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Thread: Auntie's Anti-Humor

  1. #76
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    Hillarious, Auntie! I'm not sure about the repeated (multiple attemepts) misspellings though. Given the idea that this is supposed to be a written blog, one kind of imagines that the first attempt would just be back-spaced out. You start out just highlighting that it's an intentional mistake with just one go at it. But then you introduce the double whammies two thirds of the way through. It's not that it isn't funny, because it is, very. But the multiple does sound more like reported speech, perhaps a technique more appropriate to including a description of Debbie's writing of the blog, or a scene in which she is engaged in a monologue. Here though, simple misspelling wouldn't be sufficient and the errors would have to be presented as mispronunciations or Malapropisms.

    What say you?

    Live and be well - H

  2. #77
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    Thank you very much for reading and commenting on this, Hawkman. The Spell-Check device in Debi's PC is on the fritz, hence the mispellings. Even if it did work, it wouldn't pick up the errors in "they're/their/there" nor the misplaced (or missing) apostrophes. Trial and error method on her part. But at least she admits the possibility of being wrong as opposed to other writers who arrogantly defend their invincible ignorance.

  3. #78
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    Words of Whiz Dumb 2013

    The Sixth Annual Commencement Ceremony

    “ –nics, barbecues, or just getting together with your freeloading friends. Remember Muckenmeyer’s Beer, when it’s the price– -not the quality-- that counts. You’re listening to WDUH, East Hogwash, one-oh-nine-point-four and a half on your FM dial. Congratulations to the Class of 2013 of the upstate campus of the Downstate University at Hogwash. President Porterhouse Mistake III is wrapping up his introductory remarks, so we take you live to the Rentacenter Civic Center, where the Commencement Ceremony is already in progress –-“

    “-logies for the delay. The emergency concerning live ammo allegedly connected to last week’s gun show here at the Rentacenter has turned out to be-–fortunately-–a false alarm. Security has informed us that it has indeed discovered magazines, which turned out to be a couple of old copies of Barterer’s Digest. Again, thank you for your patience. Another announcement, this one for the owner of the vehicle with license plate “I-H8-PEEZ”: your car stereo was left on. The parking lot attendants would have notified you earlier, but they were waiting for the final note of ‘Stairway to Heaven.’

    “And now we come to the high-point of the ceremony: our eagerly-awaited commencement speaker. We’re sorry to report that the originally-scheduled speaker,Iron Man (of Iron Man 3), will not be with us today after his appearance earlier this morning at East Hogwash Elementary School. As you may know, EHES is a magnet school, and Iron Man could not tear himself away.

    “Despite that, I’m very sure that you will be delighted to hear that DUH has found a replacement who was gracious enough to step in at the last minute. He’s widely recognized by the East Hogwash business community as the owner-operator of a series of short-lived establishments. Many of you may have partaken of his generosity in offering dozens of employment opportunities with pay approaching minimum wage. As a restauranteur and pioneer in culinary experiments, he recently submitted his new book, Alimentary, my dear Watson, to Vanna Tee Press. And did I mention that he’s a former DUH grad, er, attendee? So without further ado, put your hands together and welcome Charles ‘Chuck’ Wagoner!”

    [Sporadic Applause.] “Thank you, President Mistake. I’m honored to be on your menu today, but that’s not an endorsement of cannibalism. [Sounds of coughs, shuffling chairs.] Members of the Class of 2013, disaffected administrators, semi-learned faculty, over-extended parents, underemployed alumni, and last but certainly least, holders of promissory notes for student loans: today is Commencement Day or, as I like to call it, the first course at the Sumptuous Table of Life. You might think it’s a sit-down dinner. Well, I’m here to tell ya, Ladies and Gentlemen, life’s not a banquet. It’s a buffet–-you’ve got to help yourself!

    “For instance, you‘ve got to go after your dreams with gusto. If Gusto refuses to help you, go it a-loan.

