Auntie's Anti-Humor

It was SOOOOO Hot! (How hot was it?)

It was SOOOOO hot that. . .

. . .Crowds sought out formerly ignored fat people just to sit next to them –and enjoy the shade.

. . .Vanilla Ice got his first paying gig in years.

. . .Sports celebrities actually drank the Gator-Ade.

. . .A rabbi, a priest, and a nun joined the Naked Cowboy stripping on Broadway.

. . .People headed to used car lots in droves, just to catch the breeze from the salesmen’s mouths.

. . . Banks too big to fail worried that their frozen assets might thaw.

. . .Community theatres were cancelling their productions of Ninety-Two in the Shade, Steambath, and -Some Like It Hot? No, we don’t.

. . .It was also too darn hot for the devil’s scenes in Damn Yankees, the firemen in Fahrenheit 451, and somebody should help that poor cat and fiddler get off the roof.

. . .Beauticians all along the eastern seaboard frantically tried to scratch off the “h” on their bottles of hair conditioner.

And finally, it was so hot that on the campus of Columbia University, you could fry an egghead on the sidewalk.

When life

http://www.bing.com/videos/watch/vid...snhp&gt1=42007

follows "art":

p://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=914595#post914595

Quote:

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

When life

http://www.bing.com/videos/watch/vid...snhp&gt1=42007

follows "art":

p://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=914595#post914595

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Well I can certainly vouch for the fact that this sort of unicorn is definately edible! yum, yum! H

An excerpt from the online journal
of Mrs. Debi Snotenlocker
(Edited to simulate a modicum of literacy.)


OMG talk about your bad hair day! LOL. I had to go all the way over to the East Hogwash Free Library to use this ancient computer that they let EVERYBODY use, even stinking kids who probably never wash their hands. EWWWW!

I miss my laptop soooo much. Last night it was literally TOTALED after I accidentally left it on the kitchen counter. Me and machines don’t get along. Like that stupid TiVo. Every time I want to record “Dancing with the Stars,” the TiVo gets it mixed up with “Do You Think You Can Dance?” and vicey-versey. Same with “CSI: NY” and “NCIS: Los Angeles.” All we ever get is “Law and Order: SVU.” And a ton of commercials for SUVs.

I TOLD Brad that he didn’t hook it up right. He’s not all bad. A pretty good father to the triplets. Like he’s got this big dream to teach them all how to play golf. But he hasn’t made much progress so far. Trick is more interested in seeing how far into the ground he can pound a tee with his foot. Trip and Trap keep chasing each other with the 9 iron. But Brad is convinced that he’s a kingmaker for three Tiger Woodses. I told him if that’s the case don’t bring them down to the pancake place. They got a hostess there who looks like she’s waiting for a callback from Playboy magazine. Brad goes: “Oh, the boys don’t pay any attention to her.” And I’m like “I’m talking about you.”

Brad even sees a project in my daughter (from a previous relationship.) He’s like “Why can’t Milwaukee try out for American Idol?” and I’m like “What’re you, nuts? She can’t sing her way outa a paper bag” and Brad goes “That’s just what I mean.” Well, Milwaukee overheard us and she thought it was the awesomest idea EVER! She warmed up to that puppy and hugged the living daylights outa it. So every night she practices the song she’s gonna sing for her American Idol audition. I swear if I hear that damn song “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” one more time I’m gonna climb that mountain myself and jump right off of it! I go, “I’m glad your [sic] showing some interest in something, Milwaukee, but don’t you think you oughta be doing your geometry homework?” Then she’s gets all smart mouthed and says that triangles ain’t gonna put her on top of the Billboard charts.

BTW I had to run all the way over to the East Hogwash Elementary School yesterday. They told me I had to come in for a parent teacher conference. So I met the teacher. It was amazing. She looked a little like the hostess at the pancake place! Her hair was so big it went halfway up to the ceiling and she musta spent half her salary getting her nails done. Anyway I show her the composition she sent home. “I admit that Trip, er Trap isn’t the sharpest knife in the fourth grade, but even he doesn’t make this many spelling and grammar eras [sic]. I think you got his paper mixed up with somebody else’s.” So this teacher rips the paper right outa my hand and looks at it. Then she goes “Whoops. My bad. I think I sent home a copy of our latest union contract by mistake. I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Slotenknocker.” I shoulda said, “That’s Snotenlocker, you dingbat.” But I didn’t.

