Her: Oh those look good on!!! You!!!!!
Me: Oh, yeah, what about these?
Her: Oh those look good on you.
Of course, we all know how this story ends. Peanuts and I will finally decide on frames, then go back to pick them up three weeks later because their motto is ready in about an hour give or take three weeks.
Me Picking Up My Glasses: Are you sure these are my glasses because they look horrible and I can’t see a thing.
Her: OH!!! THOSE!!! LOOK!!! GOOD!!! ON!!! YOU!!!
Then Peanuts andI will go home and while I’m crying my eyes out, Peanuts will be eating a 1000 grams of sugar.
Dear Readers! Good news. I have finally managed to talk the Drawing Lady into coming by the blog again to give us another drawing lesson! Now please remember, Dear Readers, that The Drawing Lady is a tortured artist and, as such, is as explosive as a Nitroglycerin Shirley Temple with a dynamite swizzle stick.
Oh shh . . . here she comes, now remember what I said.
Dear Readers, today the Drawing Lady will be teaching us how to draw just like the master artist, Edgar Degas!
Perhaps you are asking why Edgar Degas, Drawing Lady? What not Vincent Van Gogh, Michael Angelo or Leonardo da Vinci?
Dear Readers. Please do not pepper The Drawing Lady with questions. The Drawing Lady has only recently recovered from her jump out the sixth story window of her art school. The Drawing Lady would simply like you to draw the Edgar Degas’s Masterpiece, Two Sisters, below:
The Drawing Lady says now you try:
Is this right Drawing Lady? Is this the way you want us to draw the Two Sisters, Drawing Lady? Does this look okay, Drawing Lady?
Dear Readers, The Drawing Lady cannot answer your questions right now because she is busy pulling out her hair. In the meantime, The Drawing Lady would like you to draw Portrait of Degas and His Friend Valerne.
The Drawing Lady says now you try.
You mean like this, Drawing Lady? Does this look like Degas painted it, Do you think we got the expression right on Valerne, Drawing Lady?
Dear Readers, The Drawing Lady cannot hear your questions right now because she is too busy screaming noooooo! In the meantime The Drawing Lady is hoping against hope that you can do better drawing the Degas masterpiece, Uncle and Niece.
The Drawing Lady says now you try.
How’s this look Drawing Lady? Do the fingers look right, Drawing Lady? Do you think we captured Uncle’s expressive face, Drawing Lady? Drawing Lady? . . . Drawing Lady? . . . Drawing Lady?
Dear Readers I regret to inform you that the Drawing Lady has gone stalk-raving mad and jumped out the window concluding our drawing lesson for today.
Until next time . . . I love you, however, The Drawing Lady doesn’t love you as much as she did at the beginning of this post.
Oh Dear Readers! Look what crossed my path yesterday at the used bookstore!
A Sports Illustrated Magazine from 1963! Isn’t it wonderful? Let’s flip through it together, shall we?
Here’s 1963, Master’s Champion Jack Nicklaus singing the praises of the MacGregor Woods with their exclusive penetrating impregnation method! Wow! Now that’s impressive!
Golf in 1963 was sure a lot more interesting than it is now.
The ad goes on to explain that the exclusive penetrating impregnation method was the most talked about club feature in golf! (Well, I should say so!) “Because it let’s you use a wood with confidence in bad lies.” Gosh I wonder if Tiger knows about this?
Hey! Who doesn’t want to live in a world where shirts were only $5.00 raise your hand!
Shh . . . don’t tell Mr.Sophisticated City Dweller who is wearing his Dacron Docoma Breeze shirt that the poor country bumpkins who just got off the b.u.s. are laughing at him not with him.
Stuffed shirts didn’t come any less wrinkle-free than in 1963 thanks to Docoma Breeze shirts boasting Grip-Tab, Dress ‘n Play, Blake collars — which only cool city dwellers could afford at $5 a pop. And if that didn’t make a man want to drive around Manhattan, mannequin-like, in a car three-sizes too small –1963 doesn’t know what did!
Don’t Worry Honey! Kent’s Micronite Filter makes cigarettes good for you!
This Kent ad is the very first and the very last ad to utilize the phrase “refines away”.
