Lawns: The Cash You Save May Be Your Own!

Please don’t hate me for this, but I have to speak up about something that many Americans consider sacred: the lawn. Sure, I love that plush green outdoor rug, but in NO WAY do I look forward to the weekly mowing ritual. Talk about a totally silly human custom! Lawn mowing seems so fruitless. We certainly spend a lot of time tending a crop we can’t eat! Well, I suppose you could eat it; but you can never be sure of whether it’s tainted with doggie weewee.

The primary reason our lawn gets mowed is that I have a spouse. Left to my own devices, our yard would probably grow into the giant weed patch that Mom Nature intended it to be. Since our marriage contract would never allow this; I have come to accept the weekly ritual of beheading the huge conglomeration of plants we call a lawn.

We don’t bag up the clippings or fertilize or anything; just mow. Fortunately, my wife and I agree that the less work a lawn brings, the better off we are. She’d love to have a “golf course lawn,” but she knows how environmentally icky that would be. When the lawn comes up in discussion at our house, she laments, “we don’t have a lawn, we have a yard.” God bless my poor Honey Pie… although she’d love to have “a real lawn,” she has accepted the fact that all the fertilizers and other chemicals needed to do that would be very insulting to Mother Nature.

Some people are very fussy though; they water, fertilize and carefully inspect the blades of greenery. They want to make absolutely sure that grass and ONLY grass is growing! I’d love to invite some of those types to inspect my weedy ground, and watch them go nuts. Then I’d invite them in for a grapefruit milk shake and complain about the terrible waste they’re generating. I just think it’s weird that folks actually spend money to poison the ground with weed killers and fertilizers so they can wash it into my drinking water with underground sprinkling systems. This runoff isn’t any good for lakes and streams, either.

Most types of weed killers are designed to kill, among other things, white clover! Being a legume, clover makes nitrogen in the soil (as all good legumes do), and feeds the lawn. Remember finding four leaf clovers when we were kids? They were in the LAWN (or maybe just the yard…). But now the lovely clover has been dubbed a weed, and for too many of today’s home owners; weeds in the lawn are taboo. Personally, I’m grateful for clover and its weedy mates. They join together with the grass to form a nice carpet at our place; one we’re not afraid to play Tackle The Kids on. If we go a little while between mowings, we get some beautiful flowers, too! By the way, white clover seed is readily available at most feed stores; nudge-nudge, wink-wink. No special tools needed, just fling it about here and there if you want to add clover to your yard carpet.

Some folks even post KEEP OFF THE GRASS signs! Something like that is more anti-American than flag burning if you ask me. How does the stuff get mowed if you have to KEEP OFF? People must be mowing, though, and they DO bag the clippings. Instead of letting them hit the ground where they can decompose into humus (more lawn food that helps soil hold moisture), they send them off to consume scarce cubic feet at the landfill. Why not let the clippings lie, and SAVE MONEY on garbage bags? If you get too many clippings due to extended mow – procrastination (like me), they make great mulch for the garden! Thankfully though, many communities place yard waste in a large pile and compost it. I’m one of those weirdos who actually goes to the dump to retrieve grass clippings and leaves. At our local transfer station, they are free for the taking. Excellent soil building material for the vegetable or flower garden.

So… why not let Mom Nature water instead of sprinkling? It’s possible you could SAVE MONEY. Sure, an occasional drought might mandate a little rain dance with the hose. Or not!! Grass will go dormant during a drought, and usually comes back when the rain returns. At least, that’s true here in Beautiful West Michigan. Watering the lawn makes it grow more, so you mow more. And hey, there’s something intensely sad about an automatic sprinkler system running full-tilt-boogie during a thunderstorm. Oh, and I bet you’d SAVE MONEY if you didn’t buy the weed killers and fertilizers. That would help keep our lakes and streams healthy, too.

So hey, next time you’re SPENDING MONEY on all those nasty chemicals for the domestic hay crop; just ask yourself, “Self, what would happen if I didn’t do this anymore?” I mean, would it be so terribly bad if a lawn took on a more “natural” character? I put “natural” in quotes because lawns don’t really occur in the wild. But all those nasty “weeds” do, and a lot of them were invaluable to our ancestors for food and medicine. And yes, those “weeds” still are very valuable; and there are even folks who seek them out while foraging for food or medicinal flora.

A suggestion: quit with the fertilizers, weed killers, and lawn watering already. The very worst that could happen is that your yard would become filled with useful (and often beautiful) plants. With something simple like the lawn, there are lots of opportunities to be environmentally responsible.

And oh yeah, did I mention you can SAVE MONEY?

I couldn’t find any good cartoons about mowing the lawn; so this week’s video is just plain weird… so I thought I’d better share it with you.

