“–so remember the name, Muckenmeyer’s Discount Beer when it’s the price–not the quality– that counts. You’re listening to WDUH, one-oh-nine-pont-four and a half on your FM dial. We take you now to the Rentacenter Civic Center in beautiful downtown East Hogwash for the Fourth Annual Commencement of the upstate campus of Downstate University at Hogwash, where University President Porterhouse Mistake is wrapping up his opening remarks. All of us here at the WDUH community offer our heartiest congratulations and good wishes to the Class of 2011 as we join the graduation already in progress”:
“- off your cell phones. We have another friendly reminder that for the duration of our time here, this venue, just as on the entire campus at DUH, we are a drug-, alcohol-, smoke-, perfume-, sugar-, tree nut-, ground nut-and trans fat-free zone. Please accept our apologies for the delay of the ceremony as well as gratitude for your patience while the Haz Mat team took care of the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup wrapper in the south end of the Rentacenter parking lot. I’m told that the process normally doesn’t take as long as it did, but this time the wrapper originated from a twin-pack.
“Now, before we get to our commencement address and the awarding of the degrees, I beg your forbearance as I have been called upon to make just one more announcement. The History Department would like to inform Mr. Bradley Freen his final thesis is overdue. . . That’s odd. I seem to be experiencing a bit of déjà vu. If that’s the same fella who failed to finish his course work last year –and the year before-- one imagines that the principle on his student loan must be approaching the figure of the National Debt.
“At this point it is –or would have been– my distinct privilege to introduce our previously- announced speaker today, best-selling novelist and star of the popular reality show, Shore Enuff! – the inexplicable Woozi. Just a couple of hours ago I received a text message from Ms Woozi’s publicist to the effect that there has been a scheduling conflict. Ms Woozi has decided to honor a previous commitment by keeping her appointment at Geri’s Spa and Tanning Salon. Therefore, I am sorry to say that she will not be gracing us with her presence today, though I’m sure Woozi will be here in spirit! I might add that nothing kept her spirit –and her considerably ample flesh– from schlepping up to the Bay State to grab that honorary doctorate from M.I.T. but, in keeping with the decorum of the day, I’ll let that pass.
“I’m certain all of you will be gratified to know that one of East Hogwash’s favorite sons has been gracious enough to step in at the last minute. Esteemed faculty, beloved parents, underemployed alumni, and of course, the Class of 2011: Let me introduce someone you may already know –a man who never met an old joke he didn’t like--highly respected local businessman, owner and operator of Bucky’s Gas’n’ Go, give it up for the ever-available Lloyd “Bucky” Sinclair!”
“Thank you profs, moms, dads, and grads. As you see it took me a whiles to get up on this here whatchamacallit –“
“-Podium ‘cause you can see I’m on crutches. Just a little mishap the other day when I pulled a hammy from constantly goin’ and up down on the ladder to change the price per gallon.
“But as you can see, I made it down here all right. Maybe next time you’ll come and see me. Just about every day you can find me at Bucky’s Gas ‘n’ Go, down at the inner section of US 20 and County Route 66, right across the road from Slappy’s Tae Kwon Do Academy and kitty corner to Fluffy Puppy Pet Groomers. We’re about five minutes downwind of the Town Landfill and Waste Treatment Plant, you can’t miss us. Especially on a hot day like today.
“When you visit us, why not stay for lunch? I’m happy to say that the trouble over the burritos got settled out of court. Even if you don’t have a hankering for Mexican food, our delicious franks and assorted hot snacks will be available as soon as we can get the equipment up and running again. My lovely wife, Mrs. Sinclair, assures me that she’ll have the microwave all cleaned out and disinfected as soon as she is damned good and ready.
“Meantime we always have plenty of bagged snacks on hand at the Gas’n’Go– chips, prentzels, you name it. Every snack item sold at the Gas’n’Go carries has a guarantee that its expiration date is not past three weeks ago. That’s our pledge to you, our valued customers. Sometimes I gotta take a hit, but that’s all part of runnin’ a small business.