    “I learned that lesson early. When my first venture, an olde English pub set in a hot air balloon, couldn’t get off the ground, I immediately went to work on my next project: a specialty restaurant called 'Cloaca.' I designed it to cater to the needs of the chronically costive, but there was a lot of obstruction. The County wouldn’t issue me a building permit when I failed to come up with plans for an emergency evacuation.

    “After that, I was even more determined to succeed in the restaurant business, to make a name for myself that didn’t sound like ‘Loser.’ I dreamed big, hoping to head a national franchise. I pictured myself getting my own show on the Food Network, where I saw myself screaming at my kitchen staff and laughing whenever my well-chosen spicy words got bleeped. But a celebrity chef has got to start somewhere.

    “So I tossed my losses like artichoke debris and did a do-over, using my imagination to open some really fun nightspots and off-beat eateries right here in East Hogwash. But for some reason, the clientele failed to appreciate creativity. There was also a matter of settling some personal injury lawsuits. (‘Food poisoning.’ Yeah, right. More like a case of dollar-sign-itis.)

    “I’ll be honest with you, those temporary setbacks were bringing me down. The restaurant business at large was having its own digestive problems. Folks thought they’d just as well stay at home rather than go out for the same old, same old. By the way, if a recent meal keeps repeating on you, that’s a good sign you’ve been to Taco Bell. Or Papa John.

    “On the other side of the plate, merely offering ‘something different’ doesn’t really spark the palate. I don’t know about you, but if I craved a ‘new taste sensation,’ the first thing that comes to mind wouldn’t be moose meat lasagne. And the first place I’d look for it wouldn’t be a Scandinavian furniture store. Besides, if you’ve had just one serving of moose meat lasagne, you’ve had them all.

    “In my previous attempts to bring adventure to dining in East Hogwash, I offered my patrons plenty of spills and chills. My patrons thought that meant sloppy waiters and a stingy heating system. I was just about ready to pack it in, when I happened to hear the news that the UN has recommended that the world consider insects as a protein-rich food source for humans.

    “Wow! That was a revelation. For millions of years bugs have been biting us. Now we’re going to bite them back. To me, this was one of those ‘Eureka!’ moments, like a heat lamp switching on over a steam table.

    “Why not take it to the next level and open a theme restaurant? It would be as trendy as the gentrified neighborhood where I found my next location. I found a crumbling but stately building and bought it for a song –‘It’s Only a Shanty in Old Shanty Town.’

    “Right away, I started brainstorming and scratching ideas for my innovative menu on the back of a gnat-kin. First, pre-dinner cocktails: stingers and, of course, grasshoppers. Then, appetizers. Cicadas are in season this year, but a rival restauranteur, Dylan Wong of The Paisley Dragon, was already serving them sautéed in a light ginger sauce. The only thing wrong with eating cicadas is that seventeen years later you’re hungry again. So I substituted freshly-caught silverfish served on a bed of crushed ice with lemon wedges and a piquant cocktail sauce – guaranteed to stick to the ribs as stubbornly as they do to your cellar floor.

    “Developing delicious entrees came with problems as knotty as a termite’s nest. My version of ‘Surf and Turf’ was going to be a combination platter of water beetles and horseflies. But the water bugs wouldn’t quit spinning around the plate, and the horseflies had a pesky habit of flitting down to the OTB parlor.

    “I created a gourmet roach meat sandwich, served open-faced and cooked to order – -rare, medium rare, or extra crunchy. Grilling the roaches was wicked – they kept slipping down between the little grates.

    “There was pandemonium the day our first shipment arrived – we’d ordered them live, so they’d be fresh,-- but somehow they escaped their packaging and scampered all over the place, mingling with the others already residing in the building. So we herded them all together and made an adjustment to the description on the menu: ‘Featuring an fine assortment of Imported and Domestic Blattaria species.’

    “A scary incident involved one of our suppliers when he was gathering products at a local hive. The angry bear who confronted him stopped growling only when it discovered the guy wasn’t after the honey, just the bees.

    “Despite all the initial setbacks, we opened on schedule. The place is called 'Bzzt!' and already it’s generating a lot of buzz.