Life, The Universe, And Everything

A lost document (which should have remained lost)

by Hyram C. Gilmore

     With the wisdom available to us at the present time, it
has been suggested to me that an explanation for our
existence on the planet is in order.  After spending the last
37 years researching this, I have made some true and amazing
conclusions; which I would now like to force each living
being to believe.

     For example, I recently became aware that if you leave
your underpants on long enough, they change color.
Additionally, continued wearing of underpants after this
color change occurs may allow the garment to harbor
unpleasant odors and crusty stuff.  The only way to alleviate
this condition is to place the garment on a flat surface and
cover it with birdseed.  Take this outdoors.  Laugh at the
birds for eating the kaka and weewee particles.

     I am also convinced that yellow things are really
stupid.  Every yellow thing I have spoken to just sits there
with that idiotic yellow way they have.  Yesterday I told a
balloon about how to change an alternator.  The stupid thing
just sat there, sitting there, being right there remaining at
the place where it was!  O obscurity and pickled desk tops!
It's like they don't even WANT to communicate.

     As many of you know, we have been joined together at the
elbows.  Put one in your mouth and the other in your
carbon paper and rotate, as if anyone really cares.  That
should give the neighbors something to sell shoes about.  Of
course, I knew all along that they would choose the wrong
toothbrush if left alone in a crowd.  
     Documentation has proven that Hawaii has been included
in the universe.  You can find it under "H" in the new
edition of Fronkle's Universal Inventory.  Mr. Loofa Noodle
is there, and has been named official Captain of the Battle
Destroyer Flotation Device Cruise Ship Thing:  "Ono-Ahma-
Liki"; which regularly patrols the coast of Oopa-Oopa.  He
and his crew have been on the lookout for fiddler crabs and
their pet hair dryers.  It seems that when the local
fishermen go out on the town, they catch crabs while
fiddling; and the hair dryers cry for chicken pot pies.

     Perhaps the most interesting characteristic about the
Hawaiian Toe Jams is the unique geological constipation.
Large clouds of black dust hover over the natural beauty of
the native insecticide.  Tourists from all over the world
flock around with their chins in a little dress; and sing
about the time I puked all over the dog and he kicked my
rosy red piano.  Palm trees sway in the bathroom when pigs
climb to the top. It is truly a remarkable sight to be dismayed!

     Tropical customs are in full view of retarded garden
tools.  Hula dancers wear the traditional grass shirts which
come in plaid or velvet.  They burn well and are organized
according to battery or solar powder.  Each dance tells a
story just exactly like this:
     Long ago in Grandfather's beard, a small squid died and
stunk for days.  All the village Elders offered him fire to
drink and hid his remote control.  Little children crawled up
to see him and chewed off his toes.  His own family sent for
the Magic Bowl.  They filled it with bird runch and mixed in
pork, crayon shavings and geek fat.  The ceremony began with
the first three episodes of "Gilligan's Island"; and when
Grandfather started lusting for Mrs. Howell they fed him the
Modongo.  Very soon Grandfather blortled and fipped.  He
asked "What kind of bird runch are you feeding me today?
Anyhow?"  His family laughed at the snackwonder: "OH! AH!
HOO!", they bribbled.  And that is how this Island got its

     Now, I'm sure you are wondering about the food one
encounters in this area of the planet.  Well, being the
expert you are, let's hear about it!  Don't tell me I have to
eat those dirt things again!  You served those last time, and
they made my cats run for president!  I'll never be ashamed
of my feelings about the time I stuck my hand in that bag of
jello and chicken lips you gave me!

     Last time I was never there, I'm sure I ordered shrimp
on the halfshell.  The cook was in the garage, busily peeling
the breadsticks; when suddenly an overwhelming radio cracked
his head three feet long.  The waiter took photographs of
dead bugs in the air conditioner; but we all knew he sang
great songs of urination.  You see, when you finally learn to
accept that the world is merely a fig in a bucket of lard;
everything else shines dimly through rose colored sandbags.
This can surely cause religious brethren to noisily teach their
children "The Great Spoon Dance."  A glazed look falls upon
the fat silver necklace camouflage device.  With little or no
warning, little pajama people excrete a slimy trail of
really neat toys which are easy to squeeze and maintain.

     Many people have been sticking pens up their noses and
telling me stories.  At first, I thought they were all uncles
of mine; but some of them were not women.  A common bind
between all these folks is that they each have had some sort
of crazy requirement in their past.  The majority of them
used fish for volleyballs; especially when Duane the Root
Seller was nearby.  Others simply wanted their name in print
so they could ring in the New Year with giant fleas.  Jumbo
shrimp.  Military intelligence.  Government efficiency.