“Speaking of small business, my eight year old twins, Mitt and Newt Sinclair, will have the grand opening of their lemonade stand the day after summer vacation starts. I know that all o’ yahs are good Americans who buy locally, so of course, you’ll visit the boys’ lemonade stand. Their lemonade will go down good with the bagged snacks, especially since the lemonade stand will be open during the hottest time of the day, and during them hours the Gas’n’Go won’t be sellin’ any other cold beverages.
(Sound of a slap on the forehead) “Whoops! Silly me. I almost forgot why I was here! With yahs graduating and all, I’m s’possed to tell you some things that will jumpstart yahs on the Road o’ Life. I’m not much on book learnin’ myself, but I guess I picked up a couple of things from owning and operating the Gas ‘n’ Go. So here are some guidelines all of yahs should follow.
(Sound of a piece of paper being unfolded.) Lemme put my readin’ glasses on. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with my eyes –my arms are too danged short. Anyway, here we go:
One. Rotate your Tires.
Two. Always remember to have your oil changed and your sparks and points checked on a regular basis.
Three. Before Old Man Winter strikes, don’t forget the antifreeze. How do you make antifreeze? Hide her nightgown.
Four. Even after you finish school, keep on learnin’. When yahs go to the fountain of knowledge, yahs should open the gas cap o’ your brain and tell the attendant: “Fill ‘er up!”
And Finally-- Five. Whatever kind of a job you get after graduation -- it iould be runnin’ a jackhammer, trainin’ a bunch of raw recruits, or dentistry, remember the motto of the Oil Biz– “Drill, Baby, Drill!”
Well, Grads, that just about wraps it up. I wish yahs all best of luck out there in the real world. I know times are tough all over, not just for you and me but for everybody, even the Parent Company of the Gas ‘n’ Go– International Windfall Oil, Inc. Last quarter Windfall posted a profit of only three hunnerd and sixty five point one billion. Our CEO was forced to sell one of his nine mansions.
But congratulations, Grads! As my personal gift to you, every diploma given out today will contain a coupon good for a dollar off a lube job only at Bucky’s Gas ‘n’ Go between June 24 and Labor Day. PLUS– if you present a valid receipt from Mitt and Newt’s lemonade stand, I’ll actually look under the hood.
Previous DUH Commencement Addresses
I had almost forgotten about this little ditty posted way back on in July of Ought Nine. (Maybe I should have forgotten about it!)
Then, I opened the Sunday newspaper today and saw this:
Even the first name's the same.
Yours truly must be physic, I mean, psychic. Well, I'm told I've always had
"ESP"--an Extra Stultifying Personality.
PS. The quotation marks are around the wrong "art" in the title.
Last edited by AuntShecky; 01-15-2012 at 03:43 PM.
Words of Whiz Dumb 2012
--was Led Zeppelin with “Stairway to Heaven.” You’re listening to WDUH, one-oh-nine-point-four and a half on your FM dial. Up next the Fifth Annual Commencement of the upstate campus of Downstate University at Hogwash, proudly brought to you by Muckenmeyer’s Discount Beer. Remember the name-- Muckenmeyer’s -- when it’s the price–not the quality– that counts. We take you now to the Rentacenter Civic Center in beautiful downtown East Hogwash for the ceremony, where University President Porterhouse Mistake is concluding his welcoming remarks. All of us here at the WDUH community offer our warmest wishes to the Class of 2012 as we join the graduation already in progress:
“-happy to have you with us here in East Hogwash on this lovely day in May. Don’t worry about those threatening clouds–if they’re anything like our typical students, they’ll take their sweet time producing anything. Our ceremony will be underway presently, right after a few brief announcements. First, will the lady with the broken hip please remove her screws? You’re setting off all the metal detectors. Also, please move your walker, as it does not meet the qualifications for a handicapped parking space.
“Next we are happy to announce that this year we will have our very first graduates from our relatively new department of Martian Language and Literature. I’d like the Chairman of that department, Distinguished Professor William McGonagall to stand up and take a bow. (Sporadic applause.) Well done, Professor. Or should I say “Vrvlz Waashull”? Now some of you may be wondering what kind of employment opportunities await those who hold a bachelor’s degree in Martian. Well, Prof. McGonagall tells me that two of his graduates have already received job offers from the Fox News Network.