    “But that first night -- I won’t lie to you – I was nervous. Worry stuck to me like ants on a sidewalk sticky with dried-up Gatorade. What if my coconut -flavored cocoons failed to pop on time? What if the customers complained, ‘Waiter –there’s no fly in my soup!’ You could say I had butterflies in my stomach. Later on, I felt better knowing that the butterflies were in the stomachs of my customers.

    “Well, a little flea in my ear is telling me my time’s just about up. So congratulations, Class of 2013! Just to show you my faith in your future, inside each and every diploma you’ll find a free coupon good for half-off any Bzzt! dessert, including Shoo Fly Pie and Lice Pudding. Remember – every item on our menu is 100% Deet-free. So right after the ceremony flutter on down and enjoy! Bring along your electronic devices – the joint is crawling with antennae!”


    Words of Whiz Dumb for 2012
    Last edited by AuntShecky; 05-28-2013 at 08:39 PM.

  4. #79
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    Had me smiling all the way through, Auntie

    Live and be well - H

  5. #80
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    I liked the sandwich made of imported and domestic Blattaria species.

  6. #81
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    Thank you for your comments, Hawkman and YesNo!

  7. #82
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    Oh, the Places You'll Go (But This Isn't One of Them.)

    Oh, the Places You’ll Go (But This Isn’t One of ‘em)

    Last week mentions of Green Eggs and Ham, the children’s classic by the late Theodor Seuss Geisel popped up all over the place, mainly in reaction to a dramatic reading of the work in an incongruous–- some would say “inappropriate”–-setting, though let’s not “Cruz” into them thar waters.

    Amid the incessant, “instant” cable TV commentary, one pundit recalled the incident in which Dr. Seuss confessed to an interviewer that if he’d ever been asked to attend a dinner party featuring his characters as guests, he wouldn’t have shown up.

    It’s safe to assume that had such a hypothetical invitation arrived, Dr. Seuss would have been polite enough to respond to the R.S.V.P. Maybe, just maybe, it might have gone something like this:

    “Dear Mrs. Wickersham,

    I am in receipt
    of the mail in my mailbox on Mulberry Street.
    The carrier left envelopes with windows that crinkle
    and magazines with scented samples that stinkle
    and fat catalogues way too heavy to lift,
    more ads and junk mail but not one free gift--
    very little in fact to make me smile,
    including your card on the bottom of the pile.

    Inside the cover shines fine embossed text
    that tells of your dinner, on Thursday night next.
    Thanks, many thanks, for your kind invitation
    which, alas, I’m declining without hesitation.

    It’s not that I’ve got a prior engagement for then.
    It’s not the menu: green eggs and ham (again!)
    and lots of seafood--I’m a fish-loving fool
    for red fish, blue fish (etc.) from McElligott’s Pool.

    It’s not the venue (your nest’s not all that bad looking.)
    It’s not snooty waiters or your passable cooking.
    It’s not a flare-up of some old malady,
    but I’m afraid I’m quite sick of the company.

    The slated guests set to appear that night
    would make a strong man lose his appetite.
    Their skinny heads end in a point or a loop.
    They’d stick their furry fingers into my soup.

    How insufferable are those squabbling Sneetches,
    that boring Lorax with his ponderous speeches,
    the Whos from Whoville prancing like loons,
    the larcenous Grinch --better count all your spoons!

    At every bash, why is it, I’m the sole invitee
    who always gets shoved upon the clean-up committee?
    If Horton’s there, I’ll need more than a broom
    to clear elephant traces out of the room.

    So, with regrets I’m sending this reply,
    then I’ll look for a book by some other guy
    and spend Thursday evening reading instead.

    Yours very truly and most sincerely,

  8. #83
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    Snotenlocker Fright Fest , Or The Walking Dread

    It’s been a while since we’ve last heard from the Real Housewife of East Hogwash, but today we find Debi and her goblins in the jaws of Halloween festivities. Let’s take a peek at the latest spooky shenanigans from the irrepressible Snotenlockers.

