Auntie's Anti-Humor

Thank you, DickZ, for taking the time to read this.

I agree with you completely about the endless onslaught of commercials on NBC, whose commentary, as an article on Slate wryly pointed out, measured really high on the"Sap-o-Meter." (Nevertheless, both Bob Costas and Mary Carillo were entertaining and insightful, and NBC's camera work was first-rate.) You can read more of such opinions, as well as the superior comments of our fellow LitNetters on the "General Chat" thread titled"Oh, Canada."

You mean I'm the only one who still buys Gold Medal flour? I don't bake my own bread, but I (and presumably Debi S.) use a great deal of it to make pizza dough, cookies, gravies, etc.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

...You mean I'm the only one who still buys Gold Medal flour? I don't bake my own bread, but I (and presumably Debi S.) use a great deal of it to make pizza dough, cookies, gravies, etc.

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Most of the young people these days are too busy to engage in the kinds of activities you're talking about. For pizza dough, they call Domino's, for cookies, they grab a bag of Famous Amos from the grocery shelves, and for gravy, Heinz puts it into cans.

When you're so busy twittering hundreds of people what you had for lunch and reading their moronic answers, or when you're engaged in other equally inane activities on your Blueberry machine - or whatever they call those things - you don't have time to do things the old-fashioned way.

I'm sure there are a few exceptions to this over-generalization, but not too many.

Some Irish Legends

Although more people of Irish descent live in the United States today than have ever lived on the Emerald Isle itself, few of us know much about our ancient Irish heritage, or the majestic mythology concerning the great heroes of ancient Eire, such as Cuchulain or Finn MacCumhail (pronounced like “McCool.”) Ask somebody who Ossian was and he'll probably answer: “O’ Sheen? Didn't he used do background vocals for U2?”

Nearly every American is Irish for just one day of the year, March 17, which is not really a legal holiday in the United States. Over on the Auld Sod, The Feast of Saint Patrick is an official holiday but as celebrations go, it’s relatively subdued. People go to Mass, perhaps march in or enjoy watching a parade in larger cities such as Dublin, and mark the occasion with a special dinner, which seldom, if ever, consists of corned beef and cabbage. Saint Patrick, or “Padraig” himself, was born in Britain around 389 AD. The son of a prominent Roman citizen, he was kidnapped and sent to Ireland as a slave before eventually escaping. Later in life he became a missionary, returned to Ireland, and almost single-handedly converted the entire island to Christianity. The saint experienced mystical visions of a terrifying hell. Such a frightful prospect doesn't seem to faze the revelers over here in North America, then, as it seems a bit incongruous that a day to honor Ireland’s patron saint would be characterized by boisterous drinking and carousing. Sure, and they'll even be dyin’ the beer green now!

Even the Chicago River is dyed green. Several cities, especially highly-populated ones on the East Coast, sponsor parades either on the weekend before St. Patrick’s Day or the day itself. The huge parade in New York City is the oldest and the most famous, and in recent years some interests representing controversial views have fought hard – and won– the right to be included in the festivities. As a result numerous groups of different backgrounds are represented in the parade, except perhaps the leprechaun contingent. So far no one has ever really seen the little people marching in the parade. That’s because they're so small, they keep disappearing down the potholes on Fifth Avenue.

Irish folktales and legends abound with legends about Ireland’s beloved saint. One of the most famous of these is how “himself” did banish all the “saarpents” out of Ireland by forcing them all to plunge off a cliff into the icy Atlantic. It is a scientific fact that there are no snakes in Ireland, though skeptics believe that the cause was nothing more miraculous than the Ice Age. But perhaps some snakes knew how to swim and emigrated across the big pond to our shores, where in the fullness of time, the snakes prospered and evolved into modern-day landlords and bankers.