Apparently back in 1963, the key to smoking fun was getting the cigarette to have the mildest taste of all! Kent was hoping that smokers wouldn’t put 2 and 2 together and realize that the mildest taste of all would be not smoking any cigarettes at all.
Question! What’s more fun than shooting guns with daddy? Shooting guns with daddy in the house! What else?
Run for cover,Sis! Look out Spot! Whoops sorry, Dear!
What better way for fathers to bond with their sons and to teach their sons to grow up to be men than by shooting bb guns with them in the house? Oh sure, a few of mother’s prized figureens may have to be sacrificed, and little Suzie’s buttox will probably never be the same — but it’s a small price to pay for teaching little boys what it really means to be a man — 1963 style!
Now then wasn’t that fun? I hope you liked our little foray into the world of 1963, Dear Readers!
Hello Dear Readers! For those of you who just woke up from a coma, congratulations! You’re just in time for Christmas!! Don’t worry if you haven’t got your shopping done yet. I haven’t either and I haven’t even been in a coma. So while I’m out shopping, here’s a little Christmas shopping story about the year my daughter wanted a My Size Barbie!
Big Bucks Barbie
One year my daughter asked Santa for a “My Size Barbie.” A “My Size Barbie” is a Barbie doll that has been fed huge amounts of hormones at the factory causing her to become the size of Daryl Hannah.
To ensure that “My Size Barbie” would be in stock, I went to the toy store early. I approached the Barbie aisle and was about to ask where I might find The Big One, when I tripped over a humongous box containing “My Size Barbie” nearly breaking “My Size Arm.”
The adrenalin rush I experienced from the fall enabled me to heft the package containing The Incredible Babs onto my cart, but not being Arnold Schwartzenegger (or even Maria Shriver), I wasn’t strong enough to maneuver the box so that I could see the price tag.
I inched my Barbie-burdened cart to the checkout stand where it took four of us to hoist The Big Gal onto the scanner, and I mentally noted that perhaps some low-fat Barbie cuisine would make an apropos stocking stuffer.
Being an alert consumer, I had estimated the price at around $40, $50 or maybe even $60.
“Do you know how much this is?” I asked the clerk.
“I’ll let you know in a sec, hon,” she said as she fired up the jaws of life to help her run Buxom Barb over the scanner.
As I waited for the price to appear, I recalled a Christmas of long ago when I had received a Barbie Dream House. My mother had lovingly assembled it all by herself. It had taken her the better part of the Kennedy administration.
Assembles in four years
That had been my favorite Christmas and I owed it all to my mother and to my Barbie. How ironic that this Christmas I would be giving my daughter The Mother of All Barbies.
“Excuse me ma’am? The “My Size Barbie’ is $128. Did you still want it?”
One-hundred and twenty-eight dollars! Suddenly everything began to move in slow motion. I could feel myself turning white . . . then red . . . then green . . . like an aluminum Christmas tree on a rotating stand.
I looked at the clerk, then back at the 20 or so people waiting in line behind me. They were all staring at me and sighing a lot. Maybe they were thinking that I shouldn’t let my daughter down for a few lousy bucks and that I should forget the expense because, after all, it was Christmas. Finally, a gentleman from the back of the line offer his advice:
“Move it lady!”
Then the clerk from the neighboring checkout stand shouted over, ” My niece has one of those and they can wear the same clothes!” And then, just to bring it on home, she added, “I think she comes with an entire wardrobe!”
The clerk and I quickly tried to figure out how many outfits were included, but that information was on the opposite side of the box and somebody else was using the forklift.
In the end, I paid with a check so big it would have made “My Size Barbie” proud. And as the crane lowered The Ultimate Barbie onto the roof of my car, I knew in my heart I had made the right decision.
“A little to the left!”
When Christmas morning came, my little girl would open her very special present, and the wonder and joy that is Christmas would be captured again for one brief, shining moment.
I say brief because the day after Christmas, I made “My Size Barbie” go out and get a job.
Back in the 50’s, life was a lot simpler than it is now. The only people who wore seat belts were test pilots. The only people who wore helmets were human cannon balls, and the only people who didn’t smoke like chimneys were nuns.
But when it came to illnesses, we were all pretty much screwed.
