Thank you for your comments, Hawkman and YesNo!
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Thank you for your comments, Hawkman and YesNo!
Oh, the Places You’ll Go (But This Isn’t One of ‘em)
Last week mentions of Green Eggs and Ham, the children’s classic by the late Theodor Seuss Geisel popped up all over the place, mainly in reaction to a dramatic reading of the work in an incongruous–- some would say “inappropriate”–-setting, though let’s not “Cruz” into them thar waters.
Amid the incessant, “instant” cable TV commentary, one pundit recalled the incident in which Dr. Seuss confessed to an interviewer that if he’d ever been asked to attend a dinner party featuring his characters as guests, he wouldn’t have shown up.
It’s safe to assume that had such a hypothetical invitation arrived, Dr. Seuss would have been polite enough to respond to the R.S.V.P. Maybe, just maybe, it might have gone something like this:
“Dear Mrs. Wickersham,
I am in receipt
of the mail in my mailbox on Mulberry Street.
The carrier left envelopes with windows that crinkle
and magazines with scented samples that stinkle
and fat catalogues way too heavy to lift,
more ads and junk mail but not one free gift--
very little in fact to make me smile,
including your card on the bottom of the pile.
Inside the cover shines fine embossed text
that tells of your dinner, on Thursday night next.
Thanks, many thanks, for your kind invitation
which, alas, I’m declining without hesitation.
It’s not that I’ve got a prior engagement for then.
It’s not the menu: green eggs and ham (again!)
and lots of seafood--I’m a fish-loving fool
for red fish, blue fish (etc.) from McElligott’s Pool.
It’s not the venue (your nest’s not all that bad looking.)
It’s not snooty waiters or your passable cooking.
It’s not a flare-up of some old malady,
but I’m afraid I’m quite sick of the company.
The slated guests set to appear that night
would make a strong man lose his appetite.
Their skinny heads end in a point or a loop.
They’d stick their furry fingers into my soup.
How insufferable are those squabbling Sneetches,
that boring Lorax with his ponderous speeches,
the Whos from Whoville prancing like loons,
the larcenous Grinch --better count all your spoons!
At every bash, why is it, I’m the sole invitee
who always gets shoved upon the clean-up committee?
If Horton’s there, I’ll need more than a broom
to clear elephant traces out of the room.
So, with regrets I’m sending this reply,
then I’ll look for a book by some other guy
and spend Thursday evening reading instead.
Yours very truly and most sincerely,
Ted”
It’s been a while since we’ve last heard from the Real Housewife of East Hogwash, but today we find Debi and her goblins in the jaws of Halloween festivities. Let’s take a peek at the latest spooky shenanigans from the irrepressible Snotenlockers.
I knew it was a bad omen when the East Hogwash School District cancelled the Halloween party. You wouldn’t believe the lame excuse the officials came up with--that Halloween had religious overtones which some groups might find offensive. Yeah? I’ll show you “offensive”– - a set of hyperactive triplets screaming, yelling, and acting like they’ve been robbed of their reason to live.
It took a lot to convince Trip, Trap, and Trick that they’d still have fun on the holiday, and that–-plus the promise of massive quantities of chocolate -- finally calmed them down. In the meantime I wracked– or is it wrecked?-- my brain coming up with some festive plans.
I was so strapped for ideas that I actually started looking through The Pennysaver. This broke my solemn vow never to pick up that sorry rag after the rotten treatment I got when I submitted a cute poem about Dr. Seuss.* Not only didn’t they print it, they didn’t even send me the courtesy of a reply! Anyway, I found an ad that said a local pumpkin farmer was throwing a Fall Fest on the following Saturday, so that’s where we took the boys.
We loaded them up on doughnuts and cider, but that was a waste of money because all three of them lost it after they got motion sickness on the hayride. They recovered quickly enough to demand that we take them through a three-acre maze thick with 15-feet high corn stalks.
“You gotta be kidding me,” I said. “We’d never find our way out of there! We’d be lost for days with nothing to keep us alive but raw corn-on-the-cob.”
Brad scoffed at my fears. “Don’t be silly. Rats run through mazes all the time–-don’t you think we’re smarter than rats?”
“Yeah, Ma! Mice, too! “ Trip chimed in. “Betcha even three mice could do it–and they were blind!”
Well, we did it and lived to tell about it. And that’s only because my husband led the way safely out of the maze. But that’s only because the exit was right near a concession selling beer. The one thing Brad never fails to do is sniff out a cold one from a thousand paces.