You might say such 21st century villains have thick skulls, and there’s an Irish legend about that, too. In his beautiful little volume, The Celtic Twilight, William Butler Yeats explains that the rich pre-Christian traditions had a kinship with other so-called “pagan” traditions. The seafaring Icelanders whom the Irish called the “ancient Danish pirates,” believed that the thicker the skull, the greater the man. They would test this theory by bashing them in. Centuries later a man was being tried in court for breaking a neighbor’s skull. His defense was that some heads are so thin, one cannot be responsible for them. The defendant turned to the prosecutor and said, ” That little fellow’s skull if ye were to hit it would go like an egg-shell.” Then remembering what the Icelandic formula of thick crania equal greatness, he quickly turned to the judge and said, “But a man might wallop away at your lordship’s skull for a fortnight.”

Despite centuries of grinding poverty and scorn, many members of the Irish peasant class were rich with the blessings of wisdom and the legendary Irish “wit.” For instance, a struggling Irish blacksmith once told his apprentice, “If working was a sin, Bill, not an innocenter boy ever broke bread than you would be.”

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day! May yer pockets ever be heavy, yer troubles always be light, and your corned beef never be greasy.

Interesting post Aunty!
I dont like being a spoil sport :blush: but we do do more than go to mass or watch a parade on St Patricks Day. There does be gigs, Ceili's and concerts all across the country, some street fairs and entertainment, as well as the parades (mind you some of the parades are awful!). Its a really big celebration. A lot of drinking is involved. :p but did you know that the sale of alcohol was banned on st patricks day up until the 1970s? Its still banned on Good Friday. :nod: Thought you might like that interesting fact. :)
A lot of people pin shamrock onto there coats and tops.

I was going by what relatives and friends be tellin' me about the good saint's day. Nevertheless, I think that there still is a spiritual element amid the ould sod that is tragically lacking over on these secular shores.
Thanks for readin' tis, me lass!

speaking of auld sod... did you know auld sod is also an expression used for a similar puprose as "sad sack" over here? :)

That explains a lot re: yours truly.

A couple of decades ago when the Star Trek movie franchise neared its peak, a certain one-liner popped up in the culture: “Beam me up, Scottie. There’s no intelligent life on this planet.” The joke got old when everybody and his grandmother took to wearing t-shirts with the quote printed on it. Lately, that line has been rattling in my
head like a loose ball bearing sucked up into the black hole of a vacuum cleaner.

For instance, I get a kick out of extremely cerebral professionals mocking the belief in God, while these brainy scientists themselves, speculating upon the existence of alien life-forms in far-off galaxies, allow for the “possibility” that the equivalent of little green men from outer space could actually invade Old Mother Earth. Yesterday the illustrious astrophysicist Stephen Hawking* released a statement that not only might aliens invade our planet but actually exploit earthlings similarly to the way in which rapacious European explorers destroyed native cultures in the New World.

Far be it from me to question the perspicacity of a genius such as Dr. Hawking, but his scenario has Hollywood swarming all over it. Hence, with no movie cliché or product placement ad left behind, we present the following ditty, which we like to call:

Take Me to Your Booking Agent

Nobody at SETI noticed the quirky pattern that had been repeatedly spiking the computer graphs, or if he had, he would have chalked up the unusual recordings to sun spots. In any event, there was no such person as an intergalactic language specialist to translate the monitored message, which roughly read “I’m going out of town on business, Hon. Don’t wait up.” Likewise, the numerous UFO sightings over New Mexico and Colorado were dismissed as “routine military operations.” There were denials upon denials, debunkings after debunkings until the actual Invasion could no longer be concealed. For a reason not immediately known, the uninvited visitors were for the time being concentrated in the airspace above a suburb of Los Angeles.

No mega-powered telescope was necessary. The clear and present danger could be seen all-too-clearly with the naked eye. Row after row of futuristic spaceships hovered above, lined up like hungry freeloaders waiting for a table on “All You Can Eat Night” at the Olive Garden. The transport vehicles were so ultra high-tech that they made the state-of-the art props in James Cameron’s Avatar look like stray pieces of an erector set. Down on terra firma young people aimed their cellphones skyward to click pictures. Businessmen placed frantic calls to their brokers and screamed, “Sell! Sell!” At municipal buildings scores of empty baby strollers descended down the exterior steps, and on street corners wild-eyed doomsayers in their robes and sandals had already edited their signs, the final word of “The end is near” crossed out and changed to “here” with a reliable Sharpie.

