Potpourri, and discontinuity.

One of my summer guests came with a cold, and I wish she had left it behind. As miserable as she was, I think she felt the same way.
But if this post is like the dictionary, changes subjects too often, you will know the reason why.

OK, I see Baltimore is mulling over a curfew. ‘Minds me of the teen ager, about fifteen, called her mama at four AyeEmm. Mama was walking the floor, owl eyed, full of coffee, and she was a tad short with the gal.

“Don’t get upset, Mom. I’m perfectly safe. I’m in jail.”

“Oh,” says Mom, followed by a short silence. “Enjoy yourself, Dear,” sez Mama, and hangs up.

I notice that all the teens the press asked about the curfew were against it – but none of them went to the Council meeting to oppose it. “Silence grants consent,” as the Italians say.

Speaking of teenagers, one of my friends in the teachin’ profession told me that one of his students was late. He came in spang in the middle of class.

“Coach,” the boy says, “I had to make my own breakfast this morning, so that’s why I’m late.”

“I don’t believe it, and we’ll talk about it later,” says the teacher. “Right now I want to know where the Mexican Border is.”

“That’s the problem, Coach,” the boy says. “I sure wish I knew! My maw ran off with him last night and that’s why I had to make my own breakfast.”

Well, the Fourth is past, and all the amateur chefs can go back into hiding. You know, Adam was bound to have been the unhappiest husband who ever lived. He couldn’t throw up what a wonderful cook his mother was to Eve.

‘Course, Eve couldn’t throw up what a wonderful man her first husband was to Adam, either. That did help even things out.

And you know why Solomon was the wisest man in the world. Solomon was the wisest man in the world because he had so many wives giving him advice!

Anyhoo, about half the politicans are gearing up to run for president. Even though the elections are two years off. Me, I sort of agree with the Old Buzzard who was asked about his politics.

The OB said, “I only vote for a man who runs for election. When a man runs for re-election, it means he hasn’t been able to lay his hands on it the first time.”

I remember when I was drinking a Coke in the Jackpot and one of the reporters came in and braced her editor. “I have a perfect news story! You’re going to love it!”

“What is this wonderful story, a man bit a dog?”

“Oh, no! This is a lot better than that. A bull threw a Congressman.”

Yep, we turn a goodly portion of the bull throwers out every election, but we haven’t treated them like they do losers down in Mexico. I used to play with a Mexican boy name of Miguel Huerta. Mike’s uncle was into politics, below the border. Mike was really sad about the deal his uncle got.

“Mi tio, my uncle, he run for alcalde, mayor, de Cuidad Victoria, and he was elected. He run for Juge de Estado, State Judge, and he made it. He run for Gobornador de Tamaulipas, and he made it. He run for El Presidente de Mejico, and he don’t make it. So he make a run for the border. He don’t make that neither.”

No sir, we turned a goodly portion of the rascals out, but we haven’t shot any losers yet. Durn it, I sometimes think we ought to at least hang them!!

A lot of politicians are as shallow as their Shakespearean campaign speeches. You have heard them, full of sound and fury and signifying nothing.

They all use the same “reform” speech, “I want housing reform… welfare reform… educational reform… I want agricultural subsidy reform… I want…”

And most of the audience would like to give them chloroform! Giving these vote buyers a Manila necktie and a short drop would be poetic justice.

You know why smart Congresspersons have an aide follow them around with three sharp pencils and a legal pad. That’s so they can remember to forget all the promises they made once they are safely elected.

I been hearing folks up and down the line say that neither the President nor her husband have gotten the message. Well, I ‘spect those folks that say if the prez and her consort don’t get the wax out of their ears the voters will hand out another spanking come November 2016 are perfectly correct.

I was talking to a frisky Young Lady of 83 years, up in Minnesota – and she told me why Hilary didn’t run for President herself. It’s the requirements of the job! A President must be 40 and a good leader – and everybody knows men quit following women when they turn forty!

Reading the news mags, the losers still don’t get it. It’s simple – the politicians didn’t agree with the voters. The voters felt the pols have a sort of bridge character – their honor is weak and they are simple. The reasons for all the defeats weren’t hard to figure out. Like the little boy said…

“My uncle’s a politician.”

“What’s your uncle running for?”

“They looked up his record and he’s running for a plane!”