     So as you all can see, the truth in this description of
life, the universe, and everything is all that it should be.
If you ever find yourself groping for answers for one of
life's weird stinking disgusting ridiculous and maybe unknown
something of what I just said; it probably was the wrong
number.  Refer to this document often, and you should begin
to hallucinate gladly.  The Universal Truth Fairy will reveal
itself to you; and teach you how to make the best doggoned
macaroni and cheese in the whole world.

     Always remember to worship the little rocks in your
driveway.  This will change nothing in your spiritual life;
but it will make you feel better about squishing their little
faces every time you go for a drive.  Remember that
everything has feelings.  If you have neglected to wish your
toilet "Happy Birthday", now would be a good time to begin.
You'll also begin to discover who your real friends are.

     Many who have discovered the "Righteous Path of Really
True Enlightment Obtained Only From This Here Doo-Dad" are
selling their nose hairs.  They have finally come to realize
that our solar system is really a small pile of dried flies
waiting for a ride on the bus.  Never would I suggest that
the reader adopt this as the only truth known.  However, if
youse jerks doubt anything that has been written here, I will
hire professional laughter addicts to come to your spider's

     After all, EVERYONE knows that wiggling a blue car seat
in front of surgical instruments causes trees to vomit!  My
fingernails are actually flashlights which send encrypted
messages to Wognord of the Skoldern Galaxy, Sector 23vx!  You
can pick green radishes and they will still be red.  Snails
invented rock 'n roll.  Cantaloupes will replace ball
bearings in the New World order.  ALL THESE THINGS ARE IN

     If you don't believe, shame yourself daily and call me
in the morning.  I'll be right here, waiting for those purple
cornstalks to sing me another song.  Until then, Peace, Love,
Dove and Harry Kirshner.  May cat barf cling to your enemies.
Tell Mom I forgot to wipe by accident again.  Slip sideways
through the deep canyons of Life; and remember that it's
better to be you than for you to be me, and although you can 
count to it, eight is a word. Finally, I leave you a small yodel
that only Randall the Moisture Merchant can abbreviate:


Peace, Love, And Understanding

Well my friends, here we are again in another election cycle. Lots of opinions flying around the interwebs and the Twitbooks and Facepages. Some opinions are based on facts, some are making up “facts” as they go along. All I know is, if someone is very sure about themselves, there’s not much I can do to get them to look in a different direction. There was a time in my life when I felt it was very important for me to try however; and all that accomplished was hurt feelings and sometimes the loss of a friendship.

A very dear friend of mine used to say, “you know, we can disagree without being disagreeable.” As I grow older and moldier, I try to practice that philosophy. Sometimes I fall short, of course; because what can I say? I’m human. In tough times though, I’m finding that peace and harmony are much more important than getting on a soap box.

Does all that mean that I’m OK with injustice, hatred, and environmental insults to Mother Nature? Of course not! I just need to be careful not to spit out all the “My Way Or The Highway” platitudes. There’s certainly enough discord in this world without me stirring up more. However, anger can be stirred up even when facts are presented. An example: I recently posted what a complaint about the actions of a government official on the Bookface. This unleashed a torrent of comments, some agreeing and some not. I was saddened by one of our leader’s actions and I spoke out, but I was not prepared for the sniping that my post generated. Then, unfortunately, some name calling ensued.

My response: delete the post. I could no longer bear the sniping.

All of us have the right to our thoughts; but when discussion morphs into anger fueled rants, communication is sabotaged. Name calling (even if it’s directed toward the government official I complained about) will not promote harmony; which is desperately needed right now. Bad enough we have to endure a pandemic without spewing venom at each other.

As I type all this I suddenly find myself on a soap box!! So be it. Guess I’ll continue to speak out… there really is an awful lot of injustice and other nasty activity going on around us. We really do need to speak out against the madness. We just need to do it in a peaceful way that strives for the greater good. We need to disagree without being disagreeable.

To quote a favorite artist of mine, “what’s so funny about peace, love and understanding?”

Celebration Time!!

Many of you may know this already, but I’ll say it again anyhow. I am married. Not only that, I am fortunate enough to be married to The Most Beautiful Woman In The Universe (all other women are the 2nd most beautiful), and we are very happy. We are best friends, and even love each other enough to smooch and all that other married people stuff. Are we weird or what???

This extraordinary wedding event occurred on the 21st of August, 47 years ago. Therefore, in honor of “Happy Friday!!!” silliness I do hereby relate the details of a glorious make-a-believe honeymoon we never went on; and of course we still hope we never do do that, and HA HA, I said do do, which sounds like doo doo but it wasn’t, so that became fodder for a nice run-on sentence which has often been present in my silly writings and there was another one special for all of YOU.