No sooner than you could say “Ewok” did the Mother Ship break out of formation and plunge downward, landing as softly as a piece of confetti, smack dab in the middle of an intersection of beautiful downtown Burbank. A custom-built Maserati slammed on its delicate brake mechanism, but not before rear-ending a 1992 Yugo. A fully-loaded van from the County Animal Control Department jumped the curb and upon impact with a hydrant, the rear panel doors swung open, releasing a pack of canine suspects who joyously howled and reveled in their last-minute reprieve. And in yet another example of life following art (of the spot ad kind), a truck carrying a shipment of milk chocolate bars crashed into a second truck hauling crates of creamy peanut butter. Meanwhile, from all sides of the mother ship mammoth loudspeakers had sprouted, blasting out the opening bars of “Thus Sprake Zarathustra” accompanied by a thumping back beat.

By the time the hatch of the Mother Ship opened, sliding sideways like a supermarket’s automatic door, the indigenous traffic had for most part gotten the hell out of the way. A short set of stairs flipped down and a figure dressed in a metallic spacesuit marched down the steps like a beauty pageant contestant on a runway. The alien’s appearance was neither reptilian nor insect-like; in fact, it (or he) looked completely humanoid, though nothing like Michael Rennie, nor, for that matter, Keanu Reeves. The other-worldly visitor swaggered to the middle of the street, stopped directly beneath the swaying and still blinking red light, and raised what only could be described as a bull-horn. He put the low-tech microphone to his lips, and in perfect English started to address the terrestrial crowd:

“Greetings, People of Earth! We come in peace for all mankind, and if you want to keep it that way, we strongly suggest that you fulfill our demands.” At the word “demands,” the crowd’s initial, stunned silence was broken by shrieks and screams of various decibel levels. High school kids who had not yet surrendered to full panic mode had begun texting like mad. One message read “OMG! Were [sic] abduckted !![SIC] L8tr!” and another “There [sic] gonna chop us up for happy meals!!! lol.”

In the interim, the local law enforcement agencies had been placed on high alert, the military ordered a flotilla of fighter jets on stand-by, and the color-code of Homeland Security had segued from a comforting lemon yellow to an alarming fire engine red. Not far away from the site of the historical-- if not pre-apocalyptic--event, stood a duet of two operatives from an agency so covert neither the C.I.A. nor the F.B.I. nor even the AARP knew of their existence. Both men wore black from head-to-toe from the lenses of their sunglasses to the tips of their Florsheims.

“Looks like we’re gonna have to call for backup,” one agent said to the other.

“Where’s Chuck?”

“Aw, he’s headlining at a gun rally in El Paso. Who else is available?”

Meanwhile, the spokesalien was outlining the “non-negotiable” demands. “First, we want a shot on ‘Dancing with the Stars.’ “

“Whew!” exhaled one of the secret agents. “That’s a relief. We’ll have to bump the octomom and the balloon boy's dad, but it’s doable.”

“Secondly, we want to produce, star in, and direct our own reality show,” the alien continued. “But it has to be on one of the major networks. Don’t try to palm us off on one of those off-label cable channels.”

“That’ll work,” the secret agent said. “There’s at least a couple o’ shows getting the ax after Sweeps Week.”

The alien had reached the bottom line of his wish list. “And finally, for the inevitable feature film of our, uh, ‘visit’ we want complete control of the entire production. That includes a 100 % share of the gross. I repeat: gross. The merest mention of the word ‘net’ and your pretty blue marble becomes charcoal.”

“Did he say what I think he said?”

“I’m afraid so. The dreaded ‘g’ word! We’re gonna have to haul out the heavy artillery. Where’s Denzel? Where’s Bruce?”

