Auntie's Anti-Humor

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Please note:
The following thread, "Auntie's Anti-Humor," contains several separate humor pieces. When commenting on an individual work, please indicate the title in your reply.

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Take Me Out to the All-Star Game –(Not!)


[We first met the Snotenlocker family back in December

http://www.online-literature.com/for...721#post649721

but we haven't seen ‘em since, a fact for which we can thank our lucky stars. But here they are again, just back from a family outing to the Midsummer Classic. Disclaimer: the spelling and grammar in the following are the sole responsibility of the original poster, Debi Snotenlocker. Reader discretion advised.]


From the On-line Journal of Mrs. Debi Snotenlocker

“Well, we're just back from our trip to St. Louis. I asked Brad why did we have to travel half-way across the country just to see a baseball game, and he goes, it’s not just any game, it’s the All-Star Game!! And I go, why can't you just watch it on TV, and he goes yeah, but it’s on Fox. So if we see it at the ballpark, we won't miss the first out of every inning.

“Brad was hopped up about the All-Star Game. He goes it’s real important because it decides who gets home field advantage for the World Series. But I thought the World Series is between just two teams and the All Star Game has a bunch of different players from all the teams. What do I know– I'm not a sports fan. BTW, Brad even voted for one of his favorite players, but no, the guy didn't make the team. I asked him if they had a Mr. Congeniality, and he said they tried it one year, but the competing finalists started fighting amongst themselves in a bench-clearing brawl and they all ended up on the DL for the rest of the season.

“I was ok with the trip until I found out how expensive it was gonna be. You would not believe how much those tickets were gonna cost. I'm too embarrassed to tell you the amount, but if whatshis name, the guy who ripped off all his friends for billions of $ sold ‘em, the judge would've slapped another 150 yrs to his sentence. And that’s not counting the airplane tickets! When I found out how much it would cost for all SIX of us to fly, I told Brad why don't you just rent the Space Shuttle- it’s cheaper!

“So on Tues. morning we all get to the airport and right away there’s a problem. The security chick asked Milwaukee to put her iPhone in the little basket and she absolutely refused! Then when the triplets found out they weren't allowed to sit up front with the pilot, they threw a HUGE temper tantrum! So then all kinds of armed guards put us in a little room and questioned all of us for hours. They must've thought we were secret agents for whatshisname, the guy with the beard who hides out in those caves. Then finally it got all straightened out, thank God.

“Of course we missed our flight and had to hang around the airport for the next one going to Missouri. That went ok, except for the part where I got the daylights scared out of me when I thought I saw a great big HOLE in the plane!!! But it turned out just to be a hole in the plot of the in-flight movie. (I don't know what the title was, but it was the one that had Matthew McConaughey without his shirt on.) Just before our plane landed in St. Louis, the triplets saw the Gateway Arch from the windows and started screaming about wanting to go to McDonalds. Brad told them to wait til they got to the ballpark and they could get really big hot dogs. You can order the Mark McGwire special, hold the steroids.

“We arrived in St. L in one piece, not counting the couple o’ pieces of missing luggage. Of course we were late, but when we got to the stadium, it was only a couple of hours into the pre-game show. I TOLD Milwaukee she shoulda taken some books from her Summer Reading List! She woulda been half way thru “War and Peace” before the game even started. Our seats were way way up. Two rows up from us there was an Indian guy sitting on a mountain of snow and answering questions about the meaning of life. Trip–or maybe it was Trap-goes: Look how high up were are! All the people look like ants! Then Brad told him they are ants. Somebody spilled something sticky under your seat. We saw the President of the United States throw out the first pitch. Brad asked me if I thought the ball went left, right, or stayed in the middle of the plate and I said what do I know I'm not a politics fan.

“They were just into the third whatchamacallit of the game when Brad almost got thrown out of the ballpark. All he did was order a beer from the conquistador concierge concessionaire. He asked for a Miller, and the guy says whatsamatter, Buddy, can't you read? Then he pointed to a huge sign that said “Busch Stadium.” The fans weren't rude though. They were pretty friendly. The old guy sitting next to him was fashionated fasinated fascinated with my daughter and expectialy the triplets, Trick, Trap, and Trip. Gee lady he goes. All you have to do is get pregnant two more times –first with twins and then with quadruplets. Then you can hit for the cycle.