Now, I’m a liberal, at least I was a liberal until the money men became the predominate influence in liberalism. I guess we must have come full circle, because nowadays “conservatives” talk like Jefferson/Roosevelt liberals, while the “liberals” sound like a cross between Marie Antoinette and Karl Marx.

Listen carefully and you will hear the Nuliberal slogan, “Take everything from those that have anything and give the cake to the poor. Put my address on the rest, but don’t tell anyone.”

In a way, politicians remind me of an old story about the two morons in an school for the mentally shortchanged. This particular school had a lake in front of it. One of the goofs couldn’t swim a lick, t’ other could swim like a fish. The one that couldn’t swim tried to swim across the lake. Naturally, he got just over head deep and sunk, plumb out of sight.

The guy who could swim jumped in, found the other fellow, pulled him back to shore, and hauled him up on the dry. Then he singlehandedly carried him into the school and put him in his dorm room.

The psychiatrist running the place questioned the shortwit, who told him why he rescued the non-swimmer: “The guy is nuts trying to swim across that lake, when he can’t swim a stroke. I can swim and I saved him. He’s a brother human being, that’s why.”

The doc says, “You are a hero and obviously you don’t belong in this school for the mentally handicapped. I’d like to talk more about it to you, tomorrow.”

The swimmer was summoned back to the psychiatrist’s office the next day, and questioned about the rescue. He told the same story, almost word for word.

“Well, I have some sad news,” the doc said. “Your heroism was all in vain. Do you know, after your brought him back in out of the water, he hanged himself?”

“Yeah, Doc, I did it. I hung him up so he could dry!”

Yep, our pol’s do as much bad as they do good. They don’t pay attention to the probable results of the laws they pass. When something causes more trouble than it cures, their remedy is more of the same. Even when they do something right they use a sledgehammer to drive tacks. As Will Rogers said, “Congress is the funniest thing in the world. Every time they make a joke, it’s a law.”

Of course, politicians do have a problem. Sometimes people remind me of the fellow that came to a screeching halt behind Mullendore the banker, while Ten Eyck and Shorty Breck were trying to teach Mullendore to play Sheepshead. The Germans call that game Schatskopf, and you don’t learn it overnight.

This pest kibitzer kept telling Mullendore to play this card or that card. “Play the seven instead of the nine.” The advice worked! Next hand it was “Not the King, play the Jack.” Again the advice worked!

The next hand put Mullendore completely at sea. He couldn’t make head nor tail of his hand. So he turns to the pest and
says “Should I play the deuce or the ten?”

“I’m glad you asked me that. I been meaning to ask you something, too. What game are you playing?”

Much of the time, the people don’t know what game the politicians are playing. We let too many politicians get by with talking right and voting wrong. And, like they say, power is habit forming. So is spending money.

Congress has left this country as broke as a pickpocket in a Nudist camp.

Not that you could get a pol to admit that! Sometimes Congress reminds me of that old story about the guy whose sight and hearing were failing him.

Doc looks him over and asks if he drinks. “Not much, just a fifth every day or two,” says the patient.

“Well,” the croaker gasps. “That’s why your eyesight and hearing are failing you. You have to give up alcohol in any form whatsoever.”

A month later the sawbones was at a party and here’s his going blind and deaf patient – stewed to the gills! The croaker came down on the lush like a ton of bricks.

“Didn’t I tell you to give up drinking? Don’t you know that you will become totally blind and utterly deaf if you don’t give up drinking. Why in the world would you give up your eyesight and your hearing just to get drunk?”

“Doc, itsh lige thish,” slurs the drunk. “Whad I been drinkin’ is sho mush bedder dan wat I been sheein’ an ‘earin’ a’ I deshided to shtay drunk.”

Yep, a lot of Congresspersons are so drunk on the power of the office they forget to pay sober attention to the good folks who granted them that power.

I heard that a couple of soon-to-be-unemployed Senators came to Washington in ’70. Their wives had become good friends but every time these two met they quarrelled. Finally, these two lame ducks met in Chicago, in O’Hare airport. Naturally, a row started – and their wives intervened!

“Boys,” the wives said, “this has to stop. You are both in the same party, you are in the same boat, you will both be out of office in January, and you will both be looking for a job. Let’s go to the bar, have a drink, and make peace.”

