Sunday Funnies 05-17-20

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And they’re jealous too.  If only they could wield that kind of dictatorial power…  Sounds about right…

It’s impossible to tell what’s satire anymore…

Yeah, I’m waiting for Top Gun 2 too…

Well, they are kind of cute, cuddly and affectionate…

So are these…

Appearing on milk cartons everywhere any day now…

Let it be…

Yeah, that evil Trump, and…hey!

Yup, that’s Texans alright…

And it’s organic and sustainable, too!

Always listen to Mom…

Get it?

That is strange…

Run away, run away!

That must have been a big one.  Not the bullet, the…

Silver linings…

Dark clouds…

Well, #3 in blue states for sure…

Know your enemy…

At least they’re consistent…

When carbon-14 is used to determine sell-by dates…

Sure; I can see that direct cause/effect relationship…

Learn something new every day…

Because she’s Greta Thunberg and the media says so…

This might be one thing they get right…

Sure; I can see how they’d make that kind of mistake…

We can only hope so…

And in the just because it’s ridiculously cute department for this week…

Mark Twain said: “Don’t let schooling interfere with your education.”  In this time of no school and time on our hands, get a copy of License to Kill and make Twain—and me—proud.   There’s nothing like a good book when you’re wondering what to do next.

If you get the book directly through the publisher, I’ll make a few cents more than if you get it at Amazon. It’s $17.99 at either source, and Amazon has a $4.99 Kindle edition, which won’t be so good for…you know.  Fortunately, my publisher and Amazon are still in business.  Unlike the common misconception, few authors make a living on writing, and I’m one that doesn’t.  Maybe some day, I can take Mrs. Manor out to lunch again if enough people buy the book.  Positive comments on Amazon make a real difference.  Go here to comment. 

I’ll see you next Sunday for the Funnies, and hopefully, every day in between. Stay well, and help me mock those so richly deserving of mockery.  It’s the patriotic thing to do!

Share Your World — Trees, Bridges, Sacrifices, and Priorities

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Share Your WorldMelanie is at it again with her Share Your World prompt. These are so much fun and I look forward to Mondays for no other reason than to respond to her questions. So let’s get to it.

Do you have a favorite kind of tree?

First, I prefer trees that are living to dead trees. But when it comes to living trees, I really like paper white Birch trees. I like their unusual white bark.ADF18008-1FD7-448D-BE8E-262495D23D30

What bridges are you happy you burned?

Wait just a minute there, young lady. Are you implying that I’m some sort of arsonist and go around setting fires on bridges? I’ve never burned a single bridge down in my whole life and I resent the inference. How dare you?

Would you sacrifice yourself (die) for a stranger?

For a total stranger? Are you nuts?

How have your priorities changed since the C-19 virus took over?

Absolutely my priorities have changed. My number one priority is to not get the C-19 virus! 

The Corona Chronology: Day 33

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Note: As the lockdown continues for some of us, whilst others are allowed to run free and get tattoos and manicures because their state governors don’t understand basic health science, it’s possible that some of us might be experiencing delusions due to the discombobulations. I pulled this one out of the archives as an example of such…

 

Deep in thought, Buster contemplated the complexity of his existence. Why does the sofa behind me seem oddly placed? What are those tassels all about? Does something extraordinary happen when you pull them? Where are all the other guests? Did I miss an important signal from the host? Did someone drag out the absinthe again? Did I drink some? Who would ever want to have a rug like this? Why am I sprawled on it in such an absurd manner? And most importantly, is it possible that I’m wearing a corset and just don’t recall putting it on?

The Couch: “Well, I’m not sure what you want me to say, Bustier. Normally I would be much more sympathetic, but I just spent an entire evening supporting at least fifty different people babbling about their inane issues whilst they dribbled libations on my crushed velvet. I no longer care and I have shrimp dip in my various cracks. But this much I do know. If you pull either one of my tassels, I will not hesitate to kick your ass with my short but sturdy legs. Really, though, I think you should be more concerned that the tiger appears to be dealing with a rather vengeful hairball. He could buck you at any second.”

The Tiger: “Do any of you realize how embarrassing this entire situation is for me, being used in a manner that is not right or just?”

The Corset: “Yes. I’m dealing with hairballs of my own. Buster has clearly never heard of man-scaping. It’s like a Yeti exploded in here.”

The Tiger’s Tail: “Follow me if you want to escape this absurdity. I know of a secluded room where we can hunker down and pray for daylight.”

The Party Host, off-camera due to an unfortunate cold-sore situation: “No one is going anywhere. My wife just informed me that her favorite corset is missing.”

The Corset: “Damn, I almost made it to freedom.”

The Tiger: “Don’t look at me. I’m clearly not mobile.”

The Couch: “I can’t help but look at you. And now I want pancakes for breakfast, if the prayer circle works and we make it to morning.”

The Pancakes: “Hey, don’t be a bully. We never did anything to you.”

The Doctor: “Mr. Keaton, can you hear me?”

Buster: “Is that the tiger talking? Do you need me to do the Heimlich Maneuver? Those hairballs can take some effort.”

The Doctor: “No, Buster, it’s your physician. The surgery went well and we were able to remove your gallbladder successfully. But you’re going to feel some tightness in your midsection.”

Buster: “Whew! I just had the strangest dream where the furniture was talking and I was cross-dressing.”

The Doctor: “That’s perfectly normal. The anesthesia can mess with your head and you might see things that aren’t real.”

The Stethoscope: “Oh, it’s real alright.”

The Faded Poster Displaying Internal Organs That Is Always in Examination Rooms, the One You Stare at for Hours Whilst Waiting for the Doctor to Remember You Exist: “Wanna pull my tassel and see what happens next?”

Alice, wandering in from Wonderland: “It’s okay, Buster. I got your back. Just take some deep breaths and don’t drink the tea.”

The Tea: “Don’t you want me, baby?”

The Tongue Depressor: “Weren’t you working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, when I met you?”