“My daughter was NOT a happy camper. I go whatsamatter, we spent all this $$ and you're not having a good time. And she goes none of the dudes here are hitting on me. All they do is diss me. They say I'm a lousy Brewers fan and they all love the Cardinals. WHY did you make me wear this thing? I go why don't you like that shirt? Grandma put a lot of time and effort into it. She even sent away for the EZ Sequin Studder so she could whatyacallit emboss your name on the back! You should be proud and grateful! Milwaukee just rolled her eyes and started using up expensive minutes to text all her friends with words she shouldn't use to describe the woman who gave her birth.

“Finally, finally the game ended but I didn't see no fat lady singing, unless you count the chubby woman who was trying to rustle up some last-minute customers for her souvenir stand. Like I say I'm no sports fan but Brad told me that the American League won the game 4 to 3. He also said that the National League hasn't won the All-Star Game in thirteen years. Big deal. That’s about as long as it’s been since that cheapskate Brad took me out to dinner.”

Great story, Auntie. As good as he was at this kind of writing, Ring Lardner has nothing on you.

Hi AuntShecky, I really enjoyed this!:)

From the Saturday, July 18 Edition of the New York Daily News:
“WASHINGTON -Employment at the Treasury Department is no laughing matter. That’s why embarrassed Treasury officials nixed plans yesterday to hire a humorist to do standup comedy . . .to boost morale and relieve stress for workers in the Bureau of the Public Debt, which manages the nation’s $1.2 trillion debt.”

A comic at the Treasury Department? That’s like booking a kid’s birthday party clown for a funeral. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed, but what would have happened if a comedian actually did draw this gig? We'd like to think it might go something like this:

“Hey, good morning, Ladies and T-men! My, what a nice looking bunch o’ federal workers! I'm really glad to be here, but I almost didn't make it. A funny thing happened to me on my way to the Bureau. I was just about to cross the street, but I got trampled by a herd of stockbrokers rushing to the bank to cash their multi-million dollar bonus checks!

“Have you heard about all those snot-nosed kids? Those MBAs who ran their companies to the ground are getting rewarded for it! That’s like giving A-Rod of the Yankees $250 million to ground out to second base. Oh, wait. . .
And here are you guys, working your behinds off trying to come up with ways to manage a $1.2 trillion deficit. Now take my debt – please!

“What’s that noise, what d’ya got Ebeneezer Scrooge rubbing nickels in the back office?”

([Heckler]: Those are crickets, you idiot! You stink!”)

“Well, pardon me, young man. Maybe you'd prefer a job where you could be alone, I don't know – why don't you transfer to the Department of the Interior and go commune with a moose out in Yellowstone Park! Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. One point 2 trillion bucks. Where the hell are we gonna get that kinda dough? Maybe we should get Oprah over here and she can stash a surprise under your office chairs!”

“Cripes! Is this an audience or a plate from the US Bureau of Printing and Engraving?

“Well, listen, things are tough all over. From now on, the State Department isn't using diplomatic pouches anymore. Instead they're gonna borrow a couple of kangaroos from the National Zoo. Even the CIA is laying off their cryptographers. They're just going to go with a pint of lemon juice and a candle. . .

“And I'm sorry to tell you guys at Treasury that you can forget about Starbucks for your coffee break. But the Bureau says feel free to help yourself to all the weeds behind the parking lot and brew up all the chicory roots you want.

“And finally, I got an idea to help you guys and gals come up with a way to deal with this big one point two trillion dollar nut. Next time you get a dunning notice for the debt, just do what the rest of us citizens do. Stuff it into the pile of bills on top of the refrigerator!

“Hey, you guys have been great! I'm Jackie Joey and I'm here all week. Don't forget to try today’s lunch special down in bureau commissary, it’s the creamed chipped beef! It may not be filet mignon, but the savings are substantial!”