As soon as we got home from the Pumpkin Patch, Milwaukee (my daughter from a previous relationship) met me at the front door.
“Mom, could you get me some things at like the Cost Cutter? I need like four dozen large white grade A eggs?”
The triplets found her request quite comical.
“Eggs!”
“She thinks it’s Easter.”
“Wrong holiday, Milwaukee!”
Why would a teenager need four dozen eggs? The school district cut the funding for home economics class three years ago. Right away I began to smell something rotten.
“You know, Hon, I’m really tired. Why don’t I give you the money and you run down to the store yourself?”
“I can’t! They won’t sell any eggs to anybody under 21 until after Hallo–“
Then it dawned on me that I read in the Pennysaver that the town wanted to discourage vandalism. “No way I’m going to enable your hoodlum friends. Now you march right up to your room and stay out of mischief.”
“Busted!” The triplets were ecstatic. Nothing makes them happier than to see their half-sister get herself into trouble.
Meanwhile Brad was getting ready to carve the Jack o’ Lantern.
“What a beaut! Did I pick the biggest damn punkin in the patch or what?”
It was a monstrosity, all right. “I wish you’d gotten one that was perfectly round. This one looks all misshapen. Look at that bulge coming out of its side.”
“Maybe it’s got an toothache. What’s more frightening than an abscess?”
I knew what was coming next– - the so-called joke Brad tries to rile me with every Halloween: “Ya want to pose for this, Debi?”
“Sorry, I’m busy. Why don’t you call your mother instead?”
About three or four hours later Brad looked distraught. “The Jack o’ Lantern’s done. I put the candle inside, but it won’t stay lit.”
I looked inside the pumpkin and found the problem immediately. “Well, no wonder–it’s all wet in there. See all these seeds and stringy pulp? You’re supposed to scoop all that out.”
Brad slapped his forehead. “Stupid me! I shoulda remembered why it’s called ‘Hollow Ween’!”
For the triplets the high point of Halloween is trick-or-treating. Brad is a little two-faced about the ritual. He calls giving out snack-sized candy to the kids at the door “legalized extortion.” So I’m supposed to turn off all the lights and pretend we’re not home. BUT– when our boys bring home their three pillowcases bulging with their harvest of treats, Brad pounces upon their loot and devours it like a vulture discovering fresh road kill.
Of course, you can’t go trick-or-treating unless you’re wearing a costume. Every year it’s a hassle trying to come up with a gimmick. One year Brad dressed the triplets as the Three Stooges, but it wasn’t enough just to look like them, they had to act like them too. I didn’t mind the “woo-woo-woos” and the “bay rum/rum bay” shtick, but I had to put a stop to it when they started poking each other in the eye.
I found the answer to this year’s costume question on all the cable tv news shows. I got some hair gel and puffed up all three coiffures. Dressed in their Easter suits with a little flag pin in their lapels, the boys looked exactly like members of Congress. They scared the hell out of everybody.
*Maybe Debi's submission was something like Reply#82 ^
It’s only been a month since we last heard from the Real Housewife of East Hogwash.(Cf. Reply #83 above^) In October the topic was goblins; this month it’s all about gobblin’. Let’s check in to see how the Snotenlocker clan spends Thanksgiving, that great American Holiday which we celebrate in two ways: giving thanks for blessings and throwing a bash in honor of the God of Gluttony.
I can’t believe it’s Thanksgiving time already! Our family kicks off the season by gathering round the toasty TV to watch the President of the United States pardon the turkey. That’s real heartwarming, but the media never follow up on the story. Chances are that within a day or two of release, the bird pulls another caper. Bam! Right back into the slammer.
At this generous time of year another proud family tradition is helping the less fortunate. So when late November rolls around, we all climb aboard the SUV and head down to the East Hogwash Community Food Pantry to donate a can of lima beans that’s only a month or two past the expiration date. It’s inspirational to know that we Snotenlockers step up and do our part to eliminate world hunger.
I wish I could say that the rest of the holiday is always a pleasant experience for me. Last year was a complete disaster. On the day before Thanksgiving, the triplets–-Trip, Trap, and Trick–-threw another famous tantrum. Each one wanted to have his very own drumstick. So Brad and I frantically searched all over town for a three-legged turkey.