Anyway, I told Brad all about this last night when I was cooking dinner. “Your [sic] right, Debi. Our education system sucks out loud. Maybe we ought to put the boys in private school.”

I go, “You mean some religious school where they spend half the day telling little kids they’re no damn good? I don’t think teachers should tell kids that their [sic] going to hell. That’s the parent’s job.”

All of a sudden Brad got a look on his face like he just thought of the awesomest idea on the planet. He snapped his fingers. “Aha! We don’t have to stay with public schools or private schools either. I got the perfect solution.”

I’m like, “What are you talking about?” And he’s like “Two words. Home schooling!”

And that was when I dropped a huge pan full of baked ziti all over my laptop computer.

If you have the ability not just to make a New Year’s Resolution but actually to keep it, let me be the first to congratulate you. Me, I don't want to set up a situation doomed to fail faster than a frozen custard stand in Antarctica. Not only that, around Dr. Martin Luther King Day, I've already forgotten every one of my earnest promises to improve myself. I suppose I could write the resolutions down, but then, I'd probably lose the piece of paper. Anyway, here’s a little something I like to call:

SEVEN RESOLUTIONS MADE TO BE BROKEN

In 2011 I hereby resolve that:

1. In what everybody calls a “tough economy,” it’s not only wise to be frugal, it’s a necessity. Still, I won't go so far that I save all of my calendars from this year so I can use them again when the dates fall the same as they did in 2010—in 2021! (I can almost hear all of you saying: “You should live so long!”)

2. Speaking of cheapness, I'll try to curb my habit of checking the coin slots of vending machines and pay phones (if they still exist) for loose change.

3. Whenever I come across a piece of “bubble wrap,” I will resist the urge to pop the bubbles. (In public, I mean.)

4. When the “Swimsuit Issue” of Sports Illustrated comes out, I will resist looking at it and thereby retain the microscopic shred of self-esteem I still have.

5. I'll try to refrain from betting on “Snail’s Pace” across the board in the fifth at Aqueduct, despite the fact that he's 0 for 13, and he's due!

6. Upon receipt of a greeting card, I won't turn it over to check out the price, at least until the person who gave it to me leaves the room. (Hey, at least I've gotten past the point of shaking the card in the hope that some folding cash falls out!)

7. Finally, I resolve not to recycle any more humor pieces, including this one from 2005.

So, to all my Fellow LitNutters:

Happy New Year
from your irresolute Auntie!

Happy New year to you too, Auntie :D

Happy New Year to you, Auntie, and to everyone else.

You just reminded me of the fact that at our health club, all the machines will be full for the first couple of weeks of the new year. Fortunately, when all the folks who are there just for their resolutions finally poop out after two or three weeks, the place will get back to normal.

Then we won't have to wait for a machine.

Today my little neck-o- the-woods is experiencing a “Weather Emergency.” This time it’s an “ice event,” yesterday, sub-zero temperatures; and last Wednesday a “major snow event,” in which, around here at least, Mother Nature dumped just under fourteen inches of – since local meteorologists don't have the descriptive vocabulary of The Inuits – “the white stuff.”

I don't want to get into a debate here whether global warming is a hyped-up myth or not, but I do think the better term is “climate change.” Storms seems to have increased in number and intensity, recent summers have made senior citizens think twice about retiring to Florida, and winters– well, in comparison to the Bad Old Days, are so wimpy they make clerks at The Gap seem like longshoremen.