There we were, 10,000 feet in the air, no plane, no parachute, wondering where we should go for a 47th anniversary honeymoon. Halfway down we forgot to remember a nice getaway called the Hotel Frankfurter Hotdog Ranch, where you shell out $19.75 (or more, depending on the type of honeymoon suite you choose) for a room, dinner and breakfast for two, taxes and tips all included in the bill. Very nice at amazing price!

I had booked the room 22 years in advance, as a surprise. Finally the big day arrived. There we were, in our 1971 Maverick along the Lake Michigan Shoreline, and suddenly several policemen sang polkas to us while blue smoke from our tailpipe gases filled their eyebrows. Then we started the engine and headed up North to Frankfort.

With an average speed of 12.7 mph, we made it to Frankfort in a record twelve days. Several parts of the car were missing when we arrived, but we just figured the noises were from that funny rope we substituted for the fan belt back in 2013. The hotel was everything we expected it to be. Deep green clouds of putrid dust belched from the chimneys of the honeymoon suites. We turned to each other and winked, knowing that it would soon be OUR turn to ignite the bricks of dehydrated pond scum. At the main entrance, we backed up several yards and then ran through the masking tape barrier they put up to greet new guests. On the other side, the staff greeted us in their traditional lizard suits, urging us to bring them insects from the nearby chocolate shop.

After checking in, we decided to take a stroll down to the pier before dinner. There we found very sad fishermen leaning against iron pilings. To our amazement, they were told they were reassigned to a project that involved teaching giant (imaginary) freshwater squid how to read and write. The squid plopped themselves on the pier and wouldn’t move to let us by, so we did our best to comfort the fish holders, who ate oversized jelly beans while they cried out for extra ballpoint pens. Suddenly, I had a terrible sinking feeling…

“My Mom knew this would happen,” I uttered.

“What? She knew WHAT would happen,” My Lovely Bride asked.

“My left leg just turned into scrambled eggs,” I pouted.

My Beautiful Honey Pie scolded me, saying, “Kenny, get the heck out of that broken sewage line!! This is no time for stink-o-rama.” I apologized diversely, and she promised to make some sock puppets when we got home. She knows I’m a sucker for a bucket of removable training shingles (ching-ching!!).

We went back to the Ranch and waited in the basement to be called to dinner. I must point out that this was my least favorite part of our celebration. I couldn’t find the light, so of course I tripped over the giant rusty telephone and nearly fell into the washed popcorn they pulled from the dryer lint trap. Our reservation was finally stained, and we were shown to our topsoil.

Dining at “The Ranch” is nothing short of elegant. The long, dark hallway’s cracked cinder blocks are accented by the flickering light of bunsen burners at each desk. I had to sit on the side opposite the chair sliding-in place, but that didn’t dampen my moisture. I ordered filet magnum, and My Sweet Love got shrimp on the half shell. We shared and split the entrees down the middle with a chain saw and splitting maul. Our waiter forced us to watch “Little Lulu” cartoons while we awaited the arrival of the meal. But that was OK; because halfway through the 37th cartoon, My Lovely Bride’s mood had been visibly altered. She gazed at me longingly, as if I was the next course, then began licking her napkin and pressing her butter knife flat against her eyebrows. What a woman!!

Dessert, of course, was the house specialty, “Frankfurter Hotel Rocky Ranch Hot Dog Heaven,” made with fresh hot dogs that were caught the previous Wednesday. They do magical things with mystery meat. We were awestruck by the lovely appearance of the dish and the surprisingly delectable cherry sauce and peppermint rice cream toppings.

After completely filling our tummies, The Rollers came and boofed us up the stairs to our room. Special humor was exploding as they let us roll downstairs 23 times before finally slamming the room shut on us. We laughed most jolly and tried to reach the pond scum fireplace with our bellies dragging on the floor, splinters in our garments and happy broken belt loops. Needless to say, My Lovely Bride did the napkin-licking butter knife eyebrow thing the rest of the night, and I responded in turn by recycling the flypaper in the master cylinder accusation chamber.

You can bet we’ll be back again on some other imaginary anniversary. Until then, please deform all your friends and neighbors while they are sleeping. Their armpit hair, after all, will soon be converted into satellite receivers.

Now please pass those hot dogs!!

Or maybe pastry…

Random Fribble Knockers And The Wild Businessmen Neptune Fruit

We’ve been blessed with the presence of our grandsons this week; and as is customary, they got to choose the “Happy Friday!!!” topic for tonight.