Question about the previous posting, Reply #4, above. Is the national "deficit" the same as the National Debt? Or are we up the creek and underwater in TWO frightening streams? Reminds me of the oft-quoted line by Senator Everett Dirksen: "A million here, a million there. Pretty soon you're talking about REAL money!"

Also, this morning Contessa Brewer on MSNBC's "Morning Meeting": "These days a billion is the new million, like 60 is the new 40."

Except, pretty soon, the trillion will be the new billion!

It seems that every time something changes in our culture, we always blame the same culprit– the “economy.” Certainly financial stress is a cause of the fatal epidemic that is killing our country’s newspapers, but that’s not the only cause. Rapid changes in technology, as well as our collective attention span, allow citizens to get their daily news from sources other than print: the Web, “Twitter,” and cable television, the last the favored venue for the 18-25 demographic which turns to Jon Stewart on Comedy Central. As a result, the daily newspaper is moribund.

That’s the premise for the following “non-sense,” ironically an obituary without an obituary page:

Farewell, East Hogwash Pennysaver (1948-2009)

After sixty-one years, The East Hogwash Pennysaver , “Your source for upstate irrelevance,” has ceased publication. The first issue of the Pennysaver, (Vol. I, No. 1) appeared on Wednesday, November 3, 1948 with the headline, “Dewey Wins!” Unfortunately, even though it was quickly established that it was not Thomas Dewey, but indeed Harry S. Truman who had won the Presidential Election, The Pennysaver has never to this day printed a correction.

Over the decades the Pennysaver continued to stand by its stories, despite overwhelming evidence of facts to the contrary. To this day, the editorial board maintains that the 1969 Apollo space flight never landed on the moon, but instead was simulated in asound stage in Roswell, NM. The paper has also been a zealous proponent of the status quo of the nation’s diet. The “Save the Doughnuts!” campaign has denounced the banning of trans fats as “the greatest conspiracy to befall mankind since Adam was scammed into eating the apple.”

The Pennysaver extensively covered the sensational case of the region’s best-known career criminal, Butch “Snaggle Tooth ” Kratchlow, and commemorated the anniversary of his capture and trial for thirty years. According to the soon-to-be unemployed publisher, Upton Hearse, “The Pennysaver has always prided itself on hard-hitting journalism. Take our printing presses! You should see how much pressure those puppies can push on a roll of newsprint!”

The newspaper’s demise brings to a close its twenty-five-year old alliance with the region’s prominent supermarket chain, CostCutter. Over the years the supermarket has endowed the Pennysaver with advertising revenue, while the Pennysaver promised not to print disparaging reports about the supermarket chain, such as the Bad Clam Scare of 1984.

Fans have decried the inaccuracy of the Pennysaver’s sports coverage, in which the names of horses appear in the wrong race or track. Scores for night baseball games, including those played in the same time zone, never find the light of day. According to the Pennysaver, The Chicago Cubs, not the White Sox won the 2005 World Series.

Critics and rival publications have often pointed out the Pennysaver’s alleged penchant for “sloppy journalism,” as is printing the word “Avenue” when the actual address is “Street,” and vice versa.

Readers often express frustration that front page stories which say that they are “continued on page 5,” seldom are, as Section A of the first section is only four pages in length. Over-scupulous editing occasionally caused entire paragraphs to be deleted, so that when coming across a sentence such as “Snerdgrass said that more legislation is needed,“ the reader has no idea who Snerdgrass is.

“To hell with the critics,” Wringland said, which Hearse seconded. “Yeah,” he said, “They won’t have the little Pennysaver to kick around anymore.”

Still, the paper will be missed by many loyal subscribers. According to Mrs. Mavis Rumpsdale of 515 Locksley Ave (er, St.), “ No more newspaper? What am I ‘posed to line my birdcage with? Junk mail?”

The Pennysaver was predeceased by a member of the editorial board who leaned so far to the right that he fell out of his swivel chair directly into the Hudson River, as well as Tiffani von Zaftig, the effervescent “Social Scene” editor, who floated away when a copy editor inadvertently opened a window.

Survivors include a handful of bloggers for the Pennysaver’s on-line edition and those hired in a recent “outsourcing” move. One of the final articles appearing in the The Pennysaver concerned a meeting of the East Hogwash School Board by a writer reporting directly from Mumbai.