“Finally, I have a bit of news which may disappoint some of you, and perhaps make the rest of you stand up and cheer. We’ve received word that our original commencement speaker, The Situation, will be unable to make it as he has found himself tangled up in a Situation. Instead we have another speaker who has graciously agreed to step in at the last minute
to deliver this year’s Words of Wisdom. Today we are pleased to have, live and in person, right here in the East Hogwash Rentacenter Civic Center the author of the book that is number 3469 (with a bullet) on the Amazon Best Seller List. The book is “How the One Percent Lives” by a distinguished and highly successful lifestyle consultant to the Very Rich. So now, without further ado, Ladies and Gentlemen, give it up for L. Pierpoint Goldrich.” (Half-hearted applause.)
“Thank you, President Mistake. Faculty, shameless alumni, debt-ridden parents, and apparent graduates, let me first offer my condolences for being forced to attend a less-than-Ivy League institute of somewhat higher learning. I beg your indulgence if I lack the common touch and if I fail to “connect” with any of you. As a consultant to our country’s most successful citizens, I lack experience within the ranks of the hoi polloi, the so-called “99 percenters” of whom all of you are shining examples. For instance, I am more at home in the company of billionaire hedge fund managers rather than minimum-wage hedge trimmers. This is something you may know if you’ve happened to have read my book. If not, you’ll be pleased to know that immediately after the ceremony, you’ll be able to purchase a copy from one of the booths set up at all the Rentacenter exits.
“Having said that, as we go forward I will be more than happy to fill you in on how your superiors live. On my helicopter ride down here, I couldn’t help noticing the type of automobiles in the parking lot, most of which are low-priced, previously owned vehicles. Well, ladies and gentlemen, my clientele would not stoop so low as to let their help drive around in such humble conveyances. Not only that, my client’s chauffeurs have no use for parking lots, garages, or on-street parking. Instead they have car elevators. That in itself is a phenomenon known only to the Very Wealthy, but what’s even more amazing is how the cars themselves can push the appropriate button for the floor they want.
“Secondly, as I look out upon the assembly I see that the fashion sense among the ninety-nine percenters differs greatly from that the haute couture of my clients. In all my years of catering to the One Percent, I’ve never seen one of them ever purchase an article of clothing off the rack. By contrast, some of you look like you’ve just rolled out of the rack.
“I may be wrong, but I’m guessing that while some of you may own your own houses (which real estate salesmen endearingly insist upon calling ‘homes’), I use the term ‘owning’ loosely. I’m willing to bet– what you say, ten thousand dollars?– that most of you have mortgages. Maybe your property is, as they say, “under water,” or perhaps you have found yourself in foreclosure, or you’ve taken a second or third mortgage out in order to finance your child’s college education, which evidently ends today. Of course, most of you can only afford to rent a substandard place to exist. Again, my clients are not at all concerned with any of these problems. As a matter of fact, the only problem the One Percenters have with housing is remembering exactly how many houses they own.
“Now, I bet you all think you know what I’m going to say next. That I’m going to tell you that now that you have an education, you’ll have the opportunity to succeed. That all it will take is a little hard work, and someday you’ll leave the ranks of the bottom 99 percent and shoot straight up to the top and become a member of the One Percent.
“Well–all I can say is lots of luck with that one, kids. From my standpoint, the only way this will happen to you is if you win a multi-million lottery. Because you’re sure as hell not going to get rich with a degree from DUH! Thank you, and – what’s the phrase you folks like to use? Oh, yes. Have a nice day.”
Previous DUH Commencement Addresses
Last edited by AuntShecky; 05-25-2012 at 05:13 PM.