During an elegant dinner of frozen pizza (DiGiorno’s, of course) I posed the question, “what should I write about tonight?” Responses were pretty much instantaneous. “Fribble knockers from Neptune and their odyssey to France!” Ollie declared. Then Gabe chimed in with, “random fruit!!” After Ollie whispered something into Gabe’s ear, Gabe exclaimed, “and wild businessmen!!” Pretty sure my face looked a bit puzzled as I acknowledged both with, “OK…”

So here goes…

Random Fruit, Wild Businessmen, Fribble Knockers, And Their Odyssey To France

by Ken Hansen (I think)

In the before times, businessmen ran wild in the jungles of Yooglania. They led a rather ordinary life, bonking out messages between 9 AM and 5 PM on hollow logs with their ceremonial message bonkers. Since there were no electronic communications in those days, all business had to be conducted either by long distance bonking or cave to cave visiting. In those days, there were known to be two types of businessmen: Tame Ones and Wild Ones. The Tame Ones were kind of boring really. They just walked around trying to sell stone tools and animal skins to people who already had all that stuff. They didn’t make much money but they were OK with just lying around and eating ants and beetles. It’s possible they watched a little too much TV, because they really loved to watch reruns of The Flintsones.

The Wild Ones were much more fun to watch. They would send out the message bonkings, then run to the nearest cave with a big bag of stuff to sell. When the homeowner would come to the opening of the cave, the Wild Ones would just start saying really weird things like:

“Hey!! Your toes are dirty!! Wouldn’t you like to buy a banana??” Or…

“Oh No!! That spider doesn’t know its name!! I bet you need to purchase some cherries!!” And…

“Holy Moly!! My cat can yodel!! Wanna by some grapes??”

These strange offerings of random fruit would often get the cave owner so confused, they would buy mangoes and kiwi fruits… just because!!

Ancient Yooglania was a small part of what is now called France. In those days, both The Tame Ones and The Wild Ones would have a business convention every year. This took place in a town they called “Cool Tower River Town;” which has since been renamed Paris. It was a rather unusual event, because The Wild Ones would have random fruit tossing parties while The Tame Ones just sat around and watched The Flintstones on TV.

During the year that Bliffy the Great T. Rex was in town, everything was very festive until something very unexpected happened. The sky became dark (because the sun went down), and out of the night sky came strange yellow orbs with really fancy flashing lights. As they drew near, it was obvious to everyone that these were some sort of space ships; so when one landed in the middle of Cool Tower River Town people gasped in fear and hid in the bushes.

As the door of the big yellow orb opened, a stairway was lowered to the ground. The businessmen could see the form of a strange being walking down the stairway. As its feet touched the earth, the being was surrounded with a foggy green haze that spread over the land and smelled like burnt pancakes. Very soon after the green haze floated away, the being spoke:

“Hello People Of What Will Soon Be France! Please excuse the green haze, I farted!!” The businessmen giggled and covered their mouths to hide the laughter. “We are Fribble Knockers from the planet Neptune. We have come in search of Fribbles so we may knock on them. Please direct us to your nearest Fribble Forest!!”

The Tame Ones were scared out of their minds, so they just pretended not to be afraid. They sat motionless in front of their TVs while yet another Flintstones rerun was on their screens. The Wild Ones looked at the Neptunian Fribble Knocker and then huddled to discuss how to respond. Then Chorp stepped away from the group and up to the Fribble Knocker. He seemed to know exactly what to say:

“Hey!! Your green fart fumes have really annoyed the T. Rex!! Wanna buy some apricots?? We have no idea what Fribbles are!! Wouldn’t you love to purchase some lingonberries?? Maybe you should try your luck on Mars… they might have some Fribbles you can knock. Here, try a free sample of grapefruit!! You’ll really need to buy some pineapples!!”

The Fribble Knocker looked rather confused. Not only was it annoyed that there were no Fribbles, but it was entirely confused at all these random fruit sales ideas. “No thank you, I guess we’ll be going. Please have a nice… um… whatever it is you’re having.” And with that, the Fribble Knocker got back into the yellow orb. It soon made what sounded like a thunderous sneeze, and with a great “AH-CHOO!!” it launched back into the sky and flew out of sight.

And that, my friends, is why you should never eat salami and pudding at the same time during a snow storm.

The End

(I think…)

How To Bake Bread

People have been baking bread for thousands of years. In fact, bread has become one of the most important foods on our wonderful planet. But no one, NO ONE, makes bread the way I do. That’s probably because I’ve never made bread!! But I have eaten it many times. After a very small amount of imprecise research, I have gathered some truly scientificable ideas on the making of bread. I’ve also learned a few amazing remarkables by listening to other bread basket talking peoples. Therefore, I have decided I should share my secret bread making observations with all of you, right here and right now, whether you like it or not.