We fifties babies were issued one vaccine in the hospital for small pox, and then we were sent home to not die of smallpox. But for everything else, we babies were on our own.
We had to take our chances out there in the cold, cruel, lard-infested world with nary a helmet, a shin pad or a government-approved baby car seat to protect us. (To be fair, my baby brother did have a car seat. It hooked to the middle of the front seat and had a steering wheel.)
Come to think of it, just making it home from the hospital alive was a miracle. Since there were no car seats, I suppose some babies might have bought the farm by rolling off the back seat when Dad slammed on his brakes.
But whenever that happened I think they just flipped a uey and went right back to the hospital and grabbed another baby. After all, this was the 50’s, and there were plenty more where that came from.
Fun Fact: Whenever anyone ordered a round for the bar back in the 50’s, they were talking about a round of babies.
Anyway, once we made it home alive, the first thing we did was get sick with one of the following childhood illnesses:
Measles:
Measles were little red spots that would suddenly appear all over your body. One minute you’d be pulling the string on your Chatty Cathy and then next minute, Ping! Ping! Ping! You’ve got the measles! They didn’t hurt or itch or anything. You just had to go around looking stupid.
There were two types of measles: The Three-day Measles and the dreaded . . . gulp . . . Red Measles! Everybody said you could die from the Red Measles, so you got to eat more ice cream with the Red Measles than with the Three-Day Measles because that bowl of vanilla ice cream you were enjoying just might be your last.
When I had the Red Measles, my mother wouldn’t let me watch television because they thought that watching TV when you had the Red Measles could cause blindness. Honestly! So I listened to soap operas on the radio. It’s the only time I ever listened to soap operas broadcast over the radio. And on a scale of one to ten enjoyment-wise, I’d give radio soap operas a measly one, frankly.
Mumps:
Okay, mumps were the weirdest thing ever. First of all, there’s the name Mumps. To me it always sounded like something you’d call the grandpa you didn’t like very well. “Oh great here comes Grandpa Mumps! Quick hide the pie!”
But also, if you thought you looked stupid when you had the measles, it was nothing and I mean nothing compared to the stupid you looked when you had the Mumps.
Warning: I’m going to stick a picture in here of someone who has the Mumps. If you’re eating, you might want to leave the room:
Okay, I googled mumps and this came up. I have no idea what is going on here, but whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to be going well.
I have a feeling Grandpa Mumps is behind this!
Tonsillitis:
Back in the 50’s, 9 out of 10 kids, chose tonsillitis as their “go to” stay home from school illness. I know I did. And so did my brother, Peter. Peter, however, pulled it one too many times and suffered a fate worse than staying home everyday getting to eat ice cream. “He had to have his tonsils pulled.” Mind you, he could have had “a procedure to have his tonsils removed” but they didn’t sugar coat things back in the fifties — except for every morsel of food you put in your mouth.
Having your tonsils out was a little bit better than having the Red Measles though. For one thing, you got to watch TV without the worry of going blind(unless you had a really bad surgeon) and you got to bang on a pan with a spoon if you need more ice cream because it hurt to yell “Can I have more ice cream!”
All in all, having your tonsils out wasn’t such a bad thing. Except you never got to use it as an excuse to stay home from school again so it definitely had it’s down-side.
Unless you were lucky enough to come down with an appendicitis — but back in the 50’s we were still using our appendix as a second stomach. We still needed our second stomachs.
Marlene Frappuzio –the bestselling author of “The Wind Only Blows on Thursdays” — sat at her keyboard, fingers poised, waiting for an idea. Any idea. Having already spent the advance for her much anticipated, but as yet unwritten, sequel to “Shut the Window!” Marlene was desperate for an inspiration, desperate for a plot, desperate for a drink of water. Marlene took a drink of water. One desperation down, two to go.
“Hey, honey, I’m organizing my vitamins!” Howard Frappuzio, Marlene’s awkward husband, announced, walking into the room. He was holding a shoebox full of vitamins and accidentally tripped –sending hundreds of vitamins flying everywhere.
Marlene stifled a scream of frustration — one that bordered on hair-raising, but stopped just short of blood-curdling.
“Sorry dear,” Howard was on his hands and knees now picking up vitamins one by one and returning them to the shoe box. Kerplink, kerplink, kerplink . . .