“They’re both up in Iceland putting a cap on Eyjafjallajokull.”

“Ijahka what ill?”

“No matter. I’ve got an idea.” The agent whispered into his partner’s ear.

“You know,” the partner said, “it’s just so crazy, it just might work!”

Later that evening the visitors from the planet, whose name could never be pronounced let alone spelled, were feted to a welcoming gala in which, the pretext was, their demands would be cheerfully accepted and formalized. After a festive dinner of chicken a la king and apple pie a la mode with a Tang chaser, the evening’s entertainment began.

A forty-foot screen descended from the ceiling and the HD DVD began. As the movie progressed, the earthlings in the audience coughed, whispered among themselves, played games on their personal electronic devices, or took the opportunity to catch a quick catnap. The visitors, however, were gradually showing signs of physical and emotional distress. Several aliens clutched their stomachs, some headed for the rest rooms, a few didn’t make it. “The pain! The pain. . .“ the head alien complained. “Can’t take it. . .must retreat. . .head back home.” Although his head looked as if it had begun to weigh more than a bulkhead, the alien looked up at the two secret agents. “I must. . .ask. What is this powerful, invincible weapon?”

“This? Why, it’s the 2005 remake of War of the Worlds starring Tom Cruise. What, don’t you like. . .”

But before the agent could finish his sentence, the entire contingent of aliens had left the building, raced to their respective transport vehicles and shot off into the far reaches of the universe, presumably in search of another world in which the phenomenon of the excruciatingly bad movie remains unknown.


*http://www.tgdaily.com/space-feature...tephen-hawking

http://blogs.wsj.com/speakeasy/2010/...-about-aliens/

Quote:

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

[COLOR="Green"]
Although more people of Irish descent live in the United States today than have ever lived on the Emerald Isle itself, few of us know much about our ancient Irish heritage, or the majestic mythology concerning the great heroes of ancient Eire, such as Cuchulain or Finn MacCumhail (pronounced like “McCool.”) Ask somebody who Ossian was and he'll probably answer: “O’ Sheen? Didn't he used do background vocals for U2?”

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Actually, I have heard of Cuchalain the Valiant... and I'm not even Irish!!!! Great essays, though.

Actually, I heard about Cuchalain on a Celtic music CD... there's some sort of ancient Irish declaration that goes "I am Ireland. I'm older than the old woman of Baere. Great my glory. I that bore Cuchalain the Valiant. Great my shame: my own children that sold their mother." Mise Eire. Pretty dramatic stuff.

Also, I really enjoyed your alien post. Highly witty and enjoyable! You've brightened up my day.

When Life Imitates Art, Part II

Here's a portion of "Tanking With With the Sharks," Reply #10 above, originally posted by yours truly on 8/10/09:

Quote:

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

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.

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And here is the real-life counterpart, from the other day:

http://bleacherreport.com/articles/3...e-wrap-is-here

Somebody had better cut me a check, or I'm calling my attorney!

Re "Take me to your Booking Agent"

Auntie, that was magnificent. Flawless and funny. I had been wondering what your attitude to Sci-fi might be, now I know. (titter, titter). I wonder what you would make of my two books...

Best,

H

Has a whole year gone by already? I guess time flies even when you're not having fun! It’s graduation day again at the upstate campus of Downstate University in Hogwash. In case you didn't make the ceremony at the Rentacenter Civic Center in beautiful downtown East Hogwash because of a scheduling conflict -- that 24-hour Friends rerun marathon was just good to pass up! - the text of this year’s commencement speech appears below. The university president has already welcomed the distinguished guests and candidates for graduation, asked the owner of the black Hummer to move his vehicle as it was intimidating the owner of the blue Kia, and reminded Bradley Freen – again!– to submit in his history thesis if he expected to receive a diploma. With the concluding words of President Porterhouse Mistake III, we join DUH’s 2010 Commencement already in progress. . .