The main ingredient in any good bread is, of course, grain dust. You know, the stuff that happens when they grind up wheat, oats, or rice, for example. Sure, some people call this flour, but I find this too confusing. I mean, I love the smell of spring time, and occasionally someone hands me a blossom of some sort and says, “Here, sniff this flower.” Of course, being the friendly person that I am, I put this

flower up to my nose and sniff its wonderful sniffiness.

But suppose I have my eyes closed, and I’m offered flour instead of a flower. I might be able to notice by touching that it was a bit powdery. But if I had my eyes closed, and was not holding it, and I put my nose in the flour and sniffed… that would not be pleasant. I would probably have a very powdery sneeze. Then I would reach for a tissue; and if I wasn’t careful I cmight make paper mache’ in my nose!

Therefore, my professional opinion is the term grain dust is much more correct. I suppose one could call it “powdered wheat,” or something like that. I just think grain dust has a nice ring to it, OK? So anyhow, grain dust is the main ingredient in bread. You certainly couldn’t just fill up a pan with grain dust and bake that, now could you? All you would get is cooked dust, and it would make a real mess if you tried to put it in the toaster. No, you have to make the grain dust soggy with something so it will stick together. That’s where the moo juice and chicken seeds come in handy. Oh sure, now someone has to know what moo juice is, right? Of course, it’s the white water from cows!


Cows make two kinds of juice: one is yellow and one is white. Never, *NEVER* USE THE YELLOW MOO JUICE FOR COOKING. Very ocky. Whew! Glad I warned you! Of course, unless you live on a farm, it’s not likely you’ll see much of the yellow moo juice.

Not sold in stores.

And chicken seeds? That’s where new chickens come from. Just plant some under a warm mama chicken, and the seeds will sprout baby chickens in a matter of weeks. It’s truly remarkable! Infertile chicken seeds will not germinate, so those are the kind normally used for bread construction. You wouldn’t want to kill a baby chicken just to have bread, right?? These infertile seeds are also called “eggs,” and are used for baking cakes, kromkaker, omelettes, and other neat things to stuff your face with.

OK, so now we have the stuff to make the grain dust gooey so it will stick together. If we mix some grain dust, moo juice, and chicken seeds up in a bowl, the goop will just sit there and look at you. Not very bready looking, if you know what I mean. We have to put some stuff in the goop to make it floof up, so the bread will be puffy instead of flat. Bread bugs are just what we need.

Scientifically known as “yeast,” these tiny little bread bug organisms are poured out of their package and into the goop. Then they are allowed to have families, make babies (lots of them, too!) and eat the goop for a while. The bread bugs pig out really well and burp a lot while they are eating. This burping makes bubbles in the goop, and the mixture begins to rise from all the fun the bread bugs are having. Such bread bug burp mixture is often referred to as dough. Science is very remarkable about naming things, because until this (not very) extensive research about bread, I was always under the impression that dough was another name for money.

Who knew it applies to bread??

It’s always good to have dough, especially when you want to buy something. I’ve always figured that’s why bakers work so hard… they knead the dough. Hey, I need dough as much as anybody else, and it sure seems like you gotta shell out a lotta clams (another term for money) for everything these days. So maybe I’ll go to work in the bakery so I can shell the dough and knead the clams.

Anyhow, you have to knead the dough to bake bread. Then you have to be able to loaf; and then into the oven the dough must go. So does this mean if you’re a good loafer, you can get a lot of work done baking bread? Apparently so!! Very confusing, but I’ll push those thoughts out of my brain while I sniff the delicious odor of freshly baked bread.

OK. Now you may or may not have all the information you knead to bake bread. I’m getting hungry with all the bread talk! I think I’ll make myself a clam sandwich and get a nice glass of that white moo juice so the clams will have something to swim in when they’re inside my tummy.

Happy Bread Baking, and don’t loaf too hard!


As the years whiz by, my relationship with inanimate objects continues to evolve. I remember when I approached adulthood, questions were tossed back and forth between me and my friends about what material success might look like. When asked, my answer was formulated pretty quickly: “the only wants I have are the love of a beautiful woman, a house on enough land to grow some food, and a kick-ass stereo.” My wants have long been fulfilled; so there’s really nothing I want.

So… if my wants have been fulfilled, there’s no need to have more, right? Sounds like a nice theory. In practice, though, some objects seem to have magically come home with me from various stores. Things like tools, car parts, jars, screws, nuts, washers, toasters, microwave ovens, TVs… you know, STUFF. And yes I’ll admit it, we have TOO MUCH STUFF.