Milwaukee, my teenage daughter from a previous relationship, also tried our patience by demanding a totally separate, vegan meal on Thanksgiving. Just to shut her up, I was ready to cave until my neighbor, Mindy Schermerhorn, said that she saw Milwaukee with a bunch of her friends scarfing down enormous Big Macs in the Rentacenter parking lot.
My husband always invites his mom over. She never passes up an opportunity to criticize my cooking. But I never try to get even. Last year when I was carving the turkey, my mother-in-law said she wanted the “part that goes over the fence last.” I didn’t say a word, but couldn’t help laughing when Trap said, “You are what you eat, Grandma!” As a result of that casual remark, I still have scars.
Brad was the absolute worst. It took two hours to wrap up and put away tons of leftovers, not to mention scrubbing more pots and pans than in the Mess Hall of the 10th Mountain Division. Then just as I finished washing and drying the last dish, Brad came out into the kitchen and ordered me to make him a turkey sandwich.
So this year I put my foot down. I told Brad “Either we go to a nice restaurant on Thanksgiving or you do the cooking.”
“Great!” He reacted with the same enthusiasm he showed when the Cost Cutter had a buy one, get one free sale on Schlitz. “Ya know, they say men are the best chefs. I’ll duck right out and buy a deep fryer right now!”
“No! You’re not deep-frying a turkey in the driveway. You’ll burn down the whole freakin’ neighborhood.”
“Then I’ll get a smoker–“
“No way.”
“What if the turkey doesn’t inhale? “ He furrowed his brow and stroked his chin. “I know! Maybe I’ll roast a turducken.”
“Not at eight ninety-nine a pound, you won’t,” I said. “You’re gonna roast a traditional turkey with all the trimmings or you will pick up the phone and make reservations at Chez Cher right now.”
When Thanksgiving Day arrived this year, I thought I’d get the triplets involved in some quiet activities so they wouldn’t distract their Dad from his crucial culinary tasks. The plan was to have each of them draw a turkey by tracing their little hands on a piece of paper. Their palm part could be the turkey’s round body ,the thumb part could be the bird's head,and the outline of their fingers could be the feathers. After a long hunt, I found the crayons, and it only took about forty-five minutes to get the boys to sit down. The hard part was wrenching little hands away from little throats.
It was almost half-past one, and Brad was watching a game on TV from his favorite chair, the one named after him (“Lazy Boy.”) As far as I could tell, he hadn’t begun preparing the turkey, which looked like a bleached football somebody had kicked into the kitchen sink.
“Uh, Brad–forgive me for asking, but what time do you plan to start cooking?”
“Huh? Oh, around half-time, I think.”
“But it’s still frozen!”
“Don’t worry, Deb–- got it covered. I’ll just wrap a couple of girlie magazines around it, and it’ll be melted before you can say ‘Pamela Anderson.’ “
Five hours later when I peeked into the oven, I had more ‘mis-‘ than ‘thanks-‘ givings. The turkey was not done. As a matter of fact, it hadn’t even really begun to roast.
“This thing isn’t cooking right, Brad. Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Maybe you should call the Butterball Hot Line.”
“I already did,” he explained. “But the operator got mad and hung up on me.”
“You didn’t swear at her or anything, did you?”
“Nah. All I did was ask her what she was wearing.”
At that point, I decided to try to salvage the day. When I rechecked the stove, I was horrified. “Brad, you idiot! You never turned on the oven!”
Finally, the turkey became edible round midnight. The boys were so confused that they kept looking at the TV screen. They were waiting for the ball to drop down in Times Square. Naturally, the clean-up chores traditionally fell into my lap, and when I joined the family in the living room they were all out like lights. Milwaukee was stacking z’s, the kids deep in Dreamland, and sprawled on the couch was my mother-in-law, with her big fat mouth temporarily shut, though Brad’s pie-hole was wider than the Grand Canyon, and his feet dangled off the edge of the footrest on his namesake chair, opened all the way.
They had all fallen asleep thanks to a chemical active after consuming a large meal. It’s called tryptophan. They ought to bottle that stuff–- it’s better than Ambien. It’ll knock you out quicker than C-Span.
With rhyming rejections to RSVPs
and Halloween anecdotes scribbled in glee,
describing the mishaps befalling a pumpkin
which seem to preclude any apple type dunkin',
you round it all off with a tale of woe
that ends with a turkey that's cooked on dead slow.
Such narratives built from familial strife
are grist to the mill of East Hogwash's wife.