“. . . would like to introduce our Commencement Speaker. We are sorry to report that our original choice was unable to honor us this year due to an emergency. So we wish Z. Hunter Raconteur of the Crookings Institute best of luck in his appointment to have his shirt re-stuffed. We are fortunate in that we were able to get another speaker at the last minute. And so, here he is direct from the East Hogwash Motor Inn and Cocktail Lounge, put your hands together for. . .Mr. ‘Wacky’ Jackie Joey! “

”Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, President Mistake. Distinguished fellas (and gals), honored alumni (and may I say you've really got cajones to admit you actually went to school here), parents (some of who-- whom?-- I've run into down at the pawn shop) and last but certainly least, graduates. I can't tell you what an honor this is. Maybe if it really was an honor, I could tell ya!

“ Anyway, I'm not really what you'd call an educated person. One good thing about graduating from college is that you get to write all kinds of fancy initials after your name: B.A., M.A., U.N.E.M.P.L.O.Y.E.D. (Oooh. I hope I spelled that right!) And you know somebody has a phony doctorate when he writes after his name: f.i.d. (I guess you don't have to have a Ph.D. to get that joke. Or maybe you do.)

“Like I say, I'm not much on book learning. But there is someone in the family who finally graduated from college, right here at DUH a couple of years ago. That was my nephew, Chip Joey. It took Chip only five years to finish. He would've done it in four, but it took him a full year to track down his undergraduate advisor.

“I forget what Chip majored in. Maybe he majored in mining and minored in the training of mid-level military officers. He was a miner major and a major minor. And it boggles my mind how so many college kids take out huge loans or send their parents to the poorhouse to pay tuition for an ‘undeclared major.’ But it does make them uniquely qualified for a future career – in politics! As ‘undeclared candidates’!

“That reminds me, the other day I ran into Goose Ganderheimer. You know Goose, co-hosts a sports talk show on WDUH-FM, 109.4 and a half on your dial? (Now he owes me a plug!) Anyway, last year Goose gave the commencement speech, and right after the ceremony he enjoyed talking to the grads. He said to one dude, “Hey, congratulations! Now you're ready to face the real world and its challenges. What are you going into?” And the kid said, ‘Debt.’

“Seriously, kids, every day there are new and exciting fields to find jobs in. Some of them involve wearing a paper hat, but ya gotta start someplace. Technology, for instance. You know that they've just invented a DVD that self-destructs two hours after you're done watching it? Too bad they hadn't come up with it a couple of years ago. I know Nicholas Cage must've wished the remake of The Wicker Man had self-destructed before it ever hit the theaters.

“If science ain’t your thing, you could always do what I did and go into the Arts. As an artist, I've got great ambition. My goal is to host a late-night talk show. It’s not that I'm all that crazy about doing a show every night, I just want to get a multi-million dollar settlement when Jay Leno pushes me out of my time slot.

“And you know, my girlfriend is an actress. Yep, I'm really proud of her. Last week she came home and told me she did a pilot. I was really happy for her, until she told me she also did the landing crew. And the air traffic controllers.

“You probably don't believe this, but could actually succeeds in show business without a single drop of talent. I mean, look at Matthew McConaughey. Aw, I kid Matt. He was pretty good in Dazed and Confused. Even though it was type-casting. Maybe you'll find your niche behind the scenes. You could be a set designer or a film editor, maybe even join the ranks of screenwriters. And from what I hear their stuff is pretty rank. When we lived in LA, my ex used to work in the movie business as a sign language interpreter. One night she came home from work and rushed straight to the bathroom. ‘What’s the matter, Honey?’– I still called her ‘Honey’ back then, now I don't ever call her at all. Stupid restraining order! Anyway, I asked her if she was sick. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I just spent 12 hours of interpreting sign language for HBO and now I gotta wash my hands out with soap.

“There are plenty of opportunities for sign language interpreters. Looking over to the right side of the stage see that even DUH has hired someone for the occasion. . . oh, sorry. My bad. It’s just a volunteer usher signaling me to wrap it up and get off the stage. Oh, well, I can take a hint.