What started out as a nicety of having disposable income has become a menagerie of clutter. I probably have just about everything I need to do home fix-it projects; but whenever I go to repair something, I can’t find the stuff I need. And that’s not because I don’t have it, because I probably do. I just can’t find it. So what do I do? After a lengthy dissertation about what I need; followed by various nasty words grumbled as I turn junk filled shelves inside out, I go to the store and buy what I needed. Then of course I put the new stuff down, go back to use it, but can’t find it for an hour or so.

More nasty words.

I’ll pick up a drill, pull the trigger… nothing. No worky. Change the battery, still nothing. Then I speak to the drill: “doggone it!! What’s the matter with you?? You worked fine when I put you away a few months ago!!” Tried to fix it but no go. Off to buy a new one (and yes, I still have the old one; and am not sure why). So now my relationship with objects is shifting to one sided conversation. They never answer me, and that of course is a very good thing.

Although I had a pretty good career in IT, my technology mantra became: “I hate computers!” When they refuse to do my bidding, I still utter that today. I’ve been known to issue computers verbal commands while trying to figure out something weird. I’ll gaze at the screen while typing, then say something like, “listen you stupid thing… don’t you know I’m sick of this??” And of course I receive no answer. Although I’m retired, I still utter the “I hate computers” mantra; and now I’ve opened the scope so it applies to anything that resembles a device.

Too much stuff, too much stuff, too much stuff. Stuff has become so ingrained in my daily life, that I sometimes go into a trance while transporting an object from point A to point B. Example: I made a nice but simple breakfast for my Beautiful Girlfriend. Eggs over easy, some orange juice, toast, and a little fruit on the side. I go to put the toaster away and the trance begins; then I realize I’m trying to put the toaster in the microwave. Doesn’t fit! Doesn’t go there!! Then I laugh at myself and wonder if my brain is failing. I felt better when my Lovely Honey Pie took a turn with the toaster a week or so later and wanted to put it away in the fridge.

Am I possessed by my possessions?? I’m starting to think so! It’s a conspiracy I tell ya!! My stuff is out to get me!!

The Inner Peace Police

Hello My Friends,

I’m writing to tell you that my fingers are broken and can no longer type anything that requires typing. You may well ask, “howma na heck are you broken fingers? Anyhow?” Then again, you may not ask that.

Please do NOT ask that.

The reason my fingers are broken is because they are not broken at all, merely sleeping in a typing trance that occurs each week during the Morshnayvian Lunar Cycle. Previously I was riding a Pepto Dismal Cycle, but that one only had 14 wheels so I switched back to the Bread Flavored Hamper Cycle. It coasts down hills really well, but the brakes are made of chalk dust; and that of course cannot be used in soups any longer.

Please refer to your Fronkle’s Universal Dictionary for a new and soil proof container for your unwanted dander. If you decide your dander is too oily for soil, gently injure the nearest lamp tossing machine and stand back while the multicolored fizzing foam engulfs your left elbow.

Thanks very much for being. I know you all are, and I’m truly grateful that this is. Hey, if you weren’t, you simply wouldn’t be; and then of course my thanks for your being would soon roll hastily toward the nearest asparagus burrito.

At this point, I must beseech unto you: If you do not enjoy this upcoming weekend, or any other day for that matter, I shall be forced to report you to the Inner Peace Police. If those guys apprehend your frownings, you’ll be mandated to toss marshmallows into the gopher hole. Soon after that, your presence will be requested at the North American Sandwich Throwing Contest, which is never held at midnight on top of Old Smokey.

Stand proudly during a meeting and give each of your office supplies a name; and tell them jokes often with a very big voice. This activity will very will very quickly let you know who you can trust.

Now I will go back to my finger realignment. Please call my veterinarian and find out if my lunch is still there.

Thank you,

Abner L. Pignibbler

a.k.a. “Mr. Kaboom”

And now for more varnish tray zipper waddles…

An Important Corporate Bulletin

Dear Underlings,

As I’m sure none of you are aware, the consensus reached during the recent Corporate Rally And Preparation meeting (CRAP) was that communication has been lacking.  It is in this spirit that we announce the following additions; designed to complement the guidelines of our Company Hospitality Enhancement Additions Policy (CHEAP).

All that being said, we’re excited to announce to all of you that new tasting tanks have been installed in Room 1023.  You can enjoy the flavor of any gravy or fruit salad by merely entering the tank and setting the knob to 2.3 while pointing your index fingers to Alpha Centauri and / or Cleveland.