    I knew it was a bad omen when the East Hogwash School District cancelled the Halloween party. You wouldn’t believe the lame excuse the officials came up with--that Halloween had religious overtones which some groups might find offensive. Yeah? I’ll show you “offensive”– - a set of hyperactive triplets screaming, yelling, and acting like they’ve been robbed of their reason to live.

    It took a lot to convince Trip, Trap, and Trick that they’d still have fun on the holiday, and that–-plus the promise of massive quantities of chocolate -- finally calmed them down. In the meantime I wracked– or is it wrecked?-- my brain coming up with some festive plans.

    I was so strapped for ideas that I actually started looking through The Pennysaver. This broke my solemn vow never to pick up that sorry rag after the rotten treatment I got when I submitted a cute poem about Dr. Seuss.* Not only didn’t they print it, they didn’t even send me the courtesy of a reply! Anyway, I found an ad that said a local pumpkin farmer was throwing a Fall Fest on the following Saturday, so that’s where we took the boys.

    We loaded them up on doughnuts and cider, but that was a waste of money because all three of them lost it after they got motion sickness on the hayride. They recovered quickly enough to demand that we take them through a three-acre maze thick with 15-feet high corn stalks.

    “You gotta be kidding me,” I said. “We’d never find our way out of there! We’d be lost for days with nothing to keep us alive but raw corn-on-the-cob.”

    Brad scoffed at my fears. “Don’t be silly. Rats run through mazes all the time–-don’t you think we’re smarter than rats?”

    “Yeah, Ma! Mice, too! “ Trip chimed in. “Betcha even three mice could do it–and they were blind!”

    Well, we did it and lived to tell about it. And that’s only because my husband led the way safely out of the maze. But that’s only because the exit was right near a concession selling beer. The one thing Brad never fails to do is sniff out a cold one from a thousand paces.

    As soon as we got home from the Pumpkin Patch, Milwaukee (my daughter from a previous relationship) met me at the front door.

    “Mom, could you get me some things at like the Cost Cutter? I need like four dozen large white grade A eggs?”

    The triplets found her request quite comical.


    “She thinks it’s Easter.”

    “Wrong holiday, Milwaukee!”

    Why would a teenager need four dozen eggs? The school district cut the funding for home economics class three years ago. Right away I began to smell something rotten.

    “You know, Hon, I’m really tired. Why don’t I give you the money and you run down to the store yourself?”

    “I can’t! They won’t sell any eggs to anybody under 21 until after Hallo–“

    Then it dawned on me that I read in the Pennysaver that the town wanted to discourage vandalism. “No way I’m going to enable your hoodlum friends. Now you march right up to your room and stay out of mischief.”

    “Busted!” The triplets were ecstatic. Nothing makes them happier than to see their half-sister get herself into trouble.

    Meanwhile Brad was getting ready to carve the Jack o’ Lantern.

    “What a beaut! Did I pick the biggest damn punkin in the patch or what?”

    It was a monstrosity, all right. “I wish you’d gotten one that was perfectly round. This one looks all misshapen. Look at that bulge coming out of its side.”

    “Maybe it’s got an toothache. What’s more frightening than an abscess?”

    I knew what was coming next– - the so-called joke Brad tries to rile me with every Halloween: “Ya want to pose for this, Debi?”

    “Sorry, I’m busy. Why don’t you call your mother instead?”

    About three or four hours later Brad looked distraught. “The Jack o’ Lantern’s done. I put the candle inside, but it won’t stay lit.”

    I looked inside the pumpkin and found the problem immediately. “Well, no wonder–it’s all wet in there. See all these seeds and stringy pulp? You’re supposed to scoop all that out.”

    Brad slapped his forehead. “Stupid me! I shoulda remembered why it’s called ‘Hollow Ween’!”