Just thought I'd leave, what JOH calls, "a dropping", on your thread so you know at least one of your chums has read it! lol. I must say, I was hoping for a more worked up story about the lady with the broken hip setting off metal detectors, perhaps involving airports, security guards, strip searches, swat teams and handcuffs - but maybe you are not feeling up to this yet
This last offering is perhaps a little too true to life to be side splittingly guffaw inducing, but but it did twitch the corner of the Hawk's beak as he cast an eagle eye over it looking for rabbits, but there was not a hare out of place, Maybe I'll flap around and see if I can't drive Bambi to jump off a cliff so I can pick over his bones at my leisure. Failing this there are always tortoises to drop from altitude.
Live and be well - H
Last edited by Hawkman; 05-27-2012 at 06:14 PM.
Oh no, not again...
Thank you for your reply which reads like a storyboard for a Wile E. Coyote cartoon. Warner Brothers take note!
It’s been ages since we’ve heard from Debi Snotenlocker. So let’s check in with the Real Housewife of East Hogwash and see how Debi, Brad, and their brood are doing :
Just when I thought it was safe to get into the water –- a relaxing, uninterrupted bubble bath - the screamers are out of school again! You’d think that the boys were hard-core criminals suddenly released from the pen on a technicality the way they’ve been whooping it up and sowing seeds of destruction wherever they step! The other day I was running some errands when I ran into their teacher at the liquor store. She was spending a big chunk of her last paycheck of the semester on a bottle of champagne. I guess she was getting ready to celebrate the upcoming season of two Snotenlocker-free months. From the looks of her, it was all she could do to restrain herself from breaking out into a chorus of “I Will Survive.” But the minute she spotted me her face turned all solemn. “Oh, you’re the triplets’ mom, aren’t you? You have my deepest sympathies.” Then, instead of saying “Enjoy your summer,” she said she was heading right to Church to say a special Novena for me.
What’s even worse, Milwaukee (my daughter from a previous relationship) is not exactly setting world speed records getting herself a summer job. Brad suggested she go down to Mr. Bumpety Bump Burgers and put her name in, but Milwaukee stubbornly refused. She claims that the grease they use to cook the French fries in would ruin her complexion. I said, “What are you talking about? They don’t make you smear the stuff on your face!”
And she goes, “No, but the little droplets fly through the air, land in your pores, and cause acne.”
That’s Milwaukee’s excuse to sleep until one pm every day, eat all my lo-cal Smart Chips and drink up all my diet decaf soda. For the entire day she just parades around in her bathing suit, while she and her friends constantly send each other text messages on their phones. I don’t understand it. She doesn’t do anything! What do they talk to each other talk about? Texting?
Then Brad got on my case trying to get me to agree that we’d all go to the Company Picnic on the Fourth of July. It’s not that he ever has a good time there, but it’s free. Not only that, it doesn’t take any effort on his part. But he’s got a short memory, that guy. How many years have we driven over to Seedy Grove, eaten lousy food, and put up with his pompous boss and obnoxious co-workers? Every year it’s a disaster, and every year he promises me that it was the last time. This time I really put my foot down. No more virulent attacks of poison ivy making Trip, Trap, and Trick look as ugly as the goat-scaring troll under the bridge. No more eating tainted macaroni salad, followed by massive quantities of Kaopectate. No more bits of fingers blown off by illegal firecrackers somebody smuggled in from North or South Carolina –or wherever.
So no. This Fourth of July, I absolutely refused to spend all night in an emergency room. Not this year. Not this gal. No sir. We argued back and forth over this for days. For a while there I was afraid that I’d have to bring out the heavy artillery-- I mean that, um, big gun that I never, ever want to use but the one that’s guaranteed to turn Brad into a jellyfish. But thank Heavens he backed down before I had to resort to that drastic bargaining chip!
Anyhow, before we knew it, the Fourth of July was here and we had nothing planned. As far as Brad and the oys (and of course, my high-tech, non-active daughter) were concerned, that suited them just fine. Let me tell you something, getting Brad to get up and do anything is like asking the check-out girl at the Cost Cutter to accept an expired coupon. “Look at yourselves moping around like mental patients.” (Actually, the five of them were lounging around the yard, but you know what I mean.) “ It’s a holiday, for heaven's sake. Why don’t you do something you all enjoy, like sports?” I gamely suggested.