So they went to the bar, and everybody got a drink. The wives turned to their husbands and said “Now, make a toast to each other.”

One of the lame ducks raised his glass and said, “Here’s wishing for you what you’re wishing for me.”

“Oh, oh, oh, now you’re starting all over again,” yelled the other.

I used to know a long tall drink of water, name of Willie. Willie and I used to put on boxing gloves and have at it. Willie became headwaiter in a fancy Tulsa cafe. Willie told me that they had a big banquet one night for a presidential candidate. Boy, was this loser putting on the dog!

“Waiter,” he says to Willie, “Make sure the caviar is imported, because I can’t tell the difference.”

A lot of pol’s were kicked out because they couldn’t tell the difference. They knew where the power and the money was, though.

Willie got to be headwaiter because he tickled his boss. A Congressman from Tulsa came in at the height of a big rush. All Willie’s tables were full, so the pol was seated at another waiters table. After Willie toted three, four orders past him, the Congressman hollered, “Do you know who I am?” at Willie.

“No, Sir, but I’ll ask around and if I find out I’ll come back and tell you,” says Willie, straight face. Tickled his boss, plumb, but it didn’t strike the little pistol with the big bang as being funny, for some reason.

Yep, a lot of folks voted Republican. Looks like some of them thought their dog would leave home if they voted for a Democrat.

You know, a lot of the defeated politicians are in the same boat as Wyatt Cochran was. Wyatt worked in Joe Nichols’ sawmill for 25 years. Joe got tired of seeing Wyatt out behind the stacks taking a smoke, or Wyatt on top of the stacks taking a nap, or Wyatt out in the parking lot working on his car, and Joe was really tired of keeping his legs crossed at the backhouse waiting for Wyatt to come out, so Joe fired him!

Wyatt took it pretty calmly, at that.

“Mr. Nichols” he says, “I been here twenty six years next month, and if you are going to fire me at least give me a good letter of recommendation.”

“I guess I do owe you that much, Cochran,” says Nichols.

“Charlotte, write Wyatt a letter of recommendation. Put it: `To Whom it May Concern: Wyatt Cochran worked for me for 25 years. When he left I was perfectly satisfied.’

You can bet the voters will be perfectly satisfied when the losers leave office. They just aren’t leaving until January! They are draggin’ their feet!!

Hadn’t thought of Sawmill Joe in years. Joe was a widower. His first wife was struck by lightning in ’29, and his second wife died just after Pearl Harbor. Everybody had Joe pegged for Salisaw’s perpetual most eligible bachelor.
It surprised everyone when he started dating a girl name of Eunice from Fort Smith. Jack Sharpe said he was sitting in the Rexall in Muldrow and Joe and the Fort Smith gal were in a booth, behind him, where he could hear every word.

“I seem to be very popular with the men, Joe. Tell me, is it my eyes or my figure?”

“No, neither one of those, Eunice.” says Joe.

“Is it my hair, or my complexion?

“Neither of those either, Eunice.”

“Then it’s my personality?”

“No, it’s not your personality either.”

“Well, I give up!” says Eunice.

“That’s the reason!” Joe says.

Like they say, “A dame is as strong as her weakest nk.” Joe dated Eunice for about a month. Before anybody knew Joe and Eunice weren’t a regular thing, Joe put the word out the mill would be closed for a week. “Soft market, lack of demand” he said. “Going to buy some machinery,” he said.

Then Joe and his secretary, Charlotte Curtis, went on a buying trip to Memphis. When they came back she was Charlotte Nichols. “Nothing like a little competition to make a woman decide,” he said. I always figured the thought of having to find a new secretary was even more decisive!

Anyhow, Joe was a sentimental bloke, when it didn’t get in the way of business. When Joe married his second wife he brought her home and told her: “You can change this house anyway you please. Throw everything out, paint it, and take the truck to Tulsa or the Fort and buy all new, if you want to. But my first wife’s hat is on the closet shelf. Whatever you do, please don’t disturb it.”

When he brought Charlotte home he made the same speech. “Do anything to the house you want to do, but my first two wives favorite hats are on the closet shelf. Whatever you do to the house, please don’t disturb them.”

“I won’t touch them, Joe, but I will tell you one thing. The next hat that goes up there will be a John B. Stetson with Joe Nichols written in the band.”

Stramger

This entry was posted in Humor. Bookmark the permalink.