Back when I was a little whippersnapper, and my contemporaries all seem to agree with me, winters were colder, icier, and yes, snowier. Even so, we had to have a real “Snowmeggedon” in order to get a “snow day”– an unscheduled day off from school. We might have had a couple of feet of snow, and still have to trudge through unplowed streets and unshoveled sidewalks, all the while trying to keep our brown paper lunch bags from being covered with, with-- oh, hell-- “the white stuff.” (Yes, I walked to school but not because schoolbuses hadn't been invented yet. I'm old, but I'm not that old!) But even when it was so bad that the public schools closed, the parochial schools defied the transitory vagaries of this world and remained open. Maybe the nuns thought if we got buried in a drift or froze our catechisms off, it would build character.

In recent decades, kids (as well as school administrators) aren't taking any chances. One flake, and it’s “Katie, Bar the Door” and call the TV stations. Perhaps out of fear of accidents and thus Big Lawsuits, some schools are so determined to make “robocalls” in the middle of the night to inform parents that their children’s schools will be closed, enraging at least one father in the D.C. area:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn...l?hpid=topnews

But in most cases the opposite situation prevails, and most parents would rather know than not know, even if it means being suddenly awakened at 4:30 am. Education, as well all know, is an industry for which the transmission of information, i.e.,”Communication,” is not a high priority. Most school systems wait until the very last minute to decide whether to close or not to close. As a result, nobody’s sure if his school is open or closed till he sees it on the TV screen or on the computer website --provided that the “Storm of the Century” (I think we're on our 15th one now) hasn't knocked out the electricity.

Hence, humbly presented for anyone who may want to commiserate and/or scoff,-- and forgive/nail me for the deplorable use of the second person pronoun -- is an updated version of a little ditty which crawled out of me brain way, way back in 2004, one which we like to call:

Snow Foolin’? (or) How Long Do the Little So-and-Sos’ Butts Have to Be Sitting In Their Desks Before the School District Can Collect the State Dough?

Here in upstate New York, everybody's a weather veteran. We know torrential rains, broiling temperatures (in April), sub-zero wind chills (also in April), and tornadoes. We put the "in" in "inclement," a word that is seldom used except in front of "weather." One would think we'd be inured to winter by now. Still, nothing beats a good old snowstorm for shutting down the schools.

How do you know when it's a snow day? As soon as you wake up, look outside. The air may be thick with fluttering white flakes, reminiscent of the ticker tape parade thrown for Snooki on publication day of her book. The skies may look clear now, but it has snowed all night long. Ordinarily, seeing snow piled halfway up the window is no cause for alarm. Unfortunately, you live on the second floor.

You've lived through crises before, such as the National Day of Mourning declared upon the Ryan Reynolds/Scarlett Johansson breakup. Thus, you know what to do in an emergency: turn on the TV. As usual, you will see senior legal correspondents discussing the latest celebrity scandal. As usual, ignore them. Direct your eyes to the bottom of the screen where there is an alphabetical loop listing the school closings in the region. At the moment the scroll is on the pre-, elementary, middle, junior high, and senior high schools named Aardvark, and your kids attend Zuyder Zee Consolidated.

Because you have no idea how many schools are closed -- are there five or five hundred? -- you don't know how long the scroll will run. You're dying to duck into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, but you're terrified that if you glance away for just a nanosecond, you'll miss the all-important listing. (Not that the other schools aren't important, but let's face it, you don't really give a rat's behind about Gilboa or Onteora Central.)

Meanwhile the closings are leisurely sauntering by like a bevy of yuppies at the Victorian Stroll. Right after Richfield Springs and Rotterdam comes the Litany of the Saints, commencing with St. Ambrose. By the time they reach the Philips --St. Philip the Elder, St. Philip the Younger, St. Philip the Neglected Middle Child, and St. Philip the Third Cousin Once Removed -- you find yourself in the beginning stages of caffeine withdrawal, and your bladder is approaching burst mode.

The scroll, alas, has reached Zebulon Pike Country Day School and has returned to the Aardvark schools. No Zuyder Zee! Is it open, closed, or what? Maybe the Principal (Z.Z.’s Top) is a late riser. Maybe he's calling it in right now!