Brad yawned, stretched, and look a swig of beer. “Like what?”
“You could rent a pony and try polo– or what’s that other weird thing that rich people do with horses? Dressage.”
“Or you could put up a net and try tennis. You’ve already got the grunting part down pat.”
“How about softball?”
“What? No way! Softball’s for wusses and for chicks who can’t get dates.”
“Come on, Brad, I’m running out of suggestions. You’re the sports expert around here.” That was no lie. He watched so much sports on TV that the remote has been stuck on the ESPN channel for a year and a half.
I’ve been often told that many, many people have a flattering opinion of me, that they always say, “Oh, that Debi–what a sweet woman!” I’m like that--I can’t help it–-I’m known far and wide for my good-natured temperament. But on July 4 I lost it. And, I’m sorry to say, I started yelling. “What is so difficult about this? Why is spending time with the children such a chore? Mention the name ‘Brad Snotenlocker’ to anybody, and you know what he’ll say? ‘Oh, yeah–he’s the guy who inspired the name of the company that makes reclining chairs–Lazy Boy!’ Go ahead– sit there and rot. See if I care!”
With that, I started to stomp across the lawn toward the house so I could get a cool, medicinal beverage to calm me down. But before I knew it, I inadvertently stepped into a loop of our tangled garden hose. One split-second later I was on the ground. The last thing I remember was seeing the kind of stars you don’t see on the flag on patriotic holidays.
When I woke up, I was in – you guessed it– a hospital emergency room. Only this time I wasn’t chewing my fingernails with worry while one or more of the kids was getting patched up. This time I was the patient on the stretcher.
Vaguely I heard a question from a female voice. “Social security number?” Maybe the nurse should’ve asked me that before she administered the morphine.
“You took a nasty fall. We’re going to X-ray your ankle. Also we’re going to monitor you in case you might have a mild concussion. Mother’s maiden name?”
“Huh?” At that point I wasn’t even sure I knew my own name.
“You won’t be able to walk around on that foot, at least for tonight. So–would you prefer a bedpan or a catheter?”
“Better give me both. I don’t want any more accidents.”
“You'll be glad to know the doctor is optimistic, Mrs. -–“ (a quick look at the chart) “--Shoemakerknocker. We’ll probably just keep you overnight for observation. But it’s a shame you’ll miss the Fourth of July fireworks.”
Yeah. Too bad. But there’ll be plenty of fireworks once Brad gets the hospital bill. It would have been better for everyone concerned if I had health insurance. But the insurance companies kept turning me down. They all said I have a “pre-existing condition.” Well, I can’t argue with that. I’ve been living with a pain in the butt for eleven years.
Fairly Flailing Tales #1
Well this was very entertaining A well structured, witty tale of the domestic bliss of an American housewife. Loved the interaction between your protagonist and the teacher, and her inventive descriptions of the members of her household. Great fun.
But Auntie, you need to look at your opening sentence. It begins in past tense but doesn't stay there, "Just when I thought it was safe to get into the water –- a relaxing, uninterrupted bubble bath - the screamers are out of school again!"
I was a little confused by the reference to the "Big Gun," as in context it reads as if this is the employment of the standard metaphore or similie, but there is no exposition. What would Debbie's big gun be? This leaves one assuming that she actually has a gun. If it was your intention to convey this, then just saying .44 magnum would be funnier, I feel.
My only other quibble pertains to this sentence:
"I’ve been often told that many, many people have a flattering opinion of me..."
where you have split an infinitive. Well there's quite a bit of debate over whether they are bad or not, I've split a few myself in my time, but this one is rather noticable and jarrs a bit. I'm not sure whether this is intended as Debbies's idiomatic usage. Her other colloquialisms might be considered "down home, but "not ungainly. This one is to me. I would prefer, "I've often been told", or "I've been told often", here.
Apart from these three tiny pimples, your muse presents a face of beauty.
A fun read, thanks.
Live and be well - H
Thanks, Hawk, for reading the humor thingie. Does finding yourself the sole responder to yours fooly's posts ever make you lonely?
