Oh, the Places You'll Go (But This Isn't One of Them.)
Oh, the Places You’ll Go (But This Isn’t One of ‘em)
Last week mentions of Green Eggs and Ham, the children’s classic by the late Theodor Seuss Geisel popped up all over the place, mainly in reaction to a dramatic reading of the work in an incongruous–- some would say “inappropriate”–-setting, though let’s not “Cruz” into them thar waters.
Amid the incessant, “instant” cable TV commentary, one pundit recalled the incident in which Dr. Seuss confessed to an interviewer that if he’d ever been asked to attend a dinner party featuring his characters as guests, he wouldn’t have shown up.
It’s safe to assume that had such a hypothetical invitation arrived, Dr. Seuss would have been polite enough to respond to the R.S.V.P. Maybe, just maybe, it might have gone something like this:
“Dear Mrs. Wickersham,
I am in receipt
of the mail in my mailbox on Mulberry Street.
The carrier left envelopes with windows that crinkle
and magazines with scented samples that stinkle
and fat catalogues way too heavy to lift,
more ads and junk mail but not one free gift--
very little in fact to make me smile,
including your card on the bottom of the pile.
Inside the cover shines fine embossed text
that tells of your dinner, on Thursday night next.
Thanks, many thanks, for your kind invitation
which, alas, I’m declining without hesitation.
It’s not that I’ve got a prior engagement for then.
It’s not the menu: green eggs and ham (again!)
and lots of seafood--I’m a fish-loving fool
for red fish, blue fish (etc.) from McElligott’s Pool.
It’s not the venue (your nest’s not all that bad looking.)
It’s not snooty waiters or your passable cooking.
It’s not a flare-up of some old malady,
but I’m afraid I’m quite sick of the company.
The slated guests set to appear that night
would make a strong man lose his appetite.
Their skinny heads end in a point or a loop.
They’d stick their furry fingers into my soup.
How insufferable are those squabbling Sneetches,
that boring Lorax with his ponderous speeches,
the Whos from Whoville prancing like loons,
the larcenous Grinch --better count all your spoons!
At every bash, why is it, I’m the sole invitee
who always gets shoved upon the clean-up committee?
If Horton’s there, I’ll need more than a broom
to clear elephant traces out of the room.
So, with regrets I’m sending this reply,
then I’ll look for a book by some other guy
and spend Thursday evening reading instead.
Yours very truly and most sincerely,
Ted”
Snotenlocker Fright Fest , Or The Walking Dread
It’s been a while since we’ve last heard from the Real Housewife of East Hogwash, but today we find Debi and her goblins in the jaws of Halloween festivities. Let’s take a peek at the latest spooky shenanigans from the irrepressible Snotenlockers.
I knew it was a bad omen when the East Hogwash School District cancelled the Halloween party. You wouldn’t believe the lame excuse the officials came up with--that Halloween had religious overtones which some groups might find offensive. Yeah? I’ll show you “offensive”– - a set of hyperactive triplets screaming, yelling, and acting like they’ve been robbed of their reason to live.
It took a lot to convince Trip, Trap, and Trick that they’d still have fun on the holiday, and that–-plus the promise of massive quantities of chocolate -- finally calmed them down. In the meantime I wracked– or is it wrecked?-- my brain coming up with some festive plans.
I was so strapped for ideas that I actually started looking through The Pennysaver. This broke my solemn vow never to pick up that sorry rag after the rotten treatment I got when I submitted a cute poem about Dr. Seuss.* Not only didn’t they print it, they didn’t even send me the courtesy of a reply! Anyway, I found an ad that said a local pumpkin farmer was throwing a Fall Fest on the following Saturday, so that’s where we took the boys.
We loaded them up on doughnuts and cider, but that was a waste of money because all three of them lost it after they got motion sickness on the hayride. They recovered quickly enough to demand that we take them through a three-acre maze thick with 15-feet high corn stalks.
“You gotta be kidding me,” I said. “We’d never find our way out of there! We’d be lost for days with nothing to keep us alive but raw corn-on-the-cob.”
Brad scoffed at my fears. “Don’t be silly. Rats run through mazes all the time–-don’t you think we’re smarter than rats?”
“Yeah, Ma! Mice, too! “ Trip chimed in. “Betcha even three mice could do it–and they were blind!”
Well, we did it and lived to tell about it. And that’s only because my husband led the way safely out of the maze. But that’s only because the exit was right near a concession selling beer. The one thing Brad never fails to do is sniff out a cold one from a thousand paces.
As soon as we got home from the Pumpkin Patch, Milwaukee (my daughter from a previous relationship) met me at the front door.
“Mom, could you get me some things at like the Cost Cutter? I need like four dozen large white grade A eggs?”
The triplets found her request quite comical.
“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 ^
"Your Holiday Call is Important to Us"
Among the raging controversies bubbling up every Yuletide is the question of whether or not to use unwanted gifts as presents for others. The practice is called "regifting" which-- besides violently forcing a noun to act like a verb --doesn't really demonstrate a concern fo recycling . All it shows is that you are just plain cheap.