At last the kids are up and in front of the tube to relieve you. They hate going to school so much that not only are they reading the scroll, they are cheering it on. It's as if they had a bet on a rallying longshot at Aqueduct Park. They're pumping their fists and yelling, "Come on! Come on!" Finally the name Zuyder Zee Consolidated surfaces reluctantly like Punxsatawney Phil dragged out of his den on February 2.

But Z.Z. Consolidated is not closed. And it's not exactly open, either. Your kids are in the academic equivalent of Limbo known as the "two-hour delay."

You're aghast at how swiftly your kids' facial expressions morph from elation to confusion to bleak despair in fewer than ten seconds. The only other human on the planet who can do faster emotional segues is Mary Hart, the anchoress emeritus of Entertainment Tonight.

Since 100 minutes have evaporated since you began your vigil in front of the screen, the process of getting the kids fed, deloused, dressed and out the door is more intense than a "normal" school day.

You eventually get to work with the hope that the boss doesn't make any "mommy track" wisecracks. You remove your gloves, hat, boots, and two or three of the six layers of standard winter wear. The very second you sit down at your desk, the phone rings. Then you hear the news that every parent dreads, the two words that make a regular snow day seem like a week in Cancun: "Early dismissal."

Ah yes - the good old days when we had sixteen foot high drifts of snow (yes - I was there in the winter of 1962-3) and we were cut off for nearly two weeks. That was back in the days when TV was black and white, we had no telephones out in the sticks, and the school bus either arrived to collect you and trundle the 16 miles of cross-country lanes to school or it didn't. An hour frozen at the end of the farm track waiting for its non-arrival was rewarded by having the rest of the day free to go sledging, breaking the ice on the cattle troughs or just generally getting soaked through.

Climate change - well, the so-called perfect storms are chicken feed when you consider the cataclysmic floods and tidal breaches that must have fashioned the landscape even in not-so-distant geological time. Just because we haven't seen Nature really flexing her muscles in living memory doesn't mean our current climatic regime is the norm. It's very much the lull before.....

H

Very well-written and entertaining, Auntie.

I'm in Washington, DC, and when the first flake is sighted during the day, the entire federal 'workforce' hits the road for home simultaneously. And before that first flake is sighted, you better believe that all these folks are glued to their windows watching for it. The next day, only essential workers have to report, so the roads stay quite clear of traffic because I don't think there are more than three essential federal 'workers' in the whole city.

And yes, I have given up driving and using electricity (except for my computer) because I'm so concerned about this global warming. Most of the others who are so concerned keep using gasoline and electricity, while hoping that everyone else will stop doing just that.

However, if it weren't for the global warming, we'd really be freezing now. So I might start driving again and using all that terrible gasoline anyway.

Hill, and DickZ, thanks for the comments.^^^ Thank you as well AllAfricanBooks, and welcome to the LitNet!

If you're gluttons for punishment, here's some more
anti-humor:

You’ve heard of the “Age of Aquarius?” Well, that one is “Hair” and gone, giving way to a new one, which we like to call

The Age of the Credulous

Way back in the 1970s, the Television Gods offered an anthology series under the umbrella title, Love American Style. The often cheesy but occasionally cute show featured short, star-studded sitcoms interspersed with even shorter vignettes. One entr’acte depicted a bachelor seeking what is currently called “a friend with benefits.” The would-be Don Juan, however, wrongly assumed the amateur status of his intended pick-up, for when he asked her, “Hey, Baby, what’s your sign?” she replied, “Dollar!”

Asking a civilian that same question today might yield a different answer: “I dunno.” It’s not as if twenty-first century people are no longer interested in their personal horoscope, as if struck by sudden rationality. Thanks to a recent development in the field of astrology, people no longer know exactly what particular sign they were born under. Astronomers say that there now lies a previously undiscovered astrological sign--ominously the 13th-- in the zodiacal line-up. On top of that, the particular astrological persuasion you have been told was your birth-right is not the ”right” one. For instance, up to this point you might have thought of yourself as a non-assertive Virgo only to find out you’re a Leo in full roar. Changes in the celestial positions of the various constellations have brought about this reconfiguration, but it’s anybody’s guess why it took 3000 years for astrologers to notice:

http://www.associatedcontent.com/art...the.html?cat=9

This undoubtedly comes as quite a shock to the superannuated hippies still trying to turn hemp into a cash crop from their four-decade-old communes or New Agers needing help in deciding whether if today would be an auspicious day to sample that new 30-oz latte. Wait till they find out that the Zodiac is about to suffer through even more changes, including the discovery of two more new signs:

Piraticulus (“The Parrot.”) Babies born under this sign will grow up with an inexplicable desire to sail the high seas and plunder other ships. They’ll also be fond of wearing eye patches, Gilbert Roland shirts, and an earring (only in one ear.) This is the sign for people born during “Arrrr!” months.

Astraperigee (“The Fading Star.”) This is the astrological sign for people who readily admit what month they were born in but are evasive about the exact year. Astraperigees are likely to choose professions which will put them in the public eye and on Page Six. When they’re not doing a cameo role or a reality show, they like to spend their spare time making deranged phone calls and trashing hotel rooms.

Don’t be surprised if corporations see the Zodiac as still another marketing opportunity, like acquiring naming rights to sports venues or, as in David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, calendar years. For example:

Global parent companies of restaurant franchises might claim a sign called Diarches (“The Double Arches.”) The constellation monopolizes the heavens especially during the time when Jupiter aligns with Mercury–rendering it “super-sized” and “fleet,” just like fast food. Diarches is most prominent when the Moon is in the Seventh House – of pancakes!

Similarly, huge discount retailers might hold the rights to a constellation called “Scatolus Magnus” (“The Big Box.”) People born under this sign are unusually docile, accepting "flexible" hours and no benefits, but they “take pride” in calling themselves “associates” and “team players.” As a constellation, The Big Box tends to outshine smaller “Mom and Pop” constellations in the galactic neighborhood and to out-source the stars above American factories to China.

Satellite television providers might claim “The Dish,” which is the sign for people born on weekdays between the hours of 9 and 4. The astrological influence of The Dish will seem fairly consistent, except when affected by local weather conditions, sunspot activities, and those times when The Dish Runs Away with the Spoon.

And finally, a bank that is “Too Big to Fail” might force a corporate merger of a “previously existing” sign, Aquarius, and rename it “Aquirius.” Rather than the current group of stars which compose Aquarius, a different constellation will be assigned to the new sign. The night sky will be dominated by a group of heavenly bodies resembling an enormous capital “S” with two vertical lines of smaller stars running through it. Aquirius will be the astrological sign for those born on July 1 (when the fiscal year begins) as well as on April 15 (income tax day.)

Let’s face it, though--the “sign” that influences every American’s life really is the dollar. Maybe the working woman on Love American Style was right.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

Piraticulus (“The Parrot.”) Babies born under this sign will grow up with an inexplicable desire to sail the high seas and plunder other ships. They’ll also be fond of wearing eye patches, Gilbert Roland shirts, and an earring (only in one ear.) This is the sign for people born during “Arrrr!” months.

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Ahoy, Auntie.



J

What a hoot! You're on form with this one Auntie :D

Best, H

Note: Portions of the following so-called “humor” column have previously appeared elsewhere on the Online Literature Forums and have been recycled for reuse (or refuse) here. This material may contain stale jokes and cultural references well beyond their expiration dates. Reader discretion advised for this lame-brained piece o’ claptrap which we like to call

My Punny Valentine

The old calendar on the wall tells me that this coming Monday, February 14 is Valentine’s Day. It’s one of those non-holiday holidays in which you most likely will have to go to school or work, but if you dare forget that it's Valentine's Day, you'll find yourself either in the dog house or mercilessly teased by your little classmates, not to mention your dog.

Those of us old enough to remember when a “mouse” was something that made us call the exterminator and not a device allowing us post claptrap on the Internet used to refer to February 14 as The Feast of St. Valentine. In recent decades the “Saint” has been dropped, after the Church drummed him out of the ranks in 1969, apparently for administrative reasons. Maybe the Church decided to “go into a different direction.” In any event, there is no evidence that the Bishop formerly known as St. Valentine screwed up. It wasn't like he was involved in a scandal, like posting a shirtless photo of himself on Craigslist or anything like that.