Please be certain to wear protective clothing while tasting the new entries on the Flavor Dials.  Each dial has a luminous cramp lantern designed to strike fear in the hearts of any lingering mole wrench sleeveless hydrocarbons.The new entries, of course, include Swiss, Roquefort, and Toe cheeses.  Utmost caution is urged, however; as no one is completely certain as to the effect of cutting the cheese in the confines of the tank. Enjoy the scented antler handles in full view of the sinus chipper mechanism.

Many of you may also have noticed the velvet coating that has recently been applied to the walls and floors in the cafeteria.  This should allow grumpy employees to increase their fluffiness after the mandatory face rubbings.  Face Time will be scheduled during breaks and lunches to allow others to photograph the Softness Surprise Sessions that will be accompanied by a very large accordion with percussive inquisitions.  Be sure to wear your mask and rub your face only on designated, pre-sanitized areas.

Last but by no means least, Karl and Milly-Rae Snortwaffle have agreed to spearhead our saliva collections again this year.  As in previous years, it would be very much appreciated if all of you could please make sure your contribution lands in the Collection Vessel, rather than on Karl or Milly-Rae’s shoes.  Although both Mr. and Mrs. Snortwaffle enjoyed the shiny, yet ucky patina on their safety boots, they also reported sudden nausea and gagging when they tried to unlace before dinner time.  Thanks in advance to Karl and Milly-Rae for keeping the Spit Vats full so our machines are automagically lubricated during these challenging economic times.

If you have any questions about the use of the tasting tanks, velvet face rubs, or Spit Central, please call 800-555-1212 and ask for Mr. Crinkleberry.  He will never really help you, but he is an excellent listener and has been known to make really good dingleberry jam.

Thank you,

Francis “Golden Boy” Jinglepockets

President and CEO, StinkyInks, Inc.

And now for something completely different…

Silly School Tips

Hello Persons,

Although it is still the dog days of summer, The Labor Day will be one more time coming to visit us, and the schools may or may not open due to the COVID-19 indignation. Regardless, I have some very important suggestions that are enumerated below (see the BIG words I am using?? This must be important!!); and I will now use my bestest English sentence structure and grandma to present whatever it was I was trying to mention. Since nobody requested any guidance from the likes of me, I will hereby place it in front of your eyes anyway, regardless of your willingness to enjoy and / or utilize what I consider to be the very best methods of succeeding at school; and if you don’t agree with me please just remember that this needlessly long run-on sentence is my proud rendition of very important tips that everyone had just better embrace with great enthusiasm so I don’t have to get Gornok, my very large pet monster, involved for enforcement. You get what I’m sayin’???

This is irreverent to the need for some residual guidelines of good, down-home, school amplification tips. I have decomposed a few of these gridlines, as shown below, which have never helped me use a mirror to look myself in the eye and exclaim, “YOU! You again!! Quit following me!!” Of course, these days I am pretty good friends with me so it’s OK if I follow myself around now.

So, as you approach the school days of your present hello, please remember these simple things, which I’m sure will help you or perhaps your offspring greatly on a daily basis:

1) Wear your socks on your hands and bark at the teachers. This will keep their attention while you are nearby.

2) Sell used insects during and after class. You can increase your earnings by autographing the exoskeletons of these nice little creatures. Very collectible and easy to store.

3) Carry 7 1/2 foot lengths of rusty pipe between classes. People will leave you alone and let you have all the room you need in the halls.

4) Give me lots of money. I like money. This is good, to give it to me. You may hand it to me, or e-mail it to:

5) Trade your pens and pencils for very large crayons and chalk. Use these to do your homework, especially that which MUST be typed. If confronted about your workmanship, tell the teachers that these are the only things your pet hyena will not eat.

6) GET THAT CHICKEN OFF MY SHOULDER!! Huh? It’s a fly? Oh, OK!! Whew!! Sorry…

7) .backwards sentences your all write ,it of fun the for Just .order reverse in words the put just is mean I What .correctly do to difficult very be can This .sometime it Try

8) Mix occasionally in a sentence up the words. English teachers can tested be way this, to see attention if they are paying. Surprised you might be, find to out many how not really teachers reading homework are carefully very.

9) Lern two spel and dew it korrekly at awl thymes. Yoo mossed bee eggstreamly cairfull abowt chekking yor werk.

10) Punctuation! Is very? Important in proper, sentence, structure use it correctly don’t you hate it when people don’t.

Very well then. I’m happy to excrete that now you are prepared for anything that may fall into your potato salad. Enjoy the weekend, and always remember that it’s better to be you than for you to be me; and although you can count to it, eight is a word, not a number.

OK fine,

Klern Forkstabber

Imitation Education Expert

Bribley Lamp Cord Museum

Room 421

Viffleburp, New Honkney 1020103

And now please to enjoy these two videos of the amazing foot tapping bippity bops of Gracie, George, and Fred.