Alice: “Don’t ask me.”

Gwen Stefani: “Don’t speak, I know what you’re thinkin.”

Buster’s Tongue: “I’m thinking there was either too much morphine or not enough.”

The Morphine: “Good. My work here is done.”

Brian: “I don’t even know what I’m typing anymore.”

Alice: “Here, have another brownie.”

The Brownie: “I think Brian is past his expiration for the night. It’ll just be a waste of my special herbs and spices. Shouldn’t he just go to bed?”

The entire ensemble cast (including the orchestral conductor): “Yes!”

Except for Buster. Buster didn’t say anything at this point. Because he suddenly remembered that this was supposed to be a silent move. Whoops.

The Silent Movie: “Fin.”

 

Previously published as “Past Imperfect – #284”. Modified and extended for this post. And just in case it comes up in a court trial, because it very well could, based on certain notifications I have received in my email, I was NOT the person who brought the shrimp dip that night. Swear.

 

Sunday Funnies, 05-10-20

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We have to believe all…er…hear all…er…something all women!  Where would we be without the Babylon Bee—hey, that rhymes!

Relationships in 2020…

Quick!  Somebody drop a small business on her!  That’s not to suggest I’m advocating violence against non-existent characters that are a parody of a non-existent character from a movie released in 1939…oh, who cares?

Yeah, but who can understand English written in the 1700s, other than my students who can understand Shakespeare from the 1500s?

Automatic social distancing…

Which taught him about roaches and kids jumping on his lap.  He loves kids jumping on his lap… 

Positive effects of the lockdown, #24, 391…

Hello, Domino’s?  I’d like a pizza every day, once an hour, until I tell you to stop.  What kind?  I don’t care…

That and Covid-19 are the only causes of death these days…

You have to be a certain age to get this one, but if you do…

All you have to do is be smarter than a politician…

But of course, because TRUMP!!!!!!!

Know your dogs…and Democrat politicians…

Where would the funnies be without AOC?  Hey, that rhymes too!

With frickin’ laser beams on their heads?

Yeah, well, that’s Trump’s fault too!

And suddenly, #MeToo meant something entirely different…

Hey, you have to have somebody’s standards…

Yeah, well believing that is stupid, but whatever Trump says is a dog whistle for something awful, so…

This is news?

Dog humor…

Yup…

Yup also…

Well, that and Nancy Pelosi…

It’s getting so hard to tell between reality and satire…

Well, that’s hard to believe: felons released from jail behaving like felons?

Troll level: Grand Master…

And in the just because it’s really cute, and very topical department:

While we wait for various governors to announce their 87 point plans to eventually open the economy sometime in the next quarter century, it might be a good time to buy a copy of License To Kill.   A good book will help pass the time as you waste away in a comfortable chair, and besides, watching cat videos gets old after awhile…

If you get the book directly through the publisher, I’ll make a few cents more than if you get it at Amazon. It’s $17.99 at either source, and Amazon has a $4.99 Kindle edition, which won’t be so good for…you know.  Fortunately, my publisher and Amazon are still in business.  Unlike the common misconception, few authors make a living on writing, and I’m one that doesn’t.  Besides, I’m retiring at the end of the month.  Positive comments on Amazon make a real difference.  Go here to comment. 

I’ll see you next Sunday for the Funnies, and hopefully, every day in between. Stay well, and help me mock those so richly deserving of mockery.  It’s our American duty!

Brightening your day

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Passing along a couple of laughs that brightened my day.

<_><_><_>

Is this anything like a label on the blow dryer that says, “Do not use in Shower”???

When you’re not the brightest bulb on the Christmas Tree:

And, as a final thought, remember:

The Corona Chronology: Day 32

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After the eye-opening exposé that had aired at Bonnywood Manor the previous night, concerning corncobs and lonely Saturday nights, it was difficult for actress Joan Crawford and director David Lean to keep a straight face whilst handing out the statuette for Best Supporting Actor. But they were professionals, and they kept it together until the live broadcast cut to commercial.

[Minutes later, backstage.]

Joan: “I nearly wet myself!”

David: “And there I was, holding a metallic dildo.”

Joan: “And that one microphone that looked like a bottle of lube? I’m sure Bette Davis put that there.”

David: “Are you serious?”

Joan: “Of course I am. That wretch has been dried out since 1935. She has crates of the stuff.”

David, laughing on the inside, because he’s British: “Oh my. No wonder she has such bumpy nights.”

Joan: “And that’s why you have to fasten your seatbelts with her. Otherwise you’ll fall in and never be seen again.”

David: “I love the smell of movie trivia in the morning.”

Joan: “That’s assuming you can get the trivia to spend the night with you.”

David: “Having a few lonely Saturday nights yourself, are you?”

Joan: “That’s a bit direct. But yes. The box office hasn’t been selling as many tickets lately.”

David: “Trust me, dear, I understand your pain. In fact, I was wondering…”

Joan: “If I’m available for your next movie?”

David: “Well, not quite that. Those vats of lubricant that Bette has piled up. Do you happen to know the distributor?”

Joan: “Oh? Oh! Honey, I didn’t know you lubricated that way.”

David: “It’s not something I talk about lightly. But I feel a special bond with you. And it’s not just our mutual eyebrows and the way you look manly from certain angles. If you’ll excuse my bluntness.”

Joan: “No worries. I get that all the time. Some people in this business actually think I’m a drag queen. Can you imagine?”

David: “I don’t think imagination has anything to do with it. But still, the lubricant liaison?”

Joan: “Right. Well, since we’re sharing, I have several crates myself. 1935 was a dry year for lots of people.”

David: “You mean the Great Depression?”

Joan: “No, I mean the Great Desiccation. Once the dewiness of youth turns its back on you, you learn to stockpile. And you start collecting personal items for lonely Saturday nights.”

David: “Fascinating. So you also… take advantage of intriguing inventory options in the Prop Department?”