Funeral arrangements , like the Sunday edition, were incomplete, but sources say the rites may include wrapping a copy of The Pennysaver around a dead fish.

-–30 --

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

Question about the previous posting, Reply #4, above. Is the national "deficit" the same as the National Debt? Or are we up the creek and underwater in TWO frightening streams? .....

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The deficit is the annual shortfall between how little comes in and how much goes out. The debt is the cumulative shortfall of all the individual annual deficits, taken over the years - i.e., the debt is sum of all the deficits. They are related, but different.

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

Question about the previous posting, Reply #4, above. Is the national "deficit" the same as the National Debt?

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I think Auntie the deficit is the amount we are out of balance for any given year. The debt is the total accrual of every year's deficit.

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Or are we up the creek and underwater in TWO frightening streams? Reminds me of the oft-quoted line by Senator Everett Dirksen: "A million here, a million there. Pretty soon you're talking about REAL money!"

Also, this morning Contessa Brewer on MSNBC's "Morning Meeting": "These days a billion is the new million, like 60 is the new 40."

Except, pretty soon, the trillion will be the new billion!

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:lol: I agree. Soon trillions are insignificant. ;)


I enjoyed your reads. Did you actually go to the All Star game? Holy smoke that would have been awesome.

Of the three, I found the one about the Pensyvania newspaper the most interesting. This seemed to draw me into something less familiar for me, and therefore more engaging. I thought this funny:

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Still, the paper will be missed by many loyal subscribers. According to Mrs. Mavis Rumpsdale of 515 Locksley Ave (er, St.), “ No more newspaper? What am I ‘posed to line my birdcage with? Junk mail?”

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:D :D

The Pur-“Suit” of Happiness

Have you ever come across an idea that is stunningly brilliant and yet so simple that you can't help slapping your forehead and exclaiming, “Damn! Why didn't I think of that ”? That’s how I felt this morning when I saw the AP news item about the Bronx woman who is filing a lawsuit against the college in which she earned her bachelor’s degree because she hasn't found a job.

The information technology major had undoubtedly fallen for the propaganda that has been thrown at America’s youth for decades: “If you want a good job, get a good education.” Even if a kid is poor, if she studies hard enough she can be accepted into a college. And if her parents can't afford to pay tuition? No problem! College students can borrow thousands of dollars in student loans, backed up by the only collateral available – “future earnings.” (No matter that the student loan sharks would pursue her to the grave, like Harpies at the backs of a hero in a Greek tragedy.)

The New York City plaintiff had the golden degree in her hand, with the added bonus of the school’s “Office of Career Advancement” promise of “leads and career advice.” But for her, this touted “career” proved harder to find as real meat in a so-called “burger” from a fast-food joint. Four years of her life down the drain and a mortgaged future, what’s a poor gal to do? The only thing any red-blooded, pull-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps American would do–- sue the two-faced, white-wine-swilling, brie-scarfing liars!

I wish the disgruntled graduate nothing but luck in tilting at the college and the broken windmills of its promises. (And if we're going to hold the country’s educational system accountable for decades of flunking, what happened to all of those “educational malpractice” lawsuits? American kids are a bunch of fat, dumb, text-messaging zombies, and somebody’s got to pay!)

It’s way too late for yours truly now, but as I say, it never occurred to me to slap my alma mater with litigation, but it did cross my mind to see if they wanted to strike a deal: they pay me a certain amount of cash per month and in return I promise never to mention that I ever set foot within forty feet of the campus. I actually went over there with my proposal, but nobody knew who the hell I was.

But now the proverbial wheels are turning, and I'm thinking, why look for work at all? Theoretically, I could make a decent living just by suing the pants off everybody who has ever let me down in my entire life. For instance, I will file a lawsuit against:

–The United States Post Office for having lost my acceptance letter from “Who’s Who in American Colleges and Universities” in my senior year, yet somehow managed to deliver those hundreds of rejection slips from The New Yorker and other magazines. Maybe I'll go after all the editors in the entire publishing establishment for failing to recognize Sheer Genius the minute it slid over the transom and landed directly in their laps.