All that kerplinking suddenly inspired a revolutionary idea to pop into Marlene’s mind — an idea as welcome as a sign on a long stretch of deserted highway announcing: All you can eat buffet! Restrooms open to the public!
That’s it! Marlene would write about murder by way of vitamin overdose! Oh sure, it was only a crude notion of a plot now, but it just might work. She’d have to try a little experiment first, however.
Kerplink . . . “I’ll get out of your hair, honey, just as soon as I’m done picking upthese vitamins.” Howard said.
* * *
Marlene pushed her chair back from the dinner table and contemplated her dead husband, Howard, as he lay face down in his cream of mushroom soup — which had been iron-fortified to the point of death — and dialed 911.
“Hello? Yes, I think my husband’s dead! Send someone over!”
Marlene bent down and began picking up vitamins. The murder she had just committed was perfect! Perfect except for one thing. She really should have waited until Howard was done picking up all these vitamins. kerplink . . . kerplink . . . kerplink . . .
Fortune Cookie Fortunes Rejected by the Fortune Cookie Factory for Being Too Negative
Save room for poison!
If you always see the glass as half empty, you’re probably a lush
Time was on your side but it switched over to the other team
Everything you’ve ever done in your entire life has been a disaster including the way you comb your bangs
The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single schlep
If intelligence were luggage, you’d be that little cylindrical container that holds your toothbrush
If at first you don’t succeed . . . well, better just get used to it
You need to learn to prioritize – stop spending so much time crying over spilt milk and start spending more time crying over the fact that you’re a big fat loser
Don’t jump! . . . On second thought never put off for tomorrow what you can do today
Your wildest dreams will come true–oh sorry! I thought you were someone else
Hello Dear Readers! For those of you who just woke up from a coma, congratulations! You’re just in time for Christmas!! Don’t worry if you haven’t got your shopping done yet. I haven’t either and I haven’t even been in a coma. So while I’m out shopping, here’s a little Christmas shopping story about the year my daughter wanted a My Size Barbie!
Big Bucks Barbie
One year my daughter asked Santa for a “My Size Barbie.” A “My Size Barbie” is a Barbie doll that has been fed huge amounts of hormones at the factory causing her to become the size of Daryl Hannah.
To ensure that “My Size Barbie” would be in stock, I went to the toy store early. I approached the Barbie aisle and was about to ask where I might find The Big One, when I tripped over a humongous box containing “My Size Barbie” nearly breaking “My Size Arm.”
The adrenalin rush I experienced from the fall enabled me to heft the package containing The Incredible Babs onto my cart, but not being Arnold Schwartzenegger (or even Maria Shriver), I wasn’t strong enough to maneuver the box so that I could see the price tag.
I inched my Barbie-burdened cart to the checkout stand where it took four of us to hoist The Big Gal onto the scanner, and I mentally noted that perhaps some low-fat Barbie cuisine would make an apropos stocking stuffer.
Being an alert consumer, I had estimated the price at around $40, $50 or maybe even $60.
“Do you know how much this is?” I asked the clerk.
“I’ll let you know in a sec, hon,” she said as she fired up the jaws of life to help her run Buxom Barb over the scanner.
As I waited for the price to appear, I recalled a Christmas of long ago when I had received a Barbie Dream House. My mother had lovingly assembled it all by herself. It had taken her the better part of the Kennedy administration.
Assembles in four years
That had been my favorite Christmas and I owed it all to my mother and to my Barbie. How ironic that this Christmas I would be giving my daughter The Mother of All Barbies.
“Excuse me ma’am? The “My Size Barbie’ is $128. Did you still want it?”
One-hundred and twenty-eight dollars! Suddenly everything began to move in slow motion. I could feel myself turning white . . . then red . . . then green . . . like an aluminum Christmas tree on a rotating stand.
I looked at the clerk, then back at the 20 or so people waiting in line behind me. They were all staring at me and sighing a lot. Maybe they were thinking that I shouldn’t let my daughter down for a few lousy bucks and that I should forget the expense because, after all, it was Christmas. Finally, a gentleman from the back of the line offer his advice:
“Move it lady!”
Then the clerk from the neighboring checkout stand shouted over, ” My niece has one of those and they can wear the same clothes!” And then, just to bring it on home, she added, “I think she comes with an entire wardrobe!”