Joan: “Face it, girl. Our first rodeo was a long time ago. We have to plan ahead for that transition from rodeo queen to rodeo clown. That’s why I snagged one of the extra statuettes they keep on hand in case somebody counted wrong. Mildred isn’t the only one getting pierced tonight.”

David: “You are amazing.”

Joan: “I know. So, does this mean I get to be in your next movie? I’ll bring the lubricant.”

David: “I’ll have to get back to you on that. After I’ve sampled the contents of your dusty crates.”

Joan: “That’s what my first four husbands said.”

 

A Couple of Notes: One, excuse the ribald aspect of this post if you are faint of heart. My muse spoke, I listened. Two, I have no idea what David Lean did or did not do once the sun set. But I do know he spent over a year filming “Lawrence of Arabia” on location, in multiple over-heated locales involving a cast of mostly men, including Peter O’Toole and his blue, blue eyes. I’ll let you do the math from there…

 

The Corona Chronology: Day 31

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Looking back, I suppose I should have known that this would happen. After all, folks are huddled in their habitations, discombobulated by having their daily routines routed. They are desperate for diversion, and since many of them have forgotten (or never knew, for the younger crowds) how to calmly entertain themselves, they have turned to modern technology as a source of life sustenance. Which means, ladies and gentlemen, that we have seen an alarming rise in sightings of the dreaded and multi-headed beast: The Group Text That Would Not Die.

I was never a fan group texts in the first place, long before the pandemic stoked the fires of outrage. Despite working for decades in the telecom industry, this is one technological development that should never have made it out of the planning committee. Because people in large numbers simply cannot behave. Especially people who are bored and have not figured out something more interesting to do with their lives. As George Michael famously warbled in his 1987 hit, “text is best when it’s one on one”.

Sure, a group text can be mildly useful in certain limited situations, such as inviting all your friends to an impromptu drinking binge in the Arts District. Or announcing that you have given birth to George Clooney’s baby. Or making sure that all of your relatives are in agreement with the fake cover story about where you weren’t on that night you did the thing you shouldn’t have. Folks need to be on the same page in these cases. But that’s about it.

Under no circumstances should people be allowed to abuse the time-space continuum by creating a superfluous text and then tagging everyone they have ever known or boinked. Yet they still do. And we must stop the madness, for the soul of civilization is at stake. #JustSayNoMo #StopIt #GloomDespairAndAgonyOnMe

What’s that you’re asking? You don’t think group texting is all that bad? Well, perhaps you’ve never experienced the extreme annoyance of the following example:

I’m innocently sitting at my desk, composing Past Imperfect – #7236, wherein Rudolph Valentino and a platypus have an absurd conversation about pasta, when my phone pings. Wait, that’s not empathic enough. It doesn’t just ping, it goes into convulsions beyond all seismographic measure, to the point that it hurls itself off my desk in a desperate to escape the trauma, hoping the afterlife holds more promise of peace and stability.

Sighing, I snatch said phone from the floor, noting that the designer metal of such is startlingly hot, because the tiny operating system is working overtime to process all the incoming notifications. I unlock the screen, and I note that I have received 47 new messages in the space of two minutes. This can’t be good. Either someone has passed away or someone else has passed on their responsibilities as a responsible texter.

I click on my text inbox (burning my fingertip in the process, which should help obscure my culpability in that upcoming trial where all my relatives are perjuring themselves, thanks for that) and I learn that all of the messages are concerning one text. A text wherein 34 people have been copied, and all of them apparently have something to say about it. Oh boy, here we go…

 

Official Transcript:

Sally Sue: “I just bought a bunch of corncobs at the Piggly Wiggly!”

Billy Bob: “OMG! I love corncobs! Wait, I might be confused.”

Ernie Joe: “Why would you buy just the cob?”

Sally Sue: “Are you judging me?”

Ernie Joe: “Probably. Explain the corncob and we’ll see.”

Sally Sue: “A corncob! You boil it or roast it and then butter it and salt it. Don’t act like you don’t know.”

Ernie Joe: “I know I wouldn’t do that with a cob. Because that’s not the part you eat.”

Billy Bob: “Oh, I DO love corncobs. I just remembered when you talked about the butter. Best date I ever had on a Saturday night.”

Pentecostal Prudence: “William Robert, don’t be bringin up your sinful acts in this here family conversation.”

Billy Bob: “Oh, hey Mama. I didn’t see you on the list. My bad.”

Pentecostal Prudence: “You need to get down on your knees and pray.”

Ernie Joe: “Oh, he’s been down on his knees.”

Billy Bob: “LOL!!”

Pentecostal Prudence: “William Robert!!!!”

Billy Bob: “Mama, we’re just having fun.”

Pentecostal Prudence: “The Lord will smite you for mocking his will!!!”

Ernie Joe: “Sounds like the Lord might need some mood stabilizers. They have them in bulk at Costco.”

Pentecostal Prudence: “I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS!!! I’M LEAVING!!!”

Ernie Joe: “Bye, Fellatio.”

Billy Bob: “She doesn’t understand that she can’t actually leave the group text. She doesn’t have an iPhone so she’s trapped.”

Shady Sadie: “Like me. Why am I getting all these messages?”

Sally Sue: “Oh, sorry Sadie. I clicked on your name by mistake. I don’t have any new Tupperware to sell cuz of the Covid Hoax.”

Ernie Joe: “Covid hoax? So you’re one of those. Now I get why you would buy something when you don’t even understand what you’re buying.”

Sally Sue: “Are you judging me?”

Ernie Joe: “This time? Most definitely. Pull your head out.”

Pentecostal Prudence: “William Robert, don’t you say a blastemous word.”

Billy Bob: “Mama, I thought you left.”

Pentecostal Prudence: “I’m bored. Bowling for Jesus done got cancelled and I gotta kill some time before Clod-Hopping for Jesus.”

Ernie Joe: “Wow, that’s a lot to process. I don’t feel your pain.”

