Yesterday I was talking about Red Svenson and his wive Olga when the wife told me it was time. I didn’t know time for what but that I was being summoned. To supper, in that case.
But Thinking about those two, I ‘spect they could have been the old couple who were settin’ on the porch rocking and he says “Honey, I have sure taken you over the rough spots of life.”
And she sez “Yes, and dammit, you ain’t missed a one.”
But speaking of speakers reminds me of the feminist speaker they had down here at the community center.
Miz Dye said one speaker had a take on Adam and Eve all her own. Starting back in the Garden of Eden when Eve called out to God;
“Lord, I have a problem.”
“What’s the problem, Eve.”
“Lord, I know you created me, and provided this beautiful garden. I appreciate it, especially all these lovely animals and that funny snake. But I’m
lonely. And I’m sick to death of apples. I’m just not happy.”
“Well, in that case I will create a man for you, Eve.”
“What’s a man, Lord?”
“Eve, the man will be a flawed creature, with aggressive tendencies, an enormous ego, and the man will be unable to listen to you or emphasize with you properly. All in all, he will give you a hard time. But hell be bigger and faster
and stronger than you. He will need your advice to think properly. He will be good at fighting and kicking a ball around, hunting fast running animals, and not altogether bad in the sack.”
“Sounds great, Lord,” says Eve, “But what’s the catch.”
“Well, Eve, you can have him on just one condition.”
“What’s that, Lord?”
“You have to let him believe I made him first.”
The lady who told that one thought it was funny – but preferred the Genesis version. Anyhow, looking at the news I see the IQ testers claim NASCAR fans run ten IQ points smarter than average.
That must be a shock to the media, especially to one of the more
pulchritudinous talking heads who recently fumed that NASCAR dads are stupid enough to vote for “one of them.”
Considering “blue states” investment bankers are supposed to be superior examples of the populace, and none seem capable of understanding a simple declarative sentence such as “I am on your do not call list!” or “Do not call me again;” as well as questions such as “What part of do not call me do you not
understand?,” I don’t have a great deal of respect for the blue states general level of intelligence.
Or of the intelligence of this logorrheic but pneumatic dentiloqist’s facticidal tribe in particular. After the script runs out I consider the female members of that tribe to be examples of the dolichocephaloblonde typified by Marie Wilson as Irma, and her male counterparts by Edgar Bergan’s Clem
She kinda’ reminds me of the blonde who was out for spin in the country. Blondie tools by a wheat field and notices a blonde in a rowboat rowing away in the middle of the field. So Blondie slams on brakes, hops out, and spectates for a while. Finally, she can’t stand it any longer so she shouts to ask the rower
what she thought she was doing.
“It’s an ocean of wheat,” the blonde boater shouts back. “I’m rowing.”
Blondy was furious. “It’s blondes like you that give the rest of us a bad name,” she shouted. The rower just shrugged her shoulders and kept on rowing. And that really made Blondy angry.
She jumped back in her car, cranked up, and left with a parting shot out the window: “If I could swim I’d come out there and kick your behind.”
Now, let me add that I used seven dollar words to describe the zoftig poseuse under derision, because the PC cops say we gotta use words that are over their heads so’s not to give offense.
If they can understand you they can choose to be offended! But she does remind me of Frankie, who got an emergency call from
his very blonde girl friend, Jill.
“I bought a jigsaw puzzle and it’s too hard for me. There are thousands of
pieces, and I can’t find an edge piece anywhere.”
“OK, Jill, I’ll come over after work and see what I can do. But what’s the picture on the box?” sez Frankie.
“It’s a big red rooster,” sez Jill.
That evening Frankie shows up and is ushered to the kitchen table. After looking the situation over, he says, “Jill, for heavens sake, put your corn flakes back in the box.”
Actually, that news sheila most reminds me of a reporter for the Denver Post who had a flat up in the mountains. Undaunted, the intrepid scribe jacked
his car up, the spare out, took the lug nuts off, and was just hoisting the spare on the lugs when a rattlesnake started buzzin’.
The scribbler was so excited he picked up the snake and beat his lug wrench to death.
Of course, this well endowed paraphrast works for a network whose employees were instructed in the proper way to negotiate a revolving door. According to a reputable newspaper, all the news room employees were handed a memo entitled
“Follow These Simple Steps When You Use the Doors.”
Quoting the paper, “To enter the secure space move directly into the revolving door compartment. The door will start automatically. One person per compartment. Keep hands, feet, and bags away from the edges of the door.”
Reasonable enough – so reasonable a NASCAR dad or mom would not have to be told.
Somehow, I don’t think mouthy’s bosses regard reporters and news readers as very smart. But that reminds me of a story I heard about the New York Times editor who was bending his elbow in a Big Apple bar.
A cab driver walked in and his fare waved him to the bar. The cabbie ordered a seltzer, turned to ye ed and asked if he’d heard the latest scandal at the Times.
“No,” said the editor, straightening up to his full height. “But let me warn you that I’m an editor at the Times.”
“S’awright,” sez the cabbie. “I’ll tell you really slowly.”
That sounds reasonable to me. Most of the news media puts me in mind of Charley Greener’s boy Rufe. I was in the Ben Franklin one time and Rufe comes in for a box of moth balls. “OK,” sez Hazlewood, “But didn’t you buy a box yesterday
and a box the day before?”