“Listen, you've been a wonderful audience. Best of luck in all your endeavors. Your chances of getting a job are about the same as getting real butter on your movie popcorn, but lotsa luck anyway.

“ It sure was a blast giving the commencement address. Come see me at the East Hogwash Motor Lodge and Cocktail Lounge. I'm there all week! Try the prime rib. And, Brad, buddy, get on the stick and finish up that paper.”


Previous commencement speeches
08
http://www.online-literature.com/for...ad.php?t=35518

09
http://www.online-literature.com/for...055#post720055

With the continuous reminders of the mad-made environmental disaster in the Gulf of Mexico, there is little to laugh at. Eleven human beings lost their lives, compounded by the countless loss of wildlife and wetlands, both short-term and into the future. But, as many comedians have pointed out, one can find humor in everything if it’s handled right. “Comedy,” Mel Brooks has said, “is tragedy plus time.” With this event, slightly less than 2 months have elapsed, but already late night talk-show hosts and the two Comedy Central shows which parody newscasts have already made fun of the ineptitude and pomposity of corporate executives charged with attempting to plug the enormous undersea oil leak, as well as the general ineptitude so far in cleaning up the oddly-understated “mess.”

Concerning the latter, it has occurred to some to ask, “Why don’t they use oil-eating bacteria?” Some species of these tiny plant already occur naturally in the water; genetically-enhanced super-species carry the danger of adding even more pollution or swallowing up the already-compromised supply of oxygen, not to mention the frightening prospect of introducing germs on steroids into the wild. Latter-day Frankensteins have been developing recombinant DNA technology for at least a couple of decades. What has been stalling the widespread use of beneficial DNA-enhanced bacteria isn’t a failure of science but rather the legal quandary arising over whether “living things” – the ones created by human beings – can be patented. In other words, once the petroleum-scarfing little critters are unleashed into the slimy ocean, who’s gonna get paid?

Still, fantastic Dr. Moreau-style creatures that may someday be developed to change our lives for the better, for the worse, or just for the hell of it. For instance,

What would you get if you combined . . .
. . .a chameleon with a leopard? A creature that keeps changing its spots.

. . .an ostrich with a Road Runner? A bird that will bury offensive Internet web sites in the sand.

. . .an orangutan with a llama? Spell-check.

. . .a pigeon with a penguin? A bird that frequently soils its own formal wear.

. . .a cuckoo with a hyena? The perfect audience member at a comedy club.

. . .a parrot with a gecko? A creature who will talk you into switching your car insurance.

. . .a fox with a skunk? An attractive female anchor on a cable news network that stinks.

. . .a sloth with an [an animal that looks like a donkey and is mentioned in the Bible where it's spelled with an "a" followed by a pair of s's.]? Superintendent of schools.

And then there was the playboy who combined a chick with a mynah – and ended up with a twenty-year sentence.

The premise for the following bit of foolishness originated in an item which may have escaped your notice among the many tragic and triumphant news stories this week. Specifically, the serious National Pork Board was attempting to slap a “cease and desist” order against the non-serious purveyors of a product whimsically named “Canned Unicorn.” The bone of contention was the use of a slogan, “The other white meat.” Here’s the link:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/0..._n_619926.html

The precedent (legal or otherwise) for the format of this piece is from the famously hilarious Ian Frazier piece, “Coyote vs. Acme,” which first appeared in The New Yorker in 1990. I'd become even crazier than I already am were I to include that link, for the result could only be that yer ol’ Auntie would suffer by comparison. In any event, let me present this piece o’ “humor” that we like to call


“Exist” Strategy

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

It has come to our attention that the business world has been engaging in a legal battle over personal issues relative to my brethren and myself. The plaintiff, apparently, is under the impression that the defendant has been distributing a product consisting of “meat” formulated from our corporeal selves. Talk about not keeping Kosher! The original “other white meat” as it is called? We wouldn't touch it in a million years. We herbivores know nothing about pork. (As to whether there is any truth to the rumor that consuming pork may evoke bad dreams, please consult our equine cousins, the Nightmares.) Evidently, the root of the plaintiff’s case does not in any way, shape, or form mention the moral ramifications of an industry which exploits creatures for the ever-increasing appetites of carnivores. Nor does it consider the entity called – and I shudder to write it –“canned unicorn meat” as unfair competition. The motive for the litigation is that the defendant allegedly usurped the marketing tool!