She copes so superbly with life's little ills
and graciously shares them and packs them with thrills,
like hay rides and vomiting, cider and beer;
a cold-turkey dinner when midnight draws near.
Her efforts aren't wasted; I read them this morning
and posted a comment, though quite without warning,
so when she logs on and observes what I've said,
I hope the attention won't go to her head -
Calm and collected's the name of the game;
it's always the best way to cope with your fame.
That was a nice, unexpected ending with C-Span, AuntShecky. I wish I could respond as elegantly as Hawkman has.
Among the raging controversies bubbling up every Yuletide is the question of whether or not to use unwanted gifts as presents for others. The practice is called "regifting" which-- besides violently forcing a noun to act like a verb --doesn't really demonstrate a concern fo recycling . All it shows is that you are just plain cheap.
But in the spirit of regifting, yours fooly has decided to "recycle" previous LitNet Christmas postings in order to buy some time to think up something new for this year. The first one up is from 2007:
Your Holiday Call is Important to Us
“Thank you for calling Acme House Christmas and Holiday Ornaments Online. For Spanish, press uno. For French, press deux. For Urdu, press three. . . For English, press 27241-star-nine three-four-six.
“Welcome to Acme House Christmas and Holiday Ornaments Online. All of our representatives are currently serving other customers. Please hold until the next available operator can assist you. This call may be monitored for quality assurance – - as well as listening in on conversations between that brazen hussy in Accounting and that two-timing hound in Shipping.”
Extended musical interlude featuring pre-recorded seasonal selections, such as “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” played by the Philharmonic Kazoo Ensemble.
Some time later:
“Good morning, Acme House Christmas and Holiday Ornament Online Customer Service Representative Lotta Hassle. May we have your account number, password, PIN number, and mother’s maiden name? One moment please while we pull up your account information. . . Oh, yes. Mr. Truelove. How may we help you today?
“Uh-huh. So that’s one partridge, one pear tree, two turtledoves, three French hens and four calling birds. Mmmph. I'm sorry to tell you, Mr. Truelove, but the partridge is on the threatened list. You would need to put in a separate order in order to secure a government variance. I'll refer you to our Partridge liaison, Ms Shirley Jones.
“The pear trees are on back order, so we'll send you a nice Ficus to hold you over. The turtledoves are out of stock, but I can get Stan, Stan, the Maintenance Man to grab a couple pigeons outside the office window. We'll stick a couple of red bows on ‘em and nobody will know the diff. Now those hens, can they be French-Canadian? Because we can ship you a trio of really fine chicks from Montreal. The four calling birds are a quartet of really vocal crows from Schenectady. Will there be anything else today?
“Five, did you say? Okay. Five. Golden. Rings. Six geese a-laying and seven swans a swimming. No problem with the bling bling. How about a combo deal? We'll ship you a half-dozen goose eggs, and the swans, uh, come in the form of ugly ducklings. You just have to be patient. Will there be anything else today?
“Eight what? Gee, Mr. Truelove, you are one tough customer. But we're glad to have you, oh yes we are! Hoh-kay, eight maids a-milking. Just a quick e-mail to the International Dairymaids Union, it’s so udderly simple, although the cows are sold separately.
“Can we help you with anything else today? Wow! This is some kinda shopping list! Nine ladies dancing, is that right? Another teensy, tiny problema, Mr. T. This time of year, as you well know, the Rockettes are booked up the mistletoe, if you catch my drift. We could substitute nine dropouts from Miss Klutz’s School of the Dance, if that is satisfactory.
Now, ten Lords a-leaping. Here at Acme we don’t really have any connection with the British Houses of Parliament, so -- Oh, I know! How about a selection of ten idols left over from the Survivor TV show? Just throw the box up in the air a few times while yelling ‘Oh, lord!’ Will that be all today?”
“I see. Eleven pipers piping. Good news! We can book eleven flutists from the East Hogwash High School Marching Band-- that is, if we can pull them away from their iPhones. And one dozen drummers. They don't have to be professionals, do they? I mean, we have a HUGE selection of wind-up monkeys who can bang on a plastic drum like Krupa.
“All righty then. Let me read back the order to you: that’s twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping, ten lords a-leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans a- swimming, six geese a-laying. Five. Gold. Rings. Also, you would like four calling birds, three French (Canadian) hens, two turtledoves, one partridge and one pear tree. Is that correct?