“Yeh,” mumbles Rufe, “But them moths are so durn fast they’re hard to hit.”
Well, back to the news, I see we now have politically correct computer viruses that put a message on your screen that your computer has been taken over by electronic microorganisms. I suppose it was bound to happen.
We already had those Hanoi Jane programs that aid and abet viruses as your anti-virus program tries to delete them. And the PBS virus, which stops your computer every three minutes and asks for money.
The E-bugs do have their champions. I hear Mary Tyler Moore is raising money to save the viruses; while Brigitte Bardot is getting some sexy looking gals to strip naked to protest cruelty to E-virii.
And then there’s that new organization, PETEL. People for the Ethical Treatment of Electronic Lifeforms. I guess that proves there’s a crazy cause for every loose nut. Or for every nut on the loose.
Hmmm, CNN says Duke University Hospital washed sterile surgical instruments in not so sterile hydraulic fluid. Sounds typical. Doctors mistakes and hospital infections reputedly kill almost 300,000 Americans every year – more than
automobile accidents, AIDS, and breast cancer combined – and according to this lament a quack doc amputated the wrong leg.
So the sawbones went back and amputated the right leg. Which left the atient without a leg to stand on. And without a doctor to testify against the quack in his lawsuit.
Down under, a woman drag racer was fined $850 for drag
racing on a busy commercial street with three children in the car. The loser, who had his wife and children aboard, was fined $1,100! And an Austrian court put a ghost haunting a house in jail.
They don’t say why the ghost had a grudge against the homeowner, though.
Up in Iowa fertilizer dealers are adding something to their anhydrous ammonia. Anhydrous is a vital ingredient in the illicit manufacture of that bad drug called meth – and the addition will turn anyone who swallows or smokes meth
made from treated ammonia bright fluorescent yellow.
That’s what you could call a dirty yellow trick! I would suggest
Mississippi require adding the stuff to all anhydrous sold in the state but I’m sure that at least some Legislators would filibuster.
Mississippi can’t afford to lose another industry, you know!
Speaking of the news, I used to enjoy the late Paul Harvey, who said that a British boffin says the first man to live to be a thousand is already past 60. Now, that just might be so – but I sure hope Doc Methuselah does Ponce de Leon one better
and knows where the fabled Fountain of Youth lies.
Considering the aches and pains I have picked up in the last eighty years I don’t think I want 12 times that much before I report for reassignment. And I can just see the expression on the Senate’s collective face when they realize
that a man who works for 40 years will expect Social Security to pay for 935 years of retirement! Somehow the amount paid in and the amount paid out just does not work out. Unless you can live on a hundred bucks a year.
The thought of living that long reminds me of Greek story about the pretty but vain gal who asked Apollo to make her immortal. The sun god did, but she forgot to ask for eternal youth. And you know the rest of that story.
She’s still around, they say, but she hasn’t shown her face in public for two or three thousand years.
The Greeks had a lot of stories like that. They were intended to teach the younger set about life, and maybe do it with a smile to boot. Like some of the stories Aesop told, which always have something cogent.
Like the story about the crow and the rabbit. The crow was sitting in a tree, enjoying the good life, when a rabbit hopped up under the tree.
“Mr. Crow” asked the rabbit, “Can I also sit around and do nothing all day?”
“Sure,” cawed the crow, “Just lay down where you are and rest easy.”
So the rabbit stretched out and soon went to sleep. All of a sudden a fox appeared and ate the sleeping rabbit up, bones and all.
“Leaving not a scrap for me?” complained the crow, “I’m the one who provided your meal.”
Aesop had a different take on it, but these days every wage slave should heed the moral of that story. You must be very high up to sit, do nothing, and expect to be paid.
Of course, there are modern stories in same vein. Like the sad tale of Ulf af Trolle. Ulf was a Swedish economist who labored over a hot typewriter for years on a book detailing Swedish economic solutions.
When he finished it he took his precious manuscript to a Stockholm Kinkos.
Where a clerk mistook the shredder for a copier and turned 14 years of work into confetti in less than 30 seconds! And no, Ulf didn’t keep carbons! The moral?
Always make backups. Of everything. Always! Without fail!
How about the two clerks and their manager who cut across a park on their way to lunch. One of the clerks kicks a clod and discovers it’s a very dirty antique lamp. He rubs it, and the Genie of the Lamp appears.
“I usually grant three wishes,” says the Genie, “But
since there’s three of you I will grant one wish each.”
“Fine,” says the first clerk. “I want to be on a beach in the Bahamas without a care in the world.” Poof, she’s gone!
“Me next, me next,” shouted the second clerk. “I want to be on a beach in
Hawaii, with a tray of pina coladas on my beach towel and a beautiful woman in my lap.” Poof, he’s gone.
“Ok, says the Genie to the manager. “You next.”
The manager says “I want those in the office at one o’clock sharp.”
And of course, the moral is to always let the boss have first say!
Anyhoo, everyone has a little different outlook on life, and a little different sense of humor. A joke that will have some folks laughing for days often leaves me completely cold. It’s not that I don’t get the point of the “joke,” it’s just not funny to me.
Not that I would qualify as a humor critic in any way. I’m about like the gal that applied for a job at the Treasury Department in Washington.
“What are your qualifications?” asked the personnel manager.
“Well,” the girl replied, “I always like to handle money.”
Roger that – but I don’t get it we will have some well fed dogs.