– whoever is still alive from the second term of Nixon’s administration for having created a recession and its dearth of good jobs in the years following my college graduation. (And while I'm going after seventies-era culprits, I'll sue whoever is responsible for the pain and suffering caused by disco.)

–the stuck-up features editor at my local paper who sat at her desk reading her mail while she was supposed to be interviewing me for a reporter’s job. “Multi-tasking,” my foot!

–Thoroughbred wagering experts who swore up and down that an exacta with “Snail’s Pace” and “Molasses” in the third at Aqueduct was a “sure thing.” The two nags were things all right – losers, for sure. And while were at it, I'll see The New York State Lottery for saying “You gotta get in it to win it.” Well, I was “in it,” all right, but I didn't win it.

-And finally, I might continue pursuing legal compensation even into the Afterlife, if the thermostat proves to be a bit uh, “warmer” than advertised. If that’s so, I doubt I'll have any trouble locating an attorney willing to take my case.

Tanking with the Sharks

As a matter of personal principle, I refuse to watch any of the so-called “reality” shows, but according to the local listings guide from the Sunday newspaper, last night marked the premiere of still another program from a network too cheap to pay scriptwriters. The show is called “Shark Tank,” not to be confused with jumping the shark, Swimming with the Sharks, Shark Tale, and "Shark Week" on the Discovery Channel. This show has nothing to do with any of the deadly selachian species or even Big Vinnie who'll lend you three G’s for two weeks at 80%. This ratings-grabber apparently is about would-be entrepreneurs presenting their brainstorms in front of a panel of five self-made millionaires who decide which candidate’s idea is worthy of investment. With the judge’s seed money, the lucky winner can start his or her own company.

I'm not ready for prime time myself (at least not without appearing on Extreme Makeover first!) But I do have some Hot Ideas for anyone out there who might want to give it a try. If you manage to – to use the reality show term– “make it through,” I hope you'll remember your ol’ Auntie and stake her a cut of the gross. Speaking of gross, here are my proposed goods and services:

–You've heard of the Global Positioning System that keeps motorists who are too macho to ask for directions from getting lost? How about GPS–The Home Version? This device is designed for folks who keep losing household items, such as their reading glasses or the remote. When you can't find an item, just type it on the keyboard, the screen will light up and a voice will give you the pinpoint location of the missing item. It won't merely say “The last place you looked, Dummy!” It will be more specific than that. For instance, type in the word “Keys?” and you'll get an instant answer: “In the left rear pocket of those gray cargo shorts that make you look like an elephant.” You say you kid doesn't know where his arithmetic homework is? Just ask, and the GPS will tell you: “In Fido’s digestive tract.” If this device catches on, watch for a later upgrade: GPS Home Version 2.0 which will assist you when you lose your temper, self-esteem, or soul.

–This next invention is for trendy types who embrace every fad the minute it rears its ugly head in the fashion mags. Of course, I'm talking of course permanent tattoos, from which the discomfort involved while getting one seldom exceeds the excruciating regret afterward. Naturally, a modest tattoo of a heart or a butterfly can't hurt, and even more vivid skin paintings can be camouflaged with long sleeves. But what if you've got an important job interview lined up or you're going to meet your prospective in-laws for the first time? How can you conceal the eight-inch long dragon beginning at the nape of your neck and crawling around the contours of your left cheek. That’s where “No-Tell Tattoo” comes in. Just spray it on and in three minutes your face will look as clean-cut as the mug of an insurance salesman. Interview over? Just wash off “No-Tell Tattoo” with soap and water, and your face-art is once again as repulsive as the boozy night you got it.

–Once you've finished reading an downloaded book, how do you dispose of the file? Here’s a way to keep disposables out of the landfill –AND cut the cost of your home heating bills. Just throw the trashy E-book into the fireplace. We call it Kindle-kindling.

– And finally, we've read how it costs the equivalent of the national budget of Bolivia to buy a ticket to Yankee Stadium or that new football place in Texas. That tells me that Professional Sports is where all the money is. So I've got two ideas that will totally transform the way we look at Major League Baseball players.