In many parts of the world, – if not Kansas City, then whatever overseas town the greeting company outsourced its jobs to -- Valentine’s Day is a Joe Biden-style “big deal.” Likewise florist and high-end purveyors of chocolate candy get on their knees every night and thank the God of their choice for Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and Thinking of You Because I Just Heard Your Job Writing Greeting Cards Has Been Outsourced to Bangalore Day.

Valentine’s Day (or Night) is important for tony restaurants and even the ones whose owners aren't named Tony. That’s because on February 14 guys spring for romantic dinners for two as a special treat for their wives and sweethearts -- separately, of course. Or so I've been told. I can't vouch for this personally. It's been so long since we've been out at night that I can't remember who was sitting at the bar next to us, either a couple of Austrians drinking Australian beer or a couple of Austrian beers downed by Australians.

I hear tell though that for one night only you get to dress up and order anything you want from the menu instead of sitting at home choking down store-brand macaroni and cheese while watching “Jeopardy!” Maybe a violinist or two will stroll over and serenade your table and you can gape in delight while one of them deftly dips his bow and lifts your steak right her your plate!

Maybe your hubby or insignificant other will deign to dance with you to a beautiful love song, something up-to-the minute and straight off the pop charts, like: “What the Hell” by Avril Lavigne, Pink’s romantic ballad, “ F@*! Perfect” , or Pitbull’s passionate “Hey Baby (Drop it to the Floor)” –not to be confused with time-honored classics such as the deathless lyrics of Gwen Stefani’s “Hey Baby, Hey Baby, Hey Baby” (etc.) or the immortal 1992 masterpiece by Sir Mixalot: “Baby Got Back.” If songs like these fail to put you in a romantic mood, I don't know what will.

It’s really funny how almost every popular song is about love, but among all those thousands and thousands of songs over the years, only one well-known song mentions the word “valentine.” We're talking of course about “My Funny Valentine,” composed way, way back in 1937 by Richard Rodgers and his first -- some say his best – lyricist, Lorenz Hart. (That was way before my time, but it was playing in the background when my parents called the exterminator to get rid of the mouse.)

Anyway, it was a great song, but at one point it was almost too popular, performed so often that folks in the Business were getting sick of hearing it, so much so that when club owners (some of whom could have been named Tony) booked chanteuses for their establishments, the owners specifically had it written in the contract that “My Funny Valentine” would not be included in the repertoire. (Aspiring American Idol contestants apparently never got the memo.)

One of the lyrics in that song asks the musical question: “Is your figure less than Greek?” Well, it sure isn't. Maybe it’s Italian, because it’s shaped like a boot. And unlike the Greeks, I've never been seen bearing gifts.

Speaking of gifts, they can be a real buzz killer on Valentine’s Day, if you don't get ‘em, but especially if you don't give ‘em. This time of year is not really the time to choose a mate. (That’s “for the birds” in more ways than one.) Actually, this is the time when guys are likely to break up with their girlfriends, just so they don't have to bother getting them a Valentine’s Day gift. The timing, though, is very tricky. The guy wants to get it over with BEFORE February 14, but if he does it too soon, he'll be stuck with nobody to make the sandwiches for the Super Bowl party.

Then of course, on February 15 and the days following, he is free to makeup with his friend with all the "benefits." It’s a well-known fact that in the days leading up to President’s Day, thousands of re-engaged young women suddenly become fascinated with Major League Baseball, specifically the team headquartered in Arizona. Such a girl becomes a devoted fan in the joy of getting her “diamondback.” The boyfriend's back in her good graces, too-- at least until Easter.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

The old calendar on the wall tells me that this coming Monday, February 14 is Valentine’s Day.

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I almost forgot. I keep thinking I've got another week to go.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

Maybe your hubby or insignificant other will deign to dance with you to a beautiful love song...or the immortal 1992 masterpiece by Sir Mixalot: “Baby Got Back.”

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One of my favorites.

Nice humor piece! :D