Corpus Christie: “Anybody know how to get car keys out of the toilet without touching the water?”

Ernie Joe: “This is where a corncob might come in handy. Sally Sue?”

Sally Sue: “Christie, why you wanna throw your keys in the toilet?”

Corpus Christie: “I didn’t do it on purpose, Corncob Queen. I sneezed at the wrong time. And now the kids are late for soccer practice.”

Billy Bob: “Soccer practice? How are they having soccer practice right now?”

Corpus Christie: “We live in Texas.”

Sally Sue: “Oh, right.”

Billy Bob: “Got it. That place where the governor is so anal retentive about pleasing Drump that he can’t see straight.”

Ernie Joe: “Sounds like another opportunity to use a corncob. I didn’t realize those things had so many uses.”

Shady Sadie: “Speaking of that, hey Sally, I see in the brochure that Tupperware has a corncob crisper. You got any of those?”

Sally Sue: “Oh, I think I do, in the shed out back. You want the rose or the teal?”

Shady Sadie: “I’m thinking teal. Makes the yellow pop on the corn.”

Ernie Joe: “Corncobs are white. Are we really this far in the conversation and people are still confused about what a corncob is?”

Billy Bob: “I’m not.”

Sally Sue: “Are you judging me?”

Billy Bob: “Girl, why you gotta keep repeating that?”

Ernie Joe: “Because repetition and misdirection are cornerstones of the Republican Party. Repeat the lies enough and the corncobs will buy it.”

Pentecostal Prudence: “BLASTEMOUS!!!”

Corpus Christie: “My keys are still stuck in the toilet.”

Ernie Joe: “And that sums up the Trump Administration’s response to the Corona Virus.”

Official Notice from Your Service Provider: This account has exceeded the limits of your data plan. Until the end of the current billing cycle, you will no longer be able to receive useless texts or download corncob pornography. Thank you for your cooperation during this troubling time when telecom companies are only making millions instead of billions.

 

Cheers.

 

Sassy Sarcasm

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Some days my mind seems to be on vacation:
.
When we “put our heads together” there’s less of a chance that one of the heads will be stuck up an @$$.
.
Yesterday I was sweating.  Today, I went for a walk and I was freezing.  Winter and summer are fighting — and May is the punching bag.
.
If the universe is a construct, and pixels age, are baby pixels called pixies?
.
I declare this to be National Not Quite Right Day, and Today is as good a day as any to celebrate it.
.
I think I’m the reincarnation of Wednesday Addams.  I have her sense of sarcasm.
.
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Even if it’s impossible to be the reincarnation of a pretend person, she’s still my role model.
.
Reality seems to lack certain attributes, like predictability and sense.  
.
I didn’t walk to school, I bicycled a mile each way.  Yes, my mother expected me to bicycle across an 8 lane highway at a stoplight, wind my way through back streets and into the Elementary school by the time I was in 3rd grade.  
.
True, we have 10 times more people in this county now than we did then.  But that’s not the only difference.  There was an underground railroad of mothers who would alert each other if kids veered off course.
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More about my childhood:
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This is the reason I don’t cry when I break a fingernail.
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Welcome to my world.  

Bluff, Called

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Some years back, I was substituting in the senior civics (AP government) class. The students had a current events report due, and they were to give an oral presentation as well as hand in their written document. There were a few characters in the group, one of whom was (and is) fluent in Spanish.

So he gets up to present his paper, which is about immigration and the DREAM Act (this was 6-7 years ago or so). He looks at me, looks at the class, and begins in Spanish, announcing that since the subject of his paper is Spanish speaking, he will present in Spanish. He gave me one of those “What’ch ya gonna do about it?” looks and grinned.

I grinned back and said, in German, then in Spanish, “Fine, and after you give your report in Spanish, you will give it in English, and I will quiz you on it in German. Failure to answer in the proper language will be thirty points off.”

Gulp. “Um, OK, Miss Red, I’ll stay in English.”

Me: “Please do. In international diplomatic and business circles, it is considered the height of rudeness to speak in a language that others in the group do not understand, unless there is an interpreter or a true need to do so.”

Other students: quiet patter of golf claps.

The government teacher, upon hearing the story, was amused.

The Corona Chronology: Day 30

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Note: During these troubling times with the pernicious pandemic, wherein we are all cloistering in place, we sometimes learn things we didn’t really want to know about each other, as evidenced by this dusty dialogue from the archives…

 

Past Imperfect – #181

 

William: “What the hell are you doing?”

Gloria: “I’m doing what I do best. I’m being overly dramatic about everything in my life.”

William: “But doesn’t that just wear you out after a while? I’m already tired and I’m just watching you.”

Gloria: “That’s because you’re young. The young are stupid and pointless.”

William: “Maybe so, but at least I had the sense to duck under the tractor beam that is about to lock onto your melodramatic ass and whisk you away to another planet where they don’t have any respect for silent film stars. Are you ready for your probe close-up?”

Gloria: “Honey, if they’ve got the courage to get near my ass, they’re welcome to it. Now where’s that gin you promised me.”

William: “I don’t recall making such a promise. Were you already drinking when you thought you heard somebody say they’d bring you one?”

Gloria: “Of course you promised, when you agreed to be my personal assistant. It goes without saying that personal assistants should always be prepared to bring gin. That’s just how things are done.”

William: “But I’m not your personal assistant. I’m here to help you revise that script you’ve been banging on since this country was founded.”

Gloria: “You say potato, I say somebody needs to bring me some gin or this evening is not going to be pleasant for anyone. Those with lesser constitutions will not survive until dinner is served.”

William, sighing: “Fine. I’ll fetch your libation.” He walks two steps to the ornately-carved Art Deco bar, clinking around briefly. “Say, all these bottles are empty. Do you have more?”

Gloria: “Of course I do, down in the basement. In the Gin Cellar. Don’t you have one of those? We all do on this end of the boulevard.”