“Now I don't need to tell you, Mr. Truelove, that this is one tall order. And that the shipping time will take at least twelve days. On the upside, though, you can get it all for a song. “
“Well, the same to you, Mr. Truelove. And thank you for shopping ACHOO!
This is the second of two oldies but gooeys. The first post is Reply # 87, directly above.^
The following post dates all the way back to Dec. of Ought Eight, but maybe it's not untimely, given the fact that "holiday specials" are re-run so often that any day now the film will probably snap! In the five years since, multiple TV movies on cable channels have come and --well,I don't want to say "gone." TV Christmas specials never die; they show up every year like Marley's ghost. But if you look for something festive to watch on Christmas Eve, forget it. That's the night reserved for slasher movies.
A Visit from St. Nielsen
‘Twas a while before Christmas,
not the big day yet,
but it was already Yuletide
on your tee-vee set.
Staring at holiday shows
might cause strabismus.
You could watch the Dickens
out of his Carol for Christmas.
Like clones of Santa,
there’s more than one Scrooge:
even a girl Ebenezer
with lipstick and rouge,
George C. Scott, Disney toons,
Michael Caine and and Muppets too,
plus Bill Murray, Albert Finney,
Alastair Sim and Mr. Magoo,
and other curmudgeons
like the Grinch so unmerry,
voiced by the late Boris Karloff
or a live-action Jim Carrey.
In the season of wonder
you can’t ask for more
than two films of a miracle
on Street Thirty-four.
It’s a miracle young Ralphie
didn''t shoot himself to heaven
with his Red Ryder BB gun
going 24/7.
Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey
and Donna Reed as his wife
every year re-remind us
that “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
Sing of bells and sleigh rides
and the round Virgin yon –
but hold on for a minute -
let’s see what else is on:
On Linus, on Lucy,
on Pigpen, on Snoopy,
on Charlie Brown
with your tree so droopy,
On home-improved Tim Allen
in “The Santa Clause,”
On Nestor the donkey
with his production flaws,
On the rumpa-pum-pum
of the drummer boy,
on the umpteenth special
of some animated toy
which is hyped and piped
while sounding quite crass.
Commerce hit pay dirt
with Rankin and Bass.
Thanks to December shows
kids don't cry and don't pout,
and thanks to repeats
Rudolph’s nose won’t go out.
Why waste a holiday special
when the shopping’s been done?
That why on Christmas Eve
you’ll hardly find one.
So sure as a soundstage
glistens with fake snow,
the networks return to
the Reality Show.
But I heard a CEO exclaim
with his remote all alight:
“Happy viewing to all,
and to all, a good night!”
Oh, and in addition to the last two reruns above^^, there was this one which was the very first appearance of Debi Snotenlocker and her brood:
http://www.online-literature.com/for...g-Play-by-Play
That's the last regifting for this Christmas --in THIS thread, I mean. They'll be two oldies but gooeys in the anti-fiction thread, but that's it--I promise!
Yesterday folks in my neck o’ the woods woke up to sub-zero temperatures and a blinding blizzard. So this next one’s going out to the intrepid members of the East Hogwash Highway Dept. who spent a leisurely December morning while lingering over a hot cuppa Joe at Duncan Do Naughts over on Rte. 43.
Cruller-Chompin’ Clowns
[With apologies to Stephen Sondheim]
Aren’t the roads slick?
Nothing’s been cleared.
Snow keeps falling and falling
worse than last year.
Send in the plows.
There ought to be plows.
We’re getting snowed in.
Travel’s risky, I fear.
No milk runs or quick trips
to pick up cold beer.
But where are the plows?
Send in the plows.
Just when I thought
I could dash outdoors,
I found that it’s our town
the road crew ignores.
The storm’s getting dense,
another foot it will bring.
Even having 4-wheel drive
won’t mean a thing.
Where are the plows?
We’re stuck anyhow.
There’s no sign of a plow.
Well, maybe next Spring.
A nice selection there Auntie. I rather liked the re run of the twelve days, but if you really need an English lord, the simplest way to attract them is to offer them either a gaiety girl or an American heiress. Provided that you can come up with the bait you'll probably be in a position to complete mr Truelove's order.
Must say that a little sweet charity is appropriate to the season, even if it's supposed to be directed towards match girls. Yuletide has been known to be a bit hard on them, together with statues of princes and swallows. No snow here though, just rain. Damp and dark is the order of the day in my neck of the woods.
Live and be well - H