    For the triplets the high point of Halloween is trick-or-treating. Brad is a little two-faced about the ritual. He calls giving out snack-sized candy to the kids at the door “legalized extortion.” So I’m supposed to turn off all the lights and pretend we’re not home. BUT– when our boys bring home their three pillowcases bulging with their harvest of treats, Brad pounces upon their loot and devours it like a vulture discovering fresh road kill.

    Of course, you can’t go trick-or-treating unless you’re wearing a costume. Every year it’s a hassle trying to come up with a gimmick. One year Brad dressed the triplets as the Three Stooges, but it wasn’t enough just to look like them, they had to act like them too. I didn’t mind the “woo-woo-woos” and the “bay rum/rum bay” shtick, but I had to put a stop to it when they started poking each other in the eye.

    I found the answer to this year’s costume question on all the cable tv news shows. I got some hair gel and puffed up all three coiffures. Dressed in their Easter suits with a little flag pin in their lapels, the boys looked exactly like members of Congress. They scared the hell out of everybody.

    *Maybe Debi's submission was something like Reply#82 ^
    Last edited by AuntShecky; 10-30-2013 at 05:03 PM.

  9. #84
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    Debi Talks Turkey

    It’s only been a month since we last heard from the Real Housewife of East Hogwash.(Cf. Reply #83 above^) In October the topic was goblins; this month it’s all about gobblin’. Let’s check in to see how the Snotenlocker clan spends Thanksgiving, that great American Holiday which we celebrate in two ways: giving thanks for blessings and throwing a bash in honor of the God of Gluttony.

    I can’t believe it’s Thanksgiving time already! Our family kicks off the season by gathering round the toasty TV to watch the President of the United States pardon the turkey. That’s real heartwarming, but the media never follow up on the story. Chances are that within a day or two of release, the bird pulls another caper. Bam! Right back into the slammer.

    At this generous time of year another proud family tradition is helping the less fortunate. So when late November rolls around, we all climb aboard the SUV and head down to the East Hogwash Community Food Pantry to donate a can of lima beans that’s only a month or two past the expiration date. It’s inspirational to know that we Snotenlockers step up and do our part to eliminate world hunger.

    I wish I could say that the rest of the holiday is always a pleasant experience for me. Last year was a complete disaster. On the day before Thanksgiving, the triplets–-Trip, Trap, and Trick–-threw another famous tantrum. Each one wanted to have his very own drumstick. So Brad and I frantically searched all over town for a three-legged turkey.

    Milwaukee, my teenage daughter from a previous relationship, also tried our patience by demanding a totally separate, vegan meal on Thanksgiving. Just to shut her up, I was ready to cave until my neighbor, Mindy Schermerhorn, said that she saw Milwaukee with a bunch of her friends scarfing down enormous Big Macs in the Rentacenter parking lot.

    My husband always invites his mom over. She never passes up an opportunity to criticize my cooking. But I never try to get even. Last year when I was carving the turkey, my mother-in-law said she wanted the “part that goes over the fence last.” I didn’t say a word, but couldn’t help laughing when Trap said, “You are what you eat, Grandma!” As a result of that casual remark, I still have scars.

    Brad was the absolute worst. It took two hours to wrap up and put away tons of leftovers, not to mention scrubbing more pots and pans than in the Mess Hall of the 10th Mountain Division. Then just as I finished washing and drying the last dish, Brad came out into the kitchen and ordered me to make him a turkey sandwich.

    So this year I put my foot down. I told Brad “Either we go to a nice restaurant on Thanksgiving or you do the cooking.”

    “Great!” He reacted with the same enthusiasm he showed when the Cost Cutter had a buy one, get one free sale on Schlitz. “Ya know, they say men are the best chefs. I’ll duck right out and buy a deep fryer right now!”

    “No! You’re not deep-frying a turkey in the driveway. You’ll burn down the whole freakin’ neighborhood.”

    “Then I’ll get a smoker–“

    “No way.”

    “What if the turkey doesn’t inhale? “ He furrowed his brow and stroked his chin. “I know! Maybe I’ll roast a turducken.”