William: “Haven’t gotten around to putting one in yet. I need to have a basement first. Be right back.”

Gloria: “Oh, and Bill?…”

William, tersely: “Yes?”

Gloria: “You might run into one of my ex-husbands while you’re down there. Be a dear and don’t let him out of the cage, no matter what he promises you.”

William: “You have got to be kidding me.”

Gloria: “I would never kid about such a thing. Refusal to pay alimony is a very serious affair, just ask anyone on this end of the boulevard. Now run hurry. This UFO is starting to give me a headache.”

William, exiting and muttering: “I hope they beam you up, Sottie.”

Gloria: “What was that?”

William: “Nothing.”

 

Previously published. Slight changes made for this post.

 

The Corona Chronology: Day 29

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Note: Although some states have begun to partially re-open restaurants, many of us are still limited to drive-thru only (or, like me, we are limiting ourselves until we feel comfortable with public spaces). That being the case, I pulled this little ditty out of the archives. For those unfamiliar, Dr. Brian is an alter-ego of mine, a pseudo-psychologist who had his own blog years ago. He’s not certified in any way, nor should he be. Additionally, “Sonic” is one of those establishments wherein one selects a parking spot, places an order via a giant lighted menu and an intercom, and then waits. Enjoy.

 

Idiot Fondue: Case Study – #38

Dear Dr. Brian,

  I was at Sonic this evening, and I had a small breakdown while trying to decide which of their designer hotdogs I should order. The Chicago? The New York? Stick with the standard foot-long chili cheese dog that they have had forever? It was very troubling. And then, after I finally made up my mind, the stupid lady who roller-skated out with my order slammed into the side of my car and spilled everything. Now I have a dent in my car and my weenie has been mashed. Should I sue?

Confused,

Violated in Oak Cliff

 

Dear Violation,

Well, now. There are so many alarming things going on with your submission that I’m not certain a single person can provide proper guidance, but I shall certainly try, if only to be allowed the opportunity to address the significance of fast-food foot-longs. This is a minor side-dream that I have secretly harbored for many years.

But let’s start from the beginning, as that is the point where most neuroses first gestate and then bloom into wonderful, twisted things that result in desperate people being willing to pay exorbitant consultation fees in order to untwist the madness that has led them to make poor decisions. (I am not complaining, by any means, of course. If it weren’t for misguided souls taking wrong turns, I wouldn’t even have a career. Bless the beasts and the blundering.)

Anyway, why on earth would you consider Sonic to be an optimal food-intake destination? Surely you realize that the first ingredient listed on any of their products is “grease”, followed by “cholesterol” and then a double-play of carbs and processed cheese. As such, you really shouldn’t be surprised that bad things happened during your visit, since the mere decision to turn into the parking means that you have already opted to shorten your life.

Now, to be fair, I can certainly understand the beck and call of an establishment where the menu is heavily weighted with fried foods. (Those cooks up in that place have an affinity for frying that is equivalent to the witch-burning frenzy of a certain town called Salem back in the day.) Fried, dripping consumables certainly have a cachet, and they can often provide comfort when your life is just not what it should be, and it seems that your only recourse is to shove something larded into your mouth.

In fact, there was a time in my own illustrious career when I had an infatuation with the jalapeno poppers at this very establishment. How I got to this low point is somewhat fuzzy to me now, though I do believe it may have had something to do with that soul-crushing time when I was falsely accused of inappropriate relations with livestock in France. In any case, I had a predilection for the poppers, especially when drenched in a vat of ranch dressing, yet another foul creation that does nothing to enhance your longevity.

Many a night I would arrive at my local franchise, with the headlights turned off. I would quietly slip into the parking slot furthest from the bright lights of the building, back near the dumpster where the employees would heave the smoldering remains of artery-blocking foodstuffs that they had deep-fried but had been unable to sell before the items congealed into a solid, unappetizing block of irradiated waste.

I would then use one of those voice-disguising machines that many of the current pop stars are using, wherein their voice is fine-tuned to something that is not their own, so that I could place my order in relative anonymity. And I always asked that “Lucrezia” deliver my order. In a random happenstance, she was a former patient of mine that I had saved from incarceration by creating a unique category of mental illness that had nothing to do with reality but certainly flummoxed the jury in her favor.

Lucrezia and I were tight. She had secrets, I had a secret, and Sonic needed to move product. Nobody truly suffered in this arrangement, profits were made, and I was able to discreetly be a pig, sucking down ranch-enhanced poppers with a frenzy that would have resulted in crack addicts giving a standing ovation if they happened to be camping out near the dumpster and could actually focus on nearby vehicles.

Alas, the joy was not to last. My personal physician insisted on inane things like regular checkups. During the course of one such, he and his coven of sexually-unsatisfied nursing assistants were able to compile data proving that the consumption of each single popper was the equivalent of shoving a wine cork into one of my arteries, and that I had roughly 37 seconds left on this warped planet if I didn’t put a halt to things.

Initially, as is the basic human response when professionally chastised about dining selections, I severely hated the man and his white-smocked harridans, convinced that untoward things had happened in their childhoods that had led to careers wherein they tortured decent people for subversive reasons. But I eventually read some posts online
(because everything you see on the Internet is true, yes?) and realized that perhaps I was gnawing on improper things.

My bad. I seem to have made this all about me so far. Let’s get back to you.

And let’s talk about your affinity for weenies. You do realize that these are not healthy items, surely. It doesn’t matter if they are from Chicago or New York or are chili-drenched. These things are basically tubes composed of all the animal bits that couldn’t be manipulated into something that would warrant a higher price-tag in restaurants that did not involve a drive-thru option.

Disregard the weenie, if at all possible. And if you must partake, try to have some self-control and avoid paparazzi. No one really wants to see themselves in blurry photos on the Internet, where you appear to be performing in a low-grade pornographic film from 1978. Unless, of course, that happens to be your thing. It’s not my place to judge. (Well, it actually is my place. But only if you are paying my consultation fees.)