The clerk and I quickly tried to figure out how many outfits were included, but that information was on the opposite side of the box and somebody else was using the forklift.
In the end, I paid with a check so big it would have made “My Size Barbie” proud. And as the crane lowered The Ultimate Barbie onto the roof of my car, I knew in my heart I had made the right decision.
“A little to the left!”
When Christmas morning came, my little girl would open her very special present, and the wonder and joy that is Christmas would be captured again for one brief, shining moment.
I say brief because the day after Christmas, I made “My Size Barbie” go out and get a job.
Biff Sock Pow over at his blog Biff Sock Pow has added a new challenge for us. Go to his blog and check him out (but only if you like to laugh). It’s called Whatnot Wednesday. The rules are simple (ish). Here they are:
How To Play Whatnot Wednesday
Write a blog post entitled “Whatnot Wednesday” (it can be about anything)
Add these guidelines to the bottom of your post
Add a link to this post in your post
Add the tag #WhatnotWednesday to your post
Post your post
In the comments below in my post, leave a link to your Whatnot Wednesday blog post
See how many bullet points you an end with the word “post”
Most of all …. HAVE FUN!
Today’s Theme: Baby Eating and Whatnot
Welcome Dear Readers! Well it seems the time has finally come to talk about baby eating, a topic that some of you may find a tad offensive. However, for those of you brave enough to continue reading past this point, let’s dig in and talk about baby eating, shall we?
Cue the first slide:
NO! WAIT! Don’t eat my baby! At least let me run home and get the ketchup first!
Is it just me, or does this woman look like she’s not really trying very hard to save her baby? I mean, she could just reach over and pry the baby out of the lion’s mouth. Maybe she could even get the lion to open his mouth on his own with a few “here kitty kitty’s.” But no. Instead she looks like she’s about to say, “Wait here while I run home and get the rest of my children. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lambs tail and I’ll even bring the lamb for dessert.”
Cue the next slide:
Excuse me honey, sorry to bother you while you’re . . . uh . . . whatnot–ing, but can I have some money? The traveling baby-spice salesman is here.
Okay, here’s a mother who will clearly never make mother of the year. She seems far more concerned with the fact that the window washer is squeegeeing the underside of her husband’s calf than with the fact that one of her babies is playing with a fire-breathing dragon while another one is being eaten whole by a farmer on his lunch break.
And don’t you get the feeling that the man at the gate just sold her a case of Big Daddy Magellan’s Medieval Mesquite Baby Seasoning Salt?
And the next slide please:
These aren’t really babies he’s eating, but in keeping with our baby-eating theme, let’s just pretend they are, shall we?
Okay, here’s a baby eater that can’t even keep up! He’s got babies coming out of his ears! Clearly this baby eater has it all, wings, a full head (and body) of hair and a bellybutton that looks like Mickey Mouse. And even though he’s feasting on a baby, he still has rather kind eyes, don’t you think?
In fact, I have a feeling he’d make a better mother than the other mothers pictured above. Maybe that why people babies are lining up to be eaten by him — probably figuring that since they’re going to be eaten anyway — they might as well be eaten by a kind sort of monster — at least one who has a belly button shaped like Mickey Mouse.
“Hey! Getting my leg bitten off isn’t even making me cry. Well that’s refreshingly unexpected!”
Whoa! Here’s a baby eater that can clearly pack it away (and probably never gain a pound!). He’s got no qualms about chowing down on a baby two-thirds his size. I just hope his eyes don’t prove to be bigger than his stomach and I just hope his stomach is able to handle an entire baby in one bite.
Nobody would eat a baby like this today. The potential for choking is far to great! We can only assume that this man is competing in some sort of Medieval baby-eating contest for which the prize is an all you can eat baby buffet. Let’s just hope he’s got a big supply of Big Daddy Magellan’s Medieval Mesquite Baby Seasoning Salt on hand cause he’s gonna need it!
And that concludes this week’s Wednesday Whatnot post.
When I was a little girl, the pot of gold at the end of my rainbow was a horse.