Opening sentence is a reference to the trailer to the Jaws sequel:
"Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water. . ."
"Big Guns"--a feeble attempt at a risqué joke.
Split infinitives occur when an adverb intrudes between the "to" and the verb part of the infinitive, as in the v.o. to "Star Trek"--"to boldly go where no man has gone before."
But it's okay to split hairs. Don't forget. This is written in Debi's inimitable style. For instance, introducing dialogue, your auntie would never use the phrase "She goes. . ." or "I'm like. . ."
Last edited by AuntShecky; 07-09-2012 at 04:30 PM.
lol“Better give me both. I don’t want any more accidents.”
The LitNet has a very strict rule-- and a wise one!-- forbidding discussion of current politics. So no comments of that nature, okay? Please do comment on the humor (or lack of it), though. The following is a bit of nonsense which, having been spawn in me tiny little brain some eight years ago, is far from "current." Not only that, the character portrayed does not represent any actual human being, living or dead -- for that, we can thank our lucky stars!
Stomping on the "Stump"
"Good afternoon. Welcome to our meeting of the East Hogwash Chapter of the League of Disgruntled Women Voters. Right now I have the distinct honor of introducing our special speaker today. Please put your hands together for the man who put the “pain” in “campaign”, the honorable Glibban Slimey, who is running for representative of the forty-third legislative region, District 6.5, in the first Cleaver Ward. Mr. Slimey. . ."
"Good morning, Ladies! My fellow Americans, I come to you today with a heavy heart. Perhaps it was a result of the beef burrito I had at the Hispanic Heritage Dinner last night, or the corn dogs at the VFW hall, or maybe it was the extra helping of kielbasa at the Polish Community Center. Erp! Er, pardon me.
"Many of you may already know me. You may have received my latest flyer with my family’s portrait, including my non-threatening wife, Dixie, and my two lovely daughters, Jenna and Fond du Lac. You know that I am just an ordinary citizen just like you. That is why the photo on the front of the brochure shows yours truly mowing the lawn, just as so many of you do – although most of you probably don’t cut the grass in a three-piece suit. (Speaking of “grass,” drugs are bad.)
"My concerns are the same as YOUR concerns. For instance, my opponent believes that we can solve the crisis in education by throwing money at it. This will not solve the problem. It’s not the money, it’s the principle. Also the assistant principal, the vice-principal, and the assistant vice-principal. Make no mistake, my fellow Americans, no teachers’ union will be left behind. We CAN solve the problem in our schools, AND we can do it by cutting YOUR taxes.
"On the campaign trail, many people come up to me and say, “Glibby, what about health care?” Well sir, I am here to tell you that Glibban Slimey has your health in his hands. When I am elected, I solemnly vow to make the world SAFE from erectile dysfunction, restless leg syndrome, and the heartbreak of toenail fungus. AND I will do this without increasing YOUR taxes.
"My fellow Americans, I implore you not to pay attention to the vicious smear campaign waged by my opponent, who, may I say, never met a lobbyist he didn’t like. Neither have I, but that’s beside the point. And while I do not wish to dignify some of my opponent’s false charges with a reply, his allegation was ingenious, I mean, disingenuous. He was wrong when he said that I had been planning to run away with a female intern to join a splinter religious cult. Let me say this about that: I did not have sects with that woman! And another thing I didn’t do was raise YOUR taxes.
"Soon Election Day will be here, and just as quickly it will be gone. When this race is over, I won’t lie to you, I am going to go home, relax, and kick back. (Well, maybe “kick back” is not the right word choice.) But until that day, it will be a long, hard slog. And I need your help. Come Election Day, please get your Photo I.D., your Proof of Citizenship, and your complete financial portfolio ready so you can exercise your right to vote. Please cast your ballot for me, the honorable Glibban Slimey, and I promise you that you won’t see hide nor hair of me for four more years. Except of course, for the campaign signs on your front lawn, which I promise to remove by Christma– -er, Holiday. Did I mention that I will remove them without raising YOUR taxes?