    “Not at eight ninety-nine a pound, you won’t,” I said. “You’re gonna roast a traditional turkey with all the trimmings or you will pick up the phone and make reservations at Chez Cher right now.”

    When Thanksgiving Day arrived this year, I thought I’d get the triplets involved in some quiet activities so they wouldn’t distract their Dad from his crucial culinary tasks. The plan was to have each of them draw a turkey by tracing their little hands on a piece of paper. Their palm part could be the turkey’s round body ,the thumb part could be the bird's head,and the outline of their fingers could be the feathers. After a long hunt, I found the crayons, and it only took about forty-five minutes to get the boys to sit down. The hard part was wrenching little hands away from little throats.

    It was almost half-past one, and Brad was watching a game on TV from his favorite chair, the one named after him (“Lazy Boy.”) As far as I could tell, he hadn’t begun preparing the turkey, which looked like a bleached football somebody had kicked into the kitchen sink.

    “Uh, Brad–forgive me for asking, but what time do you plan to start cooking?”

    “Huh? Oh, around half-time, I think.”

    “But it’s still frozen!”

    “Don’t worry, Deb–- got it covered. I’ll just wrap a couple of girlie magazines around it, and it’ll be melted before you can say ‘Pamela Anderson.’ “

    Five hours later when I peeked into the oven, I had more ‘mis-‘ than ‘thanks-‘ givings. The turkey was not done. As a matter of fact, it hadn’t even really begun to roast.

    “This thing isn’t cooking right, Brad. Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Maybe you should call the Butterball Hot Line.”

    “I already did,” he explained. “But the operator got mad and hung up on me.”

    “You didn’t swear at her or anything, did you?”

    “Nah. All I did was ask her what she was wearing.”

    At that point, I decided to try to salvage the day. When I rechecked the stove, I was horrified. “Brad, you idiot! You never turned on the oven!”

    Finally, the turkey became edible round midnight. The boys were so confused that they kept looking at the TV screen. They were waiting for the ball to drop down in Times Square. Naturally, the clean-up chores traditionally fell into my lap, and when I joined the family in the living room they were all out like lights. Milwaukee was stacking z’s, the kids deep in Dreamland, and sprawled on the couch was my mother-in-law, with her big fat mouth temporarily shut, though Brad’s pie-hole was wider than the Grand Canyon, and his feet dangled off the edge of the footrest on his namesake chair, opened all the way.

    They had all fallen asleep thanks to a chemical active after consuming a large meal. It’s called tryptophan. They ought to bottle that stuff–- it’s better than Ambien. It’ll knock you out quicker than C-Span.
    Last edited by AuntShecky; 11-30-2013 at 05:57 PM.

  10. #85
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    With rhyming rejections to RSVPs
    and Halloween anecdotes scribbled in glee,
    describing the mishaps befalling a pumpkin
    which seem to preclude any apple type dunkin',
    you round it all off with a tale of woe
    that ends with a turkey that's cooked on dead slow.

    Such narratives built from familial strife
    are grist to the mill of East Hogwash's wife.
    She copes so superbly with life's little ills
    and graciously shares them and packs them with thrills,
    like hay rides and vomiting, cider and beer;
    a cold-turkey dinner when midnight draws near.

    Her efforts aren't wasted; I read them this morning
    and posted a comment, though quite without warning,
    so when she logs on and observes what I've said,
    I hope the attention won't go to her head -
    Calm and collected's the name of the game;
    it's always the best way to cope with your fame.
    Last edited by Hawkman; 12-01-2013 at 04:32 AM.

  11. #86
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    That was a nice, unexpected ending with C-Span, AuntShecky. I wish I could respond as elegantly as Hawkman has.

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    "Your Holiday Call is Important to Us"

    Among the raging controversies bubbling up every Yuletide is the question of whether or not to use unwanted gifts as presents for others. The practice is called "regifting" which-- besides violently forcing a noun to act like a verb --doesn't really demonstrate a concern fo recycling . All it shows is that you are just plain cheap.