I really only voiced the question of my getting a horse to my parents a couple of times, knowing full well that the answer would be no, and, as a matter of pride, I’d ultimately have to run away from home or, at the very least, stage a run away as in the following true scenario:
“Look at this Janey,” my father remarked to my mother, “I found Linda’s pajamas in this little 45-record case in the bushes just outside her window when I was mowing the lawn.”
Oh I was going to run away alright . . . eventually.
Ok, fine . . . if I wasn’t going to get a horse, at least I could try for a kitten. This is how I went about it. Step 1: Convince my parents that I was head over heals in love with cats. So I colored umpteen pictures of kittens and scotch taped them to my circa 1959 pink wall. Step 2 wasn’t even needed because Step 1 worked like a charm. Next thing I knew I was picking out my very own gray, long-haired kitten from a batch of 5 or 6.
In my excitement, I failed to notice that this particular kitten had issues. It suffered from the world’s lowest kitty IQ. Maybe that’s why the name I chose, Taffy May, seemed to fit her so well.
Taffy May was the perfect cat for a little girl to bond with. Being nearly brain-dead, she allowed me to pick her up and carry her around without protest. She slept with me all night under the covers which I thought was because she loved me so — but more likely she just couldn’t figure a way out.
I loved stupid little Taffy May with all the passion of my nine-year-old heart and soul. She failed to grow to full size due to the fact that while she was checking to see if there were any predators around to eat her cat food, the dog would wolf it down.
She had one batch of kittens – if three can be considered a batch. But being the little dummy that she was, she managed to lie on all three of them during the night and in the morning the only one left breathing was my beloved, Taffy May.
Perhaps it was Karma (I know there was a car involved) the day Taffy May shuffled (or rolled) off this mortal world. I was on my way home from school without a care in the world. When I rounded the corner, there stood our across-the-street neighbor, Mr. Huey, holding a lifeless Taffy May up by the tail.
I don’t know how many times Taffy May had been run over, but judging from the fact that she was literally as flat as a pancake, it would be safe to assume more than once. I screamed and ran into the house where I was inconsolable well into the night. I never got another cat of my very own, out of respect for Taffy May, who will always have a place in my heart . . . about two feet wide and one and one-half inches deep.
Hello Dear Readers. I thought it might be helpful to post a short list of common sense tips that my brain, Peanuts, just thought of.
Don’t worry about your spleen. Nobody ever said on their death-bed, “I wish I would have worried about my spleen.”
“Let’s see . . . 101 signs your spleen might be malfunctioning . . . oh I need to read these! “
If someone in your family is set on becoming a human cannonball, keep a mirror and a helmet handy so you can show them how stupid they will look to others.
Slit your car tires every night before you go to bed so that when you wake up in the morning there won’t be any flat tire surprises.
Did you remember to slit the tires? No, it’s your turn, I did it last night!
Never allow anyone to act out the poem Lizzie Borden Took an Ax on family fun night unless you are absolutely certain the ax is inaccessible and there’s no liquor in the house.
Always test out your “experimental arsenic cookies” on the hamster first, and be sure he’s actually dead before going to all the trouble of serving them to in-laws.
“Maury? . . . Maury? Can you hear me Maury?”
Always keep a copy of Robert Rules of Order on you at all times to avoid the embarrassment of walking up to take the witness stand in a crowded courtroom when it’s not your turn.
Never engage in a conversation with a chatty robot before you know the location of their off switch. (The same holds true for husbands.)
“Yes. it. is. a. nice. day. There. have. been. 17823. days. very. similar. to. a. day. like. today. in. the. past. 1400. years. starting. with. a. Thursday. on. April. 17. 1035. and. then. on. . . “
Just make it a policy to never operate on friends. Period. End of story.
Listen Marge, it’s not that I don’t want to remove your spleen, it’s just that you’re a friend of mine and I have this policy . . . sorry but period end of story.
Welcome Dear Readers to this Sunday’s edition of the Bible According to Gregory. Let’s listen in and see what Gregory learned in Sunday school this morning, shall we?
Fred and The Bears
As you may remember from last week’s bible lesson, Gregory was learning about Elisha (pronounced Fred).
Fred had just inherited the All in One Miracle Cloak from his idol, Elijah, who thew it to him from the whirlwind God had sent for Elijah to take him up to heaven.