"And finally, may the god of your choice bless America. And while He is blessing us, I won’t raise YOUR taxes."
Gee, lady, he gets my vote!
Live and be well - H
Once again, the response is funnier than the original posting.
The Snotenlockers Hop Down the Bunny Trail
It’s been ages since we heard from The Real Housewife of East Hogwash. Wonder how Debi Snotenlocker’s brood will manage to ruin Easter this year. Meantime let’s overlook the fact that Debi’s Spell-Check still hasn’t been repaired and check out her latest blog-post in all of its ungrammatical, unedited glory:
Men! You can’t live with them. And you can’t live without them. Or so they tell me. Now take my Brad. Please! He’s got this irritating way about him whenever he tries to solve a problem like finding a mislayed* item. It begins with a lot of throat-clearing and muttering to himself until it excalates* and he ends up making a big production number out of it. Actually he wants me to give him a hand, but God forbid he should come right out and ask for help. Maybe he thinks it makes him look unmanly or something.
Like the other day he was slamming through my kitchen cabinets and moving everything around. He kept going “Hmmph!” louder and louder until he was sure I heard him. “ I thought it was in here.”
I asked him what he was looking for, and he goes “My Twinkie.”
At first I didn’t know what he meant. Then it dawned on me. “I got bad news for you Brad. The company that makes them went out of business. No more Ding Dongs either.” That was no lie but I saw something in the Paper about Yankee Doodles. You can still get them, but first you have to go to town and have macaroni for lunch.
“No Twinkies?” he yelled. “That’s a sin!”
“So is pigging out on junk food in Lent,” I said. “And besides, it’s Holy Week. Have an apple.”
“Ya mean like Adam and Eve? That’s what started the whole sin stuff in the first place.”
He was nowheres* around when it was time to buy Easter outfits for the triplets. Bringing them to the Mall is like going to -- well, Purgatory at least. Trip, Trap, and Trick always run off in a hundred directions all at once smashing every piece of expensive merchandise in there* path. When I shop for clothes for them it is easy to find 3 of the same thing, but hard to pick out the right kind of material cuz* you never know what the weather is going to be like. It doesn’t matter if Easter comes in March or April. It either hits 90 or it snows. One year I bought them matching woolen suits and they sweated like pigs. So the next year I got them cute cotton outfits and they froze their little butts off.
Last Easter Brad was in charge of the grocery shopping. Big mistake. He never comes back with the right stuff. I gave him a list. Like I expesically* wrote White Eggs. But he still got it wrong.
What was I supposed to do BROWN eggs? And he goes, “You don’t even have to color ‘em! They already look like chocolate.”
That was just one of the catastrafees catastrophys mishaps that happened last year. I’m STILL digging up pieces of plastic Easter grass out of the rug. Thats* nothing cuz when I cleaned the house the other day the vaccum vacume Hoover sucked up a bunch of tinsel. I wouldn’t mind but the last time we hung tinsel on our Xmas tree it was 2007.
Last Easter the triplets had a war cuz they all thought they’re* baskets’* were smaller than there* brothers.* Trip, Trap, and Trick threw eggs everywhere and started stabbing people with the ears of chocolate bunnies. Then they started squishing marshmellow* chicks in each others* faces. Finally, I had confixcate conficskate take away all the Easter baskets. I sent all 3 straight to their room and told them I didn’t want to hear another Peep out of them.
Milwaukee (my daughter from a previous relationship) is old enough to know better but I had trouble with her also last Easter. She told us she was too big to get an Easter basket, but we just KNEW she’d have kittens if she didn’t get something from Brad and I.* So we got her a big chocolate bunny. A nice solid one, not a cheap hollow one. Naturally this offended her. She goes “ I can’t eat a rabbit! You KNOW I’m a vegetarian.”
Brad laughed at her. “At Xmas you ate a gingerbread man. Does that make you a cannibal?”
That was last year. Hopefully* this Easter is better. But for us Snotenlockers a holiday is the same as doing penance. Like filling out a tax form or sitting through the DVD of Les Miserables.
Last edited by AuntShecky; 03-26-2013 at 06:57 PM.