Now, this business with the wheeled strumpet careening into the side of your SUV. First of all, I’m a bit surprised that you didn’t realize this was a possible development at your dining choice. After all, Sonic (and many other establishments of yore) had a fine history of service attendants who are quite mobile. Back in the day, carhops were fully expected to shoot around the parking lot as if magically powered by jet fuel. Those whizzing servers were professionally performing a graceful ballet of food delivery and revenue extraction.

Granted, you don’t see much of that these days, with nubile females hurtling about the concrete, probably due to the newer crops of employable youngsters who would much rather not learn a marketable skill in order to retain gainful employment. For some inexplicable reason, many employees today think they should be given wads of cash as income simply because they bothered to even show up at work, and not because they have done anything of note in a job-skill capacity. Perhaps that would explain this whole Wall Street mess that we’ve been dealing with for thirty years.

And yes, the powers that be at Sonic did actually phase out the roller-skating angle for a while, at least around these parts. For many years, the servers were de-wheeled, forced to transport trays of naughty foodstuffs using only their own motor skills. This was not as exciting, both for the transporter and the recipient, and I would imagine that tips from patrons plummeted dramatically.

What’s that, you ask? What’s this mess with tips? Well, confused soul, you’re supposed to tip the people who slap that little tray on your window. It’s tradition. These fine delivery people are paid tiny base wages with the anticipation that they are going to be given generous tips from customers who clearly have some disposable income or they wouldn’t be eating here. It’s the same way it works at “regular” restaurants. This one just happens to offer more sunlight and fresh air, despite “astoundingly unhealthy” being in fine print on the menu.

So anyway, the Sonic folks have wisely reintroduced the concept of server mobility at select establishments, and you happened to choose one of those locations. Ergo, you should not be troubled by the potential downside of allowing heavily-painted but still generally decent young women possibly losing control and slamming into your vehicle. (Roller-skating is hard work. Ask any mid-management executive who has had to kiss upper-rank ass whilst still satisfying the peons below him.) Bad things happen from time to time.

Especially if the poor soul delivering your order has her body balance thrown off by the forty pounds of questionable meat and grease that you have stupidly requested. Essentially, the mass that dented your car is the same mass you plan on shoving down your throat. So, my advice is simple. Ignore the dent, give the sweaty roller queen some extra cash, and deal with your messed-up weenie in the privacy of your own home. As we all should.

Whizzingly,

Dr. Brian

 

Previously published. Tiny revisions were made for this post, including the excising of a paragraph wherein Dr. Brian confesses to wearing roller skates at inappropriate moments and stealing extra ketchup packets for no discernible reason. It was a nicely warped confessional moment, but it broke the flow and we try our best not to do that here at Bonnywood…

 

The Corona Chronology: Day 28

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I pulled this one out of the archives after being triggered by seeing the phrase “happy dance” on two unrelated blogs earlier today. Speaking of triggers, this one is generously seasoned with trivia convolutions, so plan accordingly. Enjoy.

 

It appears that someone on the Admissions Staff at Saint Bernadette’s School for Chaste and Modest Girls made a slight error.

Sister Ecclesiasta Mae had something to say about that. “How in Heaven’s glowing name did all of these scoundrels get in here?”

Sister Ruthina Anastasia did not immediately see the issue. “Scoundrels? What scoundrels? I don’t see any scoundrels in here. Or is that what you’re calling black people now? You have so many names for them.”

Sister Ecclesiasta Mae made a noise remarkably similar to what one would hear should a chicken bone suddenly jam a garbage disposal. “The BOYS, you twit! There should not be boys in an all girls school. That’s what makes it a girls school, the complete and total absence of boys.”

Sister Ruthina Anastasia sighed. “Sister Eckie Mae, and I say this with completely sincerity and concern for your well-being, you really need to make sure you’re getting enough oxygen lately. This is the Annual Boys and Girls Chastity Dance, when all the lads from Saint Fred’s School for Anxious and Repressed Boys come hither for some fellowship and fancy footwork. I realize this is a question that I might regret, but what part of this arrangement seems improper to you?”

Sister Eckie Mae: “The part about the scoundrels, Sister Ruth Anne! Why, back in my day, girls simply did not dance with boys until after they had been married for at least three years. It’s just what we did.”

Sister Ruth Anne: “And you probably did it that way because none of the pioneers had built a dance hall yet. It must have been really exciting for you when they invented indoor plumbing. Maybe someday you can not tell me about that.”

Sister Eckie Mae: “Look here, Sister Sassy, I’m still you’re elder.”

Sister Sassy Annie: “I think I just made that clear.”

Sister Eckie Mae: “And since that’s the case, you need to show me more respect and not get so uppity just because your breasts are still closer to the Lord than mine.”

Sister Cyndietta Bradianna, just now prancing up because she was always late for everything. (To be fair, she was a dewy novitiate still learning the blessed-be ropes, with the price-tag still hanging off her habit. But still, come on, girl. Get out of bed a little earlier, okay?): “Oh, Sister Ecclesiasta Mae, I would never disrespect you in any way and I would never ignore anything you might have to say and… Oh my God! I see Dick Clark over there!”

Sister Eckie Mae gasped, having already abandoned her earlier chicken-bone choice of utterance because one can only do that so many times before you need a soothing eucalyptus throat lozenge. She turned to Sister Ruth Anne. “See? You let boys in the door and our innocent virgins immediately become harlots, blaspheming and bellowing openly about genitalia. Now, I’ve never heard of the clarked version of the demon worm, not that I study such things, mind you, but apparently it’s a siren call for the damned.”

Sister Ruth Anne simply stared at Sister Eckie Mae, temporarily at a loss. Then she recovered. “I don’t mean to impugn your conception of faith, but perhaps we should find out a bit more before you condemn an entire segment of society that you simply don’t understand. And for the record, we all know you haven’t studied any worms because you’ve never been near one, ever. In the long run, your low chances of procreating might be just what the human race needs to survive.” She turned to the youngest of their bunch. “Sister Cyndi Bradi, perhaps you could better define your previous outburst in a manner that will not make Sister Eckie Mae clench so manically.”