The cloak did wonders for Fred’s self-esteem. It gave him the power to perform miracles, it brought out the hazel in his eyes, and it even dimmed the shine of his very bald head!
Horrible Artist’s rendering of what Fred might have looked like.
But the men of Jericho thought Fred’s story about Elijah being whisked off up to heaven in a whirlwind was a bit sketchy.
Jericho Man: Hi Fred. nice cloak. Say, have you seen Elijah anywhere?
Fred: Uh, Elijah . . . uh . . . well, he’s on a permanent vacation.
Jericho Man: Oh how nice! Where?
Fred: Heaven.
Jericho Man: You mean he died?
Fred: Not exactly. The Lord picked him up in a Whirlwind and took him to heaven while he was still alive.
Jericho Man: I’m sorry, but I have trouble believing that because the Lord doesn’t travel in a whirlwind, he travels in a cloud.
Fred: Are you implying I don’t know the difference between a cloud and a whirlwind?
Jericho Man: Okay I’m bored. Hey listen, Fred, since you’re the new miracle guy in town, would you mind doing something about the source of our drinking water. It tastes like Shiite.
Fred: Not a problem, I can fix that. Bring me a new jar and put salt in it.
Jericho man: But won’t that just mask the flavor?
Fred raised his I’m-the-new-miracle-guy-in-town-aren’t-I? eyebrow and the man ran off to fetch Fred a jar of salt.
Fred threw the salt into the Shiite water and everybody watched while he took a sip and pronounced that the water tasted as good as Alhambra. And everybody rejoiced by laughing at the way Fred pronounced Abraham.
Fred takes being called “baldy” badly.
After that Fred left Jericho to travel to Bethel as he had some early blankmas shopping he wanted to do. (This was way before Jesus was born.)
On the way there, he encountered a group of boys who started making fun of Fred’s bald head.
“Get out of here baldy!” they all shouted.
Which was the very worst thing you could call a person in biblical days not counting Unleavened- Pizza- Crust – Face.
So Fred cursed the boys in the name of the Lord and two she-bears came out of the woods and tore the 42 boys to pieces which must have taken a while — long enough for Fred to get out his slab and chisel and chisel 42 hash marks.
Prologue:
After that, Fred traveled on to Mount Carmel, where he bought everybody on his list a box of carmels.
He came back by way of Samaria and gifted an extra box he accidentally bought to a Samaritan who lived there and wished him Merry Blankmas!
And that’s why to this day, if someone buys an extra box of carmels and gives it to someone who lives in Sameria, they are called a Good Samaritan.
And there you have it, Dear Readers, what Gregory learned in Sunday School. Be sure to check back next week to see what new and exciting thing Gregory learns in Sunday School.
“So you’re wearing that funny hat because 42 boys called you “Baldy”? “Yeah.” “You want I should maul them?” “Yeah.”
Hello Dear Readers! Gosh it’s a beautiful day. Okay let’s talk about death now.
Here’s something that came in the mail today from the Trident Society:
The Trident Society wants dibs on your “vessel”
Apparently the Trident Society isn’t really a Society at all. It’s just a nice way of saying we’re a company that turns a profit cremating dead people. I don’t think there’s regular meetings or anything. It’s simply that they are asking for dibs on cremating you after you die, but they want you to pay them for it right now.
Apparently there are lots and lots and lots of wonderful reasons why you need to pre-purchase your funeral pyre. Let’s take a closer look at what they are, shall we?
The first reason for being cremated is convenience.
If you pay for your cremation now, perhaps when you die, one of your family members (whoever gets the shortest straw) can simply go to a Trident Society drive-thru window, pick up your ashes and set you on the book shelf until the next family reunion — where you will be lovingly lugged along and incorporated into the prayer before the potluck lunch is served. Upside: It’s convenient as all get out. Downside: Alive or dead, you’ll have to attend the next family reunion.
Cremation is much less expensive and has less impact on the environment!
Now how can anybody say no to cheap and easy? It’s cheap AND it’s better for the environment. Downside: You had to pay for it yourself. Upside: Hey!! Lookee you! You’re recyclable!
It allows families to provide a dignified resting place to memorialize their loved one.
