Author Archives: Ken Hansen

Who Cares About Whom?

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There are times when Happy Friday!!! jumps out of my fingers and into the keyboard; and there are other timings when my fingers not have word jump out. It’s almost as if they are fighting for something to breathe in a sea of oxygenated bread molecules that have never seen the blight of clay. In other words, they’re are sum thymes when I gist can’t stick an idea on the end of my nose thing and launch it into a narrative of weekly infestation.

Four egg sample:  my day started with some sadness about the loss of a friend; and this of course brought more sadness about the loss of my Beautiful Girlfriend on May 30 of last year. I’ve been a bit mooshy all day. My friend’s funeral was at the same place where I laid my Honey Pie’s “barbecue quilt” over her body to prepare for cremation just short of 8 months ago. To top it off, the same funeral director who took care of my Lovely Bride was also officiating at my friend’s ceremony. Consequently, my creative well was completely dry when I sat down to write this evening; Therefore, I knew I’d probably better dig up something out of the archives, massage it a little, and present it to your eyeballs to enjoy; hopefully without greatly flammable pencil warts.  Yes friends, there are times when I look back at the Holy Cow I Have A Lot Of Stories (HCIHALOS) and “recycle” one; so tonight I cheated and dug up one from 4 years before the day we’re having now.

So to continue with the “I have no eye deer what to write” crackle sauce:  when trying to discover a topic or idea for a Happy Friday!!! thing, sometimes a friend will tell me something that jars my cookies like no other fried banana milkshake could ever induce a nice warm cranberry casserole with fuzzy coconut thimbles mounted atop a psychedelically decorated Mambo Contest. This is a moment of inspiration from which I become most eviscerated with a nice piece of antimony topped with a small dollop of crème brulee.

Therefore in the spirit of my Grandma who never gave me any Grammar lessons, I hereby renounce this run-on introductory somnambulism; which was precipitated in a conservation in witch, once upon a time, several years ago, in a land very near to my home, while riding in an automobile very near to my hiney, in a smell phone very near to my ear, and while I was still working and therefore not yet retired, my dear friend Dave Gordon, whose first name and last name are really both First Names; this Dave Guy he said unto me, “I think you should write something about whom. You know, like everybody says ‘who do you love,’ when it really should be ‘whom do you love?’ “

“So!” I said to myself while listening to this Grampa talk Grammar; “So now I must look this up, as I am ashamed to admit that although I try to indemnify my audible colonoscopy with good usage; there are times when I fall short, much like many U.S. citizens who seam to have difficulty with both spelling; usage; punctuation!, and the correct contextual use of the word “both.”

Its time’s like these when a much younger me would get all bent out of shape when a person would use an apostrophe to write plural’s rather than showing possession and / or when used in a contraction. Of course, many women who have given birth would probably rather not remember the contractions. However, this is no excuse to vary from the rules of Grammar (which need not be capitalized unless it is used to begin a sentence), or Grandma either for that matter. Ignorance of the Grammar (yes I know, I capitalized it again) rules may sabotage your chances of getting a job, while disobedience of Grandma rules may sabotage your chances of getting more cookies. Nay, I say unto you, I no longer flatulate over the lack of knowledge of “proper English grammar.” I do shake my head at times when I see it on billboards or in sentences written by college students; but it is not for me to judge. Mine is but to sing songs loudly and belch boastfully when my belly is full of delicious rock salt pudding.

Our son once pointed out a well documented fact that “who” was a word that was invented by owls. That of course is obvious to anyone who may have listened to owls asking that question over and over and over and over again. We may not know to whom they are posing this age-old question. That does not matter; because, of course, they know. And since they only use “who,” and never have I heard them use “whom;” well that just illustrates to me that they understand (and probably invented) the following rules that I just stole from www.grammarly.com:

“Who and whom are both pronouns. Who is a subject pronoun (like I, he, she, we, and they), whereas whom is an object pronoun (like me, him, her, us, and them). Try this simple trick when in doubt: If you can replace the word with he or she, use who. If you can replace it with him or her, use whom. ”

OK… so let’s have some “reverse fun” with that rule and substitute bass-ackwardly:

“Who are you?” could be switched to “He (or she) are you?” and…

“Whom do you love?” could be noogled to “Her (or him) do you love?” and perhaps one of my brand new, just now favorites…

“To whom it may concern,” could be flinkled to “To him (or her) it may concern,”

So in the case of a preposition like “to,” then whom is to be used, and please, try to remember that a preposition is a word one should never end a sentence with. You may wonder why anyone would object to such usage, but the object is missing so don’t go there with me you silly baroopy noise making person you!!

Oh I could go on and on with this, don’tcha know. None of those examples in the “reverse fun” substitution calamity are correct usage, but guess what? I don’t care!! Ha ha!! I laugh to this!! I am now chortling! Chortle chortle!! Guffaw guffaw!! Or if Popeye were laughing, “OCK ock ock ock ock ock!!” Weird laugh…

Anyway, although I used to be very persnickety about such things, I try hard not to snip and gribble about someone’s grammar, nor their Grandma. One thing I’ve learned during my sojourn in this plane of sentience is, to quote Ebenezer in my favorite Scrooge movie, “I don’t know anything. I never did know anything. But now I know I don’t know anything.”

Sew their.

And now (just like last week) for something completely different …

I’m Leaving

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Dear Friends,

I know you may have become weary of seeing my face so I’m not going to change it at all for you. No, instead I’m moving to Zootflaven and I will change my name to Bremply Doatlekonk. Ha ha on youse kids, so there!! On the Bookface I announced that I was going to change my name to Milksnort Fogwaffle, but that was at least two hours ago, so of course it’s ancient history.

If you’ve never been to Zootflaven, don’t come crying to me. I never told you to come along during my last vacation there; because I didn’t want to share any of those tasty poshtangles or the delightfully disgusting hock-pitooey drinks. Sure, I’ve made both of those at home but the mess incurred during preparation is genuinely disguised as a small rodent burping through a keyhole.

Is this the part where we all sing the “Cuckoo Cranberry” song? Well try to keep up, but I will give you the words…

Cuckoo Cranberry, lying in the street.

Please don’t expect it to taste like meat.

Its face was squished by that big fat bus.

And nobody yelled or tried to warn us.

Oh Cuckoo Cranberry, where did you go?

If he hollers let him go, eeny meeny miny moe.

This of course is sung to the tune of “Cuckoo Cranberry Ate A Whistle.” Please do not confuse this with the award winning song, “Cuckoo Clock Rock.”

Did you know that crayons were invented?? Those things are all over the place!! I’ve even seen them in restaurants, but not for eating. What I mean is, I don’t eat the crayons anymore, nor to I try to use them for eating anything. I have been scolded and told that this is bad manners. However, I do have fond memories of peeling them and “accidentally” dropping them into the radiators at Sunday school. They become very colorfully liquified… eventually. As an added bonus, they give a pleasant colored melted wax scent to the atmosphere.

Perhaps, just perhaps, I should not have put those two bottles of cough syrup on my cereal this morning. My cats gave me funny looks when I took all the pictures to post on InstaBook. Whoa… maybe I should have dumped the contents of those two bottles into the bowl of cereal!! Cool idea… probably would have been more photogenic than just the unopened bottles. All those Loopy Frootles floating in purple syrup… maybe place it on a turntable and take a 12 minute video.

Farm out, man!! Right arm!! Solid state!! Groovy gravy!!

OK… now you know my intentions for the next several solstice arrivals. If you’d like to come visit me in Zateflooven; please visit your ambidextrous orthodontist for a seldom opinion. Just walk up to the reception