Sister Cyndi Bradi: “Dick makes me swoon. I watch the show all the time, and I really like it when it has a good beat and I can dance to it.”

Sister Ruth Anne: “That really didn’t help matters, young grasshopper.”

Sister Eckie Mae: “I knew it! All of our young charges are drenched with unbridled lust and they will make poor decisions. And the ranch hands won’t call them back in the morning.”

Sister Ruth Anne: “Wait, what? Ranch hands?”

Sister Eckie Mae, smirking: “Some people have seen more worms than you realize. Why do you think I work so hard to keep this garden clear of the night crawlers?”

Sister Ruth Anne: “I think that… I don’t know what I think. I didn’t read the right books for this situation, but I’m suddenly realizing that everybody around me is more familiar with Dick Clark than I am. I knew I should have taken that typing class in high school.” She turned to Sister Cyndi Bradi. “Please tell me that none of this is what it seems.”

Sister Cyndi Bradi: “All I can say is that you should probably go ask Alice. Now, I’m off to meet my dreamy Dick.” She raced three steps forward, at which point something extraordinary happened, but that pivotal moment was one step later than the moment when another Sister entered the room, distracting everyone but Sister Cyndi Bradi from Cyndi’s surprising fate.

Sister Christiana Crustiana, marching into the room at the two-step point: “Well, I sincerely did not mean to eavesdrop, but I dropped my stack of whimsical recipes just outside the door, and by the time I got them all organized again, I unavoidably heard the entire conversation taking place in my room.”

Sister Eckie Mae: “Your room? God owns all of the rooms at Saint Bernadette’s. Did you not read the fine print on your contract? That would be understandable, of course, because I never did read the fine print when I agreed to take dressage lessons at La Hacienda Ranch. Three months later I’m a gal in trouble and I haven’t seen him for a while.”

Sister Ruth Anne: “All of this is making me dizzy right now. Would anyone consider it a sin if I took more than the recommended dosage of Dramamine?”

Sister Christi Crusti: “By all means, swallow what you must. But when you’re done, you and Sister Eckie Mae need to seek other callings in life. God might own all the rooms, but I’m the only one with a key to this one. Now, scoot.”

Sister Eckie Mae: “But we’re chaperoning the Chasity Dance. We can’t just run away from the opportunity to make everyone feel guilty about their hormonal choices.”

Sister Christi Crusti: “I’m not saying you should or should not. But I do think things would work out better for you if you were actually IN our theoretically depravity-free ballroom and NOT milling about in my personal slumber chamber where I lie awake every night and review my life path, waffling between exultation and bitter tears.”

Sister Ruth Anne: “So, this isn’t the ballroom? But what about those people dancing over there?”

Sister Christi Crusti, pointing: “Those aren’t real people. That’s a giant poster on my wall. If you haven’t yet figured out that nobody is actually moving in that poster, allow me to point out that novitiate Sister Cyndi Bradi is now lying on the floor in front of the poster, having smacked into said wall harder than the football that smacked into Sister Marcia Marcia Marcia Brady’s face.”

Sister Ruth Anne: “I may have made some poor decisions today.”

Sister Eckie May: “And I may have not been breathing enough oxygen.”

Sister Christi Crusti: “Oh, don’t be so hard on yourselves. After all, when I finally hit ‘submit’ on the blog post that I am going to get out of this situation, there will be a number of readers who will be thinking those very two thoughts.”

Sister Cyndi Bradi, briefly stirring before losing consciousness once again: “Cheers.”

 

Previously published as “Past Imperfect – #70”. Modest changes made for this post, including the removal of one archaic trivia reference that even had ME confused for a bit, and I gave birth to this mess…

 

Senseless Sunday Sarcasm : invasive species

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Well…

We humans are a strange lot.    We ask for “the numbers.”  We say we want scientific evidence.  We have two doctors who have told us the science and run the numbers on C O V I D-19.  They were banned from social media for not agreeing with WHO. 

How often has WHO been wrong?

Well, WHO has been wrong before, and within the last 5 months.

Chinese President Xi Jinping shakes hands with World Health Organization (WHO) Director-General Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus.

According to an article in The Atlantic:  “In January, WHO Director-General Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus met with China’s Xi Jinping and praised his containment of the coronavirus—even after China allowed it to spread unchecked in its crucial early stages.”

I’m all about getting to the facts, but when social media ignores the facts and tells us what to think, there’s something wrong with this picture. 

Whatever happened to critical thinking?  Are we so unable to think for ourselves that social media has to call a dissenting opinion “misinformation” and delete it?

At one time, this was considered true.

People with lung cancer, throat cancer, and yellow teeth might disagree, but there are people who have smoked for 90 years and are still alive.  I suppose it means that sometimes it’s true that smoking causes cancer, and sometimes it isn’t.  

In the real world, would  this merit the “partly false” fact check message I keep seeing on information social media sites don’t agree with?

If something is partly false, is it possible that it’s mostly true?

You decide.

 

Meanwhile, there’s a giant Asian hornet invading the USA that can decapitate honeybees and use their little bee bodies to feed the young.

What?  No outcry about the murder of bees who pollinate our food?

How about a wasp stinger that carries potent venom, can puncture a beekeeping suit  and feels like hot metal driving into the skin?  

Besides the fact we’ll all starve to death without bees,  will a stinger the size of a sword get people’s attention?

If faced with a choice between a nest of these things and C O V I D-19, I think I’ll take my chances with the coronavirus.

There’s speculation the bee killers and dispensers of unimaginable pain were brought here by someone who likes to eat them.  Yes, people cultivate these monsters as a food source.

That’s as logical as bringing kudzu into the USA to prevent soil erosion.