First, since players switch teams more quickly than it takes the network to go to a commercial between innings, my idea can help major league teams cut the cost of constantly changing the names on the backs of uniforms. Pity the poor clubhouse worker who, after spending hours sewing on an outfielder’s name, finds out that the slugger has been traded to Cincinnati. The answer? Detachable name tags – no sewing,no ironing – just Velcro! No muss, no fuss, no worries about the proper way to spell “Tulowitzki” or “Gorzelanny.” When a player moves from one team to another, he takes his own Velcro name tag with him and attaches it to the back of his new team uniform. It doesn't matter if the player’s name is short like “Dye” or long like “Saltamacchia.” Our name tags will make it through waivers like multiple copies of bureaucratic forms through a hurricane. But wait! That’s not all! If the team orders before midnight tonight (or the trading deadline, whichever comes first), we'll throw in an absolutely FREE, a generic, one-size fits all name tag beautifully pre-printed with the letters “A Player to be Named Later.”

As we all know, professional sports is a “young man’s game” and not only are the athletes in tip-top physical condition, they engage in a strenuous training regimen. High-end teams keep their Elite Closers in a large orange crate packed with Excelsior and only bring them out on extra special occasions, like Great-Grandma’s crystal gravy boat on Thanksgiving. But even the most pampered player is vulnerable to Injury! Not a day goes by without a top player hurting himself and going on the DL. A relief pitcher bends down to tie his shoe and comes up with a strained back. An infielder trots after the ice cream truck and pulls a hammy. What’s up with that? Well, I'll tell you what’s wrong with this picture – there’s something dangerous and deadly about uniforms! The remedy – Safety Togs! Admittedly, the prototype is pretty pricey – but you can't put a price tag on safety. Our specially-woven material allows for complete mobility and yet surrounds the team owner’s multi-million dollar investment with soft, cushiony clouds of . . .Bubble Wrap!

Of course, we'd have to figure out a way of attaching the Velcro name tags without popping
the bubbles. You can say what you want about the satisfying crack of a bat knocking out a home run, but for me, no sound of the game is as awesome as the “pop, pop, pop!” of a bubble-wrapped runner sliding into second.

This is certainly very clever and entertaining, Auntie.

Debi Does Vancouver

{When we last visited the Snotenlockers, they were typically causing a scene at the ‘09 MLB All-Star Game. Debi, the materfamilias, has been working on her spelling and blogging skills with the assistance of a fourth grader from Central Falls, Rhode Island. She files the following dispatch from Vancouver, British Columbia, the site of the XXI Winter Olympics.}

February 2010 was one of the BEST months ever! (I mean, if you don’t count Brad’s very romantic Valentine present to me – a factory reconditioned electric drill from Huge Lots.) About three weeks ago when I was in a supermarket check-out line, as my last item – a 10 ounce box of store-brand frozen lima beans – slid across the sticky black conveyor pad, the cashier started to shriek,“Congratulations, lady! You WON!” It turns out I was the lucky winner of a trip to the Winter Olympics, all expenses paid (except for airfare, hotel accommodations, tickets, miscellaneous purchases, and gratuities.) Wow! Imagine little old me, Mrs. Debi Snotenlocker, going all the way to British Columbia in Canada. That’s a a foreign country! I was so amazed that I almost forgave Cost Cutter for discontinuing my favorite brand of soft margarine and refusing to accept coupons downloaded from the Internet.

The catch was the free trip was just for one person. Brad begged me to let him go instead of me, but I told him sorry, but the prize was “non-transferrable” and that he could stay home and care for Trick, Trap, and Trip in my absence. He was so ticked off he said that the minute I went out the door he was going to turn the Thermostat down to below 32, flood the basement stairs with the garden hose, and load the triplets and himself into the Laz-E-Boy to make a 4-man bobsled. But he was just kidding, I think. Of course Milwaukee, my teenaged daughter from a previous relationship, was no help. She was counting the minutes until my departure so she could raid my closet — and hide my mom jeans.