The defendant claims that its company never really produced the product in the first place, maintaining that my aforementioned brethren and I do not actually “exist.” Believe me, Sirs and/or Mesdames, we've been kicking the real v. fictional football around for millennia. Furthermore, there is no endeavor more exhausting than attempting to disprove a myth. (The respective leaders of the both major American political parties will back me up on that.) Evidently, the modern world acknowledges only those bold and aggressive enough to elbow themselves into the spotlight and make a great deal of blatant noise. By contrast, a being whose nature is to be shy and gentle does not necessarily negate its own existence.

Granted, we are a species with a reputation for being “aloof” and “elusive.” The reason we are not “spotted” is the same reason we are not striped; the snowy color of our coats never varies. It is said that the humans most likely to see a unicorn are virgins. Perhaps that will explain why there has never been a recorded unicorn sighting in Hollywood. Seeing a unicorn is not difficult if one knows where to look, be it in Uganda, Uruguay, or the Yukon. Sometimes one of us will appear completely unexpectedly. A story by the human writer, James Thurber, relates how a man caught a glimpse of one of us in his garden. Rather than sharing in her husband’s rare delight, the wife in the story attempts to have him placed in – you should excuse the expression – “the booby hatch.” I won't spill the beans by revealing the denouement, but suffice it to say that she who maintains that the unicorn is a “mythical beast” receives her comeuppance.

How does one distinguish a true unicorn from your usual garden variety white horse? By my golden horn you shall know me. Accept no substitutes! I am referring of course to the traveling circus which a few years back had the effrontery of sawing off one of the horns of a billy goat and passing him off as a “unicorn.” It is believed that our singular golden spikes hold mystical powers, but in the spirit of full disclosure, I hereby deny the completely factitious notion that ground-up unicorn horns are the secret ingredient in Viagra. Nor did our horns have anything at all to do with the notorious vuvuzelas blown during the FIFA World Cup matches. I know that I speak for my fellow unicorns when I say that I cannot overemphasize how much I appreciate and cherish the gleaming protuberance on my forehead. That golden horn is the only thing that prevents somebody from entering me in the fourth race at Aqueduct. In this shaky economy, though, one never knows--in order to make ends meet, I may have to consider a job using my horn to pick up litter in the park.

In conclusion, Ladies and Gentlemen, I wish to reiterate that the unicorn is not a “mythical beast.” We unicorns would consider it a courtesy if– make that “demand”-- all parties would “cease and desist” from denying our existence. If such mocking disrespect continues, we will ask other aggrieved parties, such as selkies, pookas, and djinni to join us in a class action suit. Additionally, I hear that when push comes to shove, gargoyles can be real devils. We will, however, negotiate a settlement that is both reasonable and fair. As terms of compensation for damages, pain, and suffering we are seeking only the entire contents of Ali Baa’s cave, the pots of gold under the world’s rainbows, and exclusive pouring rights to the Fountain of Youth. You will be hearing from our attorneys forthwith.


Very truly yours,
Ulysses U. Unicorn

P. S. No more “Mr. Nice Guy.”

Oh yes, Very enjoyable Auntie, although at one point I thought you were advocating the ingestion of Long Pig, supplied, canned and marketed to the supermarket shopper as a healthy alternative to cattle and horses!

Here's one for you..

If Unicorns, in defiance of your, or rather their defense of their corporeality, are in fact mythical beast and as such, have no basis in fact or reality, Is a thought of a Unicorn a real thought?

Best, H