Well, here ’tis two months from Christmas. Ocotober, which comes from the Latin for eight, you know. It’s named for a feast of purification. A few months laying in stuff for a winter months spent sheltering in huts with open wood fires for cooking and heating, and the Romans needed purification! Before and after. And de-fleaing, de-lousing, and to lose a whole bunch of crud buildup accumulated over the summer.
October has a bunch of linguistic relatives, like “octopus.”
The crud that passes for ‘flu has been getting around some early this year. A lot of folks are in the same shape as the old boy that told his doctor “My head feels like a pipe and my chest feels like lead.”
“You don’t need a doctor,” cracks the croaker. “You need a plumber.”
Considering the serious congestion most folks with “it” have suffered, it would make more sense to call the Roto-Rooter man to clear sinuses and ream bronchi.
All the quacks seem to want to do is tell you that you have it, so go to bed – while you are desperate for action! And results! But, speaking of croakers, did you hear the one about the young doc talking to the old doc.
“I sure made a mistake on that death certificate,” the young doc said.
“What did you do wrong?” inquired his elder.
“I signed my name in the space for the cause of death!”
I understand “doctor error” and catching something fatal in the hospital shuffles more than 300,000 of us off this mortal coil every year, so that’s probably a common mistake. That’s why there are so many consulting physicians, you know.
A consulting physician is the croaker they call in at the last minute to certify the attending croaker has done all that can be done to save the defunct. Share the blame, so to speak. But there’s been plenty misery going around, plumb plenty. But the miseries aren’t all of our troubles. Not by no means, whatsoever.
It’s an election year, too. And boy howdy, do we ever have the same old pols piling up the same old !!, higher and deeper. They remind me of the time Sue Johnson ran down her editor as he was taking on a fresh load of ballast at the Jackpot. Thick sliced baked ham with pineapple and sweet horseradish sauce, yum, yum! Anyhoo..
“I have a perfect story, Mr. Poulson,” Sue says, laughing.
“What is it, Sue? Some man bit a dog?”
“Better than that, Mr. Poulson. A bull threw a politician!”
Yep, these candidates sure know how to throw the bull. I see that cat Gore lives in a five million buck mansion. A twenty six thousand square foot palace with a basketball court and indoor swimming, no less. But he loves to talk about how his home in a little company house and how tough it is to have to live from payday to payday.
Which is the reason he’s in favor of shipping more jobs out of the country. To help the poor. In other countries. But Gore is going to help our poor too. He’s going to raise wages. I don’t know about you but big salaries never did me much good when I couldn’t find a job.
But listening to list of candidates makes me think of old Sean O’Flaherty. Most folks called him O’Flattery, an Ulsterman, and one of “Boss” Pendergast’s most reliable ward heelers. One time old Sean was seated next to the dias, and the Boss’s hand picked candidate went on and on and on until O’Flattery’s head bobbed a few times and his chin hit his chest. Asleep! Out like Lottie’s eye!
Having a supporter going to sleep during his speech upset the candidate, so the chairman picked up the gavel and whopped O’Flattery up the side of the head with it. The O’Flattery blinked, sat up, and then closed one eye.
“Hit me again wance more, misther. Oi can hear the blitherer yit,” sez the O’Flaherty.
Blitherer is a good word for those politicians. And every time I turn the boob toob on I hear those doggone blitherers and their sycophants. Nincompoops would be a better word for the hangers on.
Particularly for the one who used to be from Arkansas. I saw that one giving a speech the other night. It was on the Comedy Channel, which was certainly appropriate.
She reminds me of Birdie Birdeyes feist dog. Birdie’s husband was in Korea and “Baby Dog” was all the company Birdie had. But that dog could bark more for less reason than any dog I ever saw.
The butterflies showed up and that dog had an all day barking fit. It didn’t seem to bother the butterflies and Mrs Birdie lived far enough from her neighbors that there were few complaints.
But one of her aunts came visiting, swapping yarn and yarns if you know what I mean, and told Miss Birdie “She sure is a shrill little bitch.”
Which was a pretty fair description of the case, at that. But the hobo’s description of a flea is fine description of most political hangers on A hobo is a railroad bum who will work to keep from starving, by the way. A bum won’t work, but he will put up a good front. If that don’t work he will steal. Just like most politicians.
Anyhoo, these two ‘bos had finished a job, and got a good meal and a promise of a good breakfast. They even got enough cash money for a bottle of Dr. Tichenor’s 190 proof antiseptic apiece, so they were feeling no pain as they lay by their camp fire, chattering like a couple of jaybirds.
” ‘Ey, Ezra, wot’s the difference between a snake and a flea?” sez one.
“Aw, Joe, ‘at’s simple! Ever’body knows ‘at! A snake crawls on its own belly and a flea ain’t that p’ticular!” The crowd around the candidates ain’t that particular either.
I see the snake oil salesmen are blaming all the chills of the world on “global warming.” That crowd has so much clout right now that most scientists are afraid to question the proposition.
I saw several “educators” nobody ever heard of earning their Screen Actors Guild minimum promoting the idea that Saskatoon is going to take Miami’s place as a winter resort. I don’t think so, because the days are too short and the snow’s too deep in Saskatchewan. We don’t need educators like that, we need teachers!
Speaking of excess snow, I heard that one New York commuter had been whiling away the lonely snowbound hours in a bar. He was ecstatic when a cab driver walked in. The commuter immediately tried to get a ride home.
“Chee, man, the roads are closed, man,” says the cabbie. “My hack’s snowed in, man, I can’t move. I can’t go nowheres, man. And I sure can’t go all the way to Mineola! Why don’t you take the train home?”
“‘S no ushe,” says the well lubricated commuter. “No ushe ‘t aw. My wife would never let me keep it in the housh.”
But speaking of the O’Flattery, I was speaking of O’Flattery, wasn’t I? Any how, O’Flattery was in Parkayakarkis’ Greek Diner one night, eating one of those wiener, mustard, and sauerkraut on a bun concoctions Apollo called a New York Coney.
“Hey, Apollo, there’s a pace of wood in this darg!” O’Flattery bawls.
“A piece of wood? How that can be? That is a Armour hot dog. The best dog you can buy. I buy the best dogs, the best kraut, the best olives, the best bread, the best of everything. Nothing is second rate at Parkayakarkis’ Greek Diner.”
“Well, you nade to call that schpalpeen Armour up on the tellyphone and tell him not to put enny more wood in his hawt dargs. I don’t mind ating his dargs, but I’ll be dommed if I feel like ating the kennel!”
That Parkaykarkis, now, they made a radio show out of stuff from his place. But that’s another story.