But in the spirit of regifting, yours fooly has decided to "recycle" previous LitNet Christmas postings in order to buy some time to think up something new for this year. The first one up is from 2007:
Your Holiday Call is Important to Us
“Thank you for calling Acme House Christmas and Holiday Ornaments Online. For Spanish, press uno. For French, press deux. For Urdu, press three. . . For English, press 27241-star-nine three-four-six.
“Welcome to Acme House Christmas and Holiday Ornaments Online. All of our representatives are currently serving other customers. Please hold until the next available operator can assist you. This call may be monitored for quality assurance – - as well as listening in on conversations between that brazen hussy in Accounting and that two-timing hound in Shipping.”
Extended musical interlude featuring pre-recorded seasonal selections, such as “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” played by the Philharmonic Kazoo Ensemble.
Some time later:
“Good morning, Acme House Christmas and Holiday Ornament Online Customer Service Representative Lotta Hassle. May we have your account number, password, PIN number, and mother’s maiden name? One moment please while we pull up your account information. . . Oh, yes. Mr. Truelove. How may we help you today?
“Uh-huh. So that’s one partridge, one pear tree, two turtledoves, three French hens and four calling birds. Mmmph. I'm sorry to tell you, Mr. Truelove, but the partridge is on the threatened list. You would need to put in a separate order in order to secure a government variance. I'll refer you to our Partridge liaison, Ms Shirley Jones.
“The pear trees are on back order, so we'll send you a nice Ficus to hold you over. The turtledoves are out of stock, but I can get Stan, Stan, the Maintenance Man to grab a couple pigeons outside the office window. We'll stick a couple of red bows on ‘em and nobody will know the diff. Now those hens, can they be French-Canadian? Because we can ship you a trio of really fine chicks from Montreal. The four calling birds are a quartet of really vocal crows from Schenectady. Will there be anything else today?
“Five, did you say? Okay. Five. Golden. Rings. Six geese a-laying and seven swans a swimming. No problem with the bling bling. How about a combo deal? We'll ship you a half-dozen goose eggs, and the swans, uh, come in the form of ugly ducklings. You just have to be patient. Will there be anything else today?
“Eight what? Gee, Mr. Truelove, you are one tough customer. But we're glad to have you, oh yes we are! Hoh-kay, eight maids a-milking. Just a quick e-mail to the International Dairymaids Union, it’s so udderly simple, although the cows are sold separately.
“Can we help you with anything else today? Wow! This is some kinda shopping list! Nine ladies dancing, is that right? Another teensy, tiny problema, Mr. T. This time of year, as you well know, the Rockettes are booked up the mistletoe, if you catch my drift. We could substitute nine dropouts from Miss Klutz’s School of the Dance, if that is satisfactory.
Now, ten Lords a-leaping. Here at Acme we don’t really have any connection with the British Houses of Parliament, so -- Oh, I know! How about a selection of ten idols left over from the Survivor TV show? Just throw the box up in the air a few times while yelling ‘Oh, lord!’ Will that be all today?”
“I see. Eleven pipers piping. Good news! We can book eleven flutists from the East Hogwash High School Marching Band-- that is, if we can pull them away from their iPhones. And one dozen drummers. They don't have to be professionals, do they? I mean, we have a HUGE selection of wind-up monkeys who can bang on a plastic drum like Krupa.
“All righty then. Let me read back the order to you: that’s twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping, ten lords a-leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans a- swimming, six geese a-laying. Five. Gold. Rings. Also, you would like four calling birds, three French (Canadian) hens, two turtledoves, one partridge and one pear tree. Is that correct?
“Now I don't need to tell you, Mr. Truelove, that this is one tall order. And that the shipping time will take at least twelve days. On the upside, though, you can get it all for a song. “
“Well, the same to you, Mr. Truelove. And thank you for shopping ACHOO!
A "fresh" one for a change
Yesterday folks in my neck o’ the woods woke up to sub-zero temperatures and a blinding blizzard. So this next one’s going out to the intrepid members of the East Hogwash Highway Dept. who spent a leisurely December morning while lingering over a hot cuppa Joe at Duncan Do Naughts over on Rte. 43.
Cruller-Chompin’ Clowns
[With apologies to Stephen Sondheim]
Aren’t the roads slick?
Nothing’s been cleared.
Snow keeps falling and falling
worse than last year.
Send in the plows.
There ought to be plows.
We’re getting snowed in.
Travel’s risky, I fear.
No milk runs or quick trips
to pick up cold beer.
But where are the plows?
Send in the plows.
Just when I thought
I could dash outdoors,
I found that it’s our town
the road crew ignores.
The storm’s getting dense,
another foot it will bring.
Even having 4-wheel drive
won’t mean a thing.
Where are the plows?
We’re stuck anyhow.
There’s no sign of a plow.
Well, maybe next Spring.