    But in the spirit of regifting, yours fooly has decided to "recycle" previous LitNet Christmas postings in order to buy some time to think up something new for this year. The first one up is from 2007:

    Your Holiday Call is Important to Us

    “Thank you for calling Acme House Christmas and Holiday Ornaments Online. For Spanish, press uno. For French, press deux. For Urdu, press three. . . For English, press 27241-star-nine three-four-six.

    “Welcome to Acme House Christmas and Holiday Ornaments Online. All of our representatives are currently serving other customers. Please hold until the next available operator can assist you. This call may be monitored for quality assurance – - as well as listening in on conversations between that brazen hussy in Accounting and that two-timing hound in Shipping.”

    Extended musical interlude featuring pre-recorded seasonal selections, such as “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” played by the Philharmonic Kazoo Ensemble.

    Some time later:

    “Good morning, Acme House Christmas and Holiday Ornament Online Customer Service Representative Lotta Hassle. May we have your account number, password, PIN number, and mother’s maiden name? One moment please while we pull up your account information. . . Oh, yes. Mr. Truelove. How may we help you today?

    “Uh-huh. So that’s one partridge, one pear tree, two turtledoves, three French hens and four calling birds. Mmmph. I'm sorry to tell you, Mr. Truelove, but the partridge is on the threatened list. You would need to put in a separate order in order to secure a government variance. I'll refer you to our Partridge liaison, Ms Shirley Jones.

    “The pear trees are on back order, so we'll send you a nice Ficus to hold you over. The turtledoves are out of stock, but I can get Stan, Stan, the Maintenance Man to grab a couple pigeons outside the office window. We'll stick a couple of red bows on ‘em and nobody will know the diff. Now those hens, can they be French-Canadian? Because we can ship you a trio of really fine chicks from Montreal. The four calling birds are a quartet of really vocal crows from Schenectady. Will there be anything else today?

    “Five, did you say? Okay. Five. Golden. Rings. Six geese a-laying and seven swans a swimming. No problem with the bling bling. How about a combo deal? We'll ship you a half-dozen goose eggs, and the swans, uh, come in the form of ugly ducklings. You just have to be patient. Will there be anything else today?

    “Eight what? Gee, Mr. Truelove, you are one tough customer. But we're glad to have you, oh yes we are! Hoh-kay, eight maids a-milking. Just a quick e-mail to the International Dairymaids Union, it’s so udderly simple, although the cows are sold separately.

    “Can we help you with anything else today? Wow! This is some kinda shopping list! Nine ladies dancing, is that right? Another teensy, tiny problema, Mr. T. This time of year, as you well know, the Rockettes are booked up the mistletoe, if you catch my drift. We could substitute nine dropouts from Miss Klutz’s School of the Dance, if that is satisfactory.

    Now, ten Lords a-leaping. Here at Acme we don’t really have any connection with the British Houses of Parliament, so -- Oh, I know! How about a selection of ten idols left over from the Survivor TV show? Just throw the box up in the air a few times while yelling ‘Oh, lord!’ Will that be all today?”

    “I see. Eleven pipers piping. Good news! We can book eleven flutists from the East Hogwash High School Marching Band-- that is, if we can pull them away from their iPhones. And one dozen drummers. They don't have to be professionals, do they? I mean, we have a HUGE selection of wind-up monkeys who can bang on a plastic drum like Krupa.

    “All righty then. Let me read back the order to you: that’s twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping, ten lords a-leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans a- swimming, six geese a-laying. Five. Gold. Rings. Also, you would like four calling birds, three French (Canadian) hens, two turtledoves, one partridge and one pear tree. Is that correct?

    “Now I don't need to tell you, Mr. Truelove, that this is one tall order. And that the shipping time will take at least twelve days. On the upside, though, you can get it all for a song. “

    “Well, the same to you, Mr. Truelove. And thank you for shopping ACHOO!
    Last edited by AuntShecky; 12-11-2013 at 04:07 PM.