What is the Trident Society trying to imply? Are they trying to imply that your current plan — to give great, great grandaddy, Trevor, the ol’ heave ho on your next Carnival Cruise — isn’t a dignified enough resting place? Upside: Oh yeah! Downside: Just watch you!
And finally, Dear Readers, if the above reasons aren’t enough to convince you that you need to pre-purchase your cremation, Trident Society is pulling out all the stops by allowing you to enter for a chance to WIN a FREE CREMATION!
Sufferin’ Succotash! Look how happy everybody is in the picture! Well, there’s nothing like winning a FREE CREMATION to make everyone want to play a rousing game of Ring Around the Rosy!
Welcome Dear Readers to this Sunday’s edition of the Bible According to Gregory. Let’s listen in and see what Gregory learned in Sunday school this morning, shall we?
Biblical Wrestle Mania: Almighty God vs. Jacob the Ladder
Jacob was a twin who was born holding onto his brother’s heel. Why anybody even noticed this is odd because Jacob’s twin brother, Esau (pronounced Achoo) was born entirely red and covered with fur. A fact that Jacob’s parents were happy about because it meant they would never have any trouble telling them apart.
The twins’ mother, Rebekah, liked Jacob best because she was partial to children who didn’t shed; while their dad, Isaac, liked Achoo best because he preferred children who could double as a comforter in a pinch.
Jacob was a napper
One day, on his way to visit his relatives, Jacob saw a nice, big, fluffy stone (which in those days was called a pillow) and lay down to take nap. He dreamed God’s angels were going up and down on an escalator (which in those days was called a ladder).
In the dream, God told Jacob he was going to give him lots wives and kids and animals and slaves, which made Jacob so happy he told God he would kick back ten percent of his profits to Him.
When Jacob woke up from his dream, he consecrated his nice, big, fluffy rock pillow to God by pouring some consecrating oil on it which he always carried with him for impromptu consecratings.
One night, Jacob decided to take his family camping at the God Campgrounds down by the Jabbok River. So Jacob’s two wives, two concubines and his eleven children all crammed into the family ox cart. Jacob also brought along all his cattle, donkeys, sheep, goats, and slaves. Jacob was a notorious over-packer.
An Angel Picks a Fight
That night Jacob realized it was going to be way to noisy to sleep so he sent his family and his animals and his slaves across the Jabbok river. Then he fluffed up his rock and was just drifting off when an angel wearing a wrestling outfit showed up.
Jacob: May I help you?
Angel: I came to wrestle you.
Jacob: Wrestle me? I haven’t wrestled since high school.
Angel: You never forget how. It’s like riding a bike.
Jacob: Okay, give me a sec while I change into my wrestling garb.
Angel: Why did you bring your wrestling garb if you haven’t wrestled since high school?
Jacob: I like to be prepared, okay? You got a problem with that?
Angel: Well besides being three-sizes too small, your wrestling garb has consecrating oil stains all over it. I’m going to have to wrestle you to the ground just because you look so stupid.
Jacob: Oh yeah wing boy? Bring it!
Jacob then proceeded to get the angel in a half-nelson and started plucking out his feathers. The angel immediately cried uncle but when Jacob let go, the Angel sucker punched Jacob and dislocated Jacob’s hip. (The blow would have shattered Jacob’s hip if Jacob wouldn’t have been such a big believer in calcium supplements.)
“One two cha cha cha” “What are you doing? We’re supposed to be wrestling.” “What? I can’t even have fun with it?”
Angel: Okay okay you win, Jacob. You can stop plucking out my feathers now!
Jacob: Not until you bless me!
Angel: I can only bless you if I change your name to Israel first.
Jacob: Why?
Angel: Because that’s my favorite name, but I also like Karen. Would you rather be Karen?
Jacob: Fine. Call me Ishmael.
Angel: You mean Israel?
Jacob: Whatever.
After the match, Jacob realized that the angel he had just wrestled with was God, and that Jacob had seen the face of God and yet he was still alive! So Jacob decided to name the place upon which he and God had wrestled, Peniel — which means “Thank God for Calcium Supplements.”
“What are you doing, Karen?” “Stretching. And don’t call me Karen.”
And there you have it, Dear Readers, what Gregory learned in Sunday school this week. Please check back next week to find out what Gregory learned in Sunday School.
Linda Vernon Humor 