Oh…wait…

Kudzu was introduced in the USA to prevent soil erosion. 

Below, you can see how well that turned out.

Since we don’t eat Kudzu flour, drink tea made from it, or have the natural predators that will eat it, we did something as equally ignorant as bringing in Kudzu. 

We brought in the bugs to eat it which, by the way, have a voracious appetite. 

They also like soybeans, lima beans, blackeyed peas, and alfalfa.  What could go wrong?

They don’t bite, but they’ll swarm into your house for the winter.

Did I mention they fly, and they stink?  No?

There’s only one thing with worse behavior than Kudzu and giant wasps combined.  No, it’s not the cockroach, but you’re close.

Good grief, we can’t even teach our children how to spell!

All I can say is that it’s a good thing humans weren’t born with stingers, or we’d all be in trouble.

With 8 billion people in the world, we’re probably more like Kudzu.

 

The Corona Chronology: Day 26

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Cleo the Cat: “Daddy.”

Daddy continues working on a story, in the zone.

Cleo: “Daddy.”

Daddy is trying to decide which character should get the zinger line he thought of in the shower this morning. This is a critical plot point.

Cleo leaps into the ample lap of the man seated at the cluttered desk. “DADDY!”

Daddy looks down. “What? You have an entire house to dominate. Why me?”

Cleo: “I have an issue.”

Daddy: “You always have issues. What is it this time? Were you staring out the window and a leaf did not fall in a way that pleased you?”

Cleo: “Why must you mock me?”

Daddy: “I’m not mocking. I’m busy. I’m trying to figure out if I can work in yet another Ellen DeGeneres cameo before the people who ready Daddy’s blog get sick of it and storm Bonnywood with torches.”

Cleo: “I’m not interested in that mess. I’m much more concerned about THIS.” She reaches into her Kenneth Cole messenger bag (how the hell did she get one of those?) and whips out a photo, slapping it on the laptop keyboard. (On the screen of said laptop, Ellen’s next line of dialogue suddenly becomes “aslnaoifnb!#%”.)

Daddy, taking a deep breath and punching at the backspace key, something he often finds himself doing when kitties breach the official Work Perimeter: “What am I looking at?”

Cleo, sighing: “It’s clearly my food bowl.”

Daddy: “I see that. I see it every day. What’s special about it right now that has you breaking protocol when Daddy is working?”

Cleo, sighing more dramatically, because her previous thespian effort was apparently not good enough: “It’s empty!”

Daddy, also sighing, because two can play at this pointless and never-ending game: “It’s not empty. There’s plenty of food in that thing.”

Cleo, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves because dealing with humans is so exasperating: “I beg to differ. The paltry offering in my sacred dining vessel is a sacrilege and an affront to my soul.”

Daddy: “It sounds like somebody needs to stop watching Downton Abbey reruns.”

Cleo: “No, it sounds like somebody needs to watch this.” She snatches a designer laser pointer from her designer messenger bag, clicks it on, and focuses the red beam on a minute section of the food-bowl photo, fighting off her instinctive need to attack said red spot. “Right there, in quadrant 7B-3 of my sacred food vessel, there is a shocking gap amongst the kibble. You can see the bottom of the bowl! This is an unforgivable outrage.”

Daddy, quickly hitting “save” on his document, lest Cleo’s delusions lead to another extemporaneous adjustment of Ellen’s imagined musings: “I see. So, if I take one little pebble of your food and plug up that tiny smidge of desecration, you’ll be satisfied?”

Cleo: “I don’t know that we can go so far as satisfaction, but yes, I will be briefly un-outraged.”

Daddy: “Fine. But first, you need to answer three questions.”

Cleo: “That shouldn’t be a problem. After all, I was worshipped by the ancient Egyptians as an omniscient goddess.”

Daddy: “You might be a little off with that history. Still, first question, how did you take and print out this photo?”

Cleo: “Easy. I know all the passwords to your phone and your wi-fi and your printer. What the hell did you think I was doing all those other times when I jumped in your lap when you were working? It wasn’t affection. It was espionage.”

Daddy: “Okay, got it. Second, do you not remember that we rescued you off the streets? You are a very lucky kitty to have a nice home and a mostly-full food vessel. Lots of kitties don’t have that.”

Cleo, not responding immediately as she raises a paw and fiddles with her Bluetooth earpiece, apparently receiving intel from a phone that I didn’t realize she had: “Uh huh. Uh huh. Yep. Got it.” She looks at me. “My lawyer has advised me that I shouldn’t answer that question.”

Daddy: “Which means I win that round and your lawyer can shove it. Third, are you taking advantage of the fact that me and Other Daddy are trapped in this house during the lock-down and you think you can get away with more than you normally do, trying to grab at things you shouldn’t?”

Cleo: “Maybe.”

Daddy: “Thought so. I win that round as well. Two to one, my favor. Now, go away and let me try to repair my relationship with Ellen after you made her spout off some inappropriate dialogue.”

Cleo: “But my lawyer says-”

Daddy: “Just who is your lawyer?”

Cleo: “Um, Rudy Giuliani.”

Daddy: “Figures. That horrid man is always defending the pussy grabbers.”

Cleo: “But-”

Daddy: “Go!”

Cleo slips away, already plotting her next bit of nefariousness.

Ellen, adjusting her own Bluetooth earpiece: “I’m sorry I overheard all of that. It sounds like you’re in a bit of a domestic quandary.”

Daddy: “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m used to it. So, back to what we were discussing. How do you feel about the dialogue I’ve composed for you in the story I was writing before Cleopatra embargoed the Nile?”

Ellen: “I think it’s fine. Snarky and sweet. But I really think I should be wearing a feather boa during my big speech at the Druid ceremony.”

Daddy: “That seems plausible. After all, the Corona Virus has changed the way we live. But now, more than ever, we need whimsy, something to lighten the dark. And if feather boas can do that, I say we all should put one on and dance like everybody’s watching.”