  13. #88
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    next door to the lady in the vinegar bottle
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    This is the second of two oldies but gooeys. The first post is Reply # 87, directly above.^
    The following post dates all the way back to Dec. of Ought Eight, but maybe it's not untimely, given the fact that "holiday specials" are re-run so often that any day now the film will probably snap! In the five years since, multiple TV movies on cable channels have come and --well,I don't want to say "gone." TV Christmas specials never die; they show up every year like Marley's ghost. But if you look for something festive to watch on Christmas Eve, forget it. That's the night reserved for slasher movies.

    A Visit from St. Nielsen

    ‘Twas a while before Christmas,
    not the big day yet,
    but it was already Yuletide
    on your tee-vee set.

    Staring at holiday shows
    might cause strabismus.
    You could watch the Dickens
    out of his Carol for Christmas.

    Like clones of Santa,
    there’s more than one Scrooge:
    even a girl Ebenezer
    with lipstick and rouge,

    George C. Scott, Disney toons,
    Michael Caine and and Muppets too,
    plus Bill Murray, Albert Finney,
    Alastair Sim and Mr. Magoo,

    and other curmudgeons
    like the Grinch so unmerry,
    voiced by the late Boris Karloff
    or a live-action Jim Carrey.

    In the season of wonder
    you can’t ask for more
    than two films of a miracle
    on Street Thirty-four.

    It’s a miracle young Ralphie
    didn''t shoot himself to heaven
    with his Red Ryder BB gun
    going 24/7.

    Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey
    and Donna Reed as his wife
    every year re-remind us
    that “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

    Sing of bells and sleigh rides
    and the round Virgin yon –
    but hold on for a minute -
    let’s see what else is on:

    On Linus, on Lucy,
    on Pigpen, on Snoopy,
    on Charlie Brown
    with your tree so droopy,

    On home-improved Tim Allen
    in “The Santa Clause,”
    On Nestor the donkey
    with his production flaws,

    On the rumpa-pum-pum
    of the drummer boy,
    on the umpteenth special
    of some animated toy

    which is hyped and piped
    while sounding quite crass.
    Commerce hit pay dirt
    with Rankin and Bass.

    Thanks to December shows
    kids don't cry and don't pout,
    and thanks to repeats
    Rudolph’s nose won’t go out.

    Why waste a holiday special
    when the shopping’s been done?
    That why on Christmas Eve
    you’ll hardly find one.

    So sure as a soundstage
    glistens with fake snow,
    the networks return to
    the Reality Show.

    But I heard a CEO exclaim
    with his remote all alight:
    “Happy viewing to all,
    and to all, a good night!”
    Last edited by AuntShecky; 12-11-2013 at 04:16 PM.

  14. #89
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    Oh, and in addition to the last two reruns above^^, there was this one which was the very first appearance of Debi Snotenlocker and her brood:

    That's the last regifting for this Christmas --in THIS thread, I mean. They'll be two oldies but gooeys in the anti-fiction thread, but that's it--I promise!

  15. #90
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    A "fresh" one for a change

    Yesterday folks in my neck o’ the woods woke up to sub-zero temperatures and a blinding blizzard. So this next one’s going out to the intrepid members of the East Hogwash Highway Dept. who spent a leisurely December morning while lingering over a hot cuppa Joe at Duncan Do Naughts over on Rte. 43.

    Cruller-Chompin’ Clowns

    [With apologies to Stephen Sondheim]

    Aren’t the roads slick?
    Nothing’s been cleared.
    Snow keeps falling and falling
    worse than last year.

    Send in the plows.
    There ought to be plows.

    We’re getting snowed in.
    Travel’s risky, I fear.
    No milk runs or quick trips
    to pick up cold beer.

    But where are the plows?
    Send in the plows.

    Just when I thought
    I could dash outdoors,
    I found that it’s our town
    the road crew ignores.
    The storm’s getting dense,
    another foot it will bring.
    Even having 4-wheel drive
    won’t mean a thing.

    Where are the plows?
    We’re stuck anyhow.
    There’s no sign of a plow.

    Well, maybe next Spring.

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