Before I knew it I was on my way to the Olympics. But I almost didn’t make it out of East Hogwash International Airport. It took me twenty minutes to explain to security that the woman in the passport photo was me and not one of Marge’s sisters on The Simpsons. The flight going over itself was all right, except it was downright cold on the plane. I asked the stewardess for a blanket, but she said it would cost extra. “Fifteen dollars just to keep warm?” I exclaimed. “How much for letting me sit next to Kevin Smith while he sweats a lot?”

When I arrived in Vancouver, I expected the weather for the Winter Olympics to be well, wintery. It wasn’t even chilly. The funny thing is that it was like Spring way up here in the Great White North, but down in the States, Washington was being buried with one honking giant slalom of a snowstorm. They should’ve booked the Olympics for D.C. and did the health insurance thing up here.

It was so warm I thought I saw tropical plants growing. But it was just part of the Russian ice dancers’ costumes. Hey, I’ve got a lot of respect for ice skaters. My Mom always said that Ginger Rogers used to do everything that Fred Astaire did, except she did it backwards on high heels. So imagine doing it on skates! I would love to try it
myself, but I have to ply Brad with 4 or 5 bottles of Muckenmeyer’s just to get him to take a turn around the dance floor at the American Legion Post, let alone on a rink. Brad Snotenlocker actually ice dancing with me would be the real “miracle on ice,” if you get my drift.

Hockey, now that’s something Brad would go for. When he explains the difference between NFL and Canadian-style football, I don’t understand it. But now I know something Brad doesn’t, and that’s the difference between Canadian and U.S. hockey players. When an American hockey player knocks an opponent’s teeth out, he usually doesn’t say, “Pardonez moi.” I loved the Olympic women’s hockey. It looks like a good way to lose weight. Not just playing it, I mean after the game. Every time a woman hockey player takes off her uniform, she drops 20 lbs. instantly.

After all the excitement, it was a let-down to have to leave. But it was good to be home. The minute I got in the door Brad and the boys asked me what I brought them. I wasn’t able to get Brad what he asked for -- Apolo Ohno’s autograph -- but I did buy him a DVD of Apolo’s favorite commercials. For the triplets I searched all over for the hottest souvenir– red mittens with a white maple leaf on the palm. They were really hard to find! But I did manage to come up with five of em, two and a half pairs. Unfortunately somebody’s got to “share,” but it will be a “teachable moment.”

For as long as I live, I will remember my Olympic moment in the sun. And any time I want to reminisce and gaze at a gold medal, all I have to do is open my kitchen cabinet and look at the front of the flour bag.

Hello Auntie,

Firstly I commiserate with you and your fellow countrymen on failing to beat Canada in the Ice-hockey final.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading this column.

Though I lack the fine focus of a truly transatlantic perspective, thus depriving me of a truly complete understanding of some of the more specific cultural references, the general tone and flavour shines through.

The Stand-up routine of the ‘US Department of Schtick’ was highly entertaining. “The Pur – ‘suit’ of happiness” speaks volumes to anyone who, having survived academia and been told the same lies (on either side of the pond it seems) finds themselves marooned in an ocean of so called ‘prospects.’

“Tanking with the Sharks” is hilarious and a joy to read and the demise of the local newspaper article was very funny.

While reading, I was constantly reminded of the late, great, James Thurber, whose work I always loved.

Thank you.

H

Gee, this was very gracious and kind of you, Hawkman.
Even before I read your reply above, I was rethinking the assessment of your (Scottish play*) piece, and now believe that your material is considerably higher up the brow than the silliness from the likes of yours truly.

*According to an old superstition among actors, it's supposedly extremely bad luck to mention a certain Shakespearean play by its title.

Very entertaining piece, Auntie, as per your usual. To one such as me, who is currently experiencing Olympics withdrawal due to the fact that there's nothing on television anymore, it really hit home.

I wonder how long the DVD of Apolo Ohno's favorite commercials might be - there were so many commercials - so maybe it's a double or even a triple disk version. Fortunately I now have a DVR so I could plow right past those commercials, which must have occupied at least 40% of the televised time.

And what a shame that so many readers of today wouldn't know about Gold Medal Flour - or flour of any brand - and hence fail to grasp the meaning of your excellent closing line. I don't think any of my own four 'children' - now ranging in age from 35-40 - have ever even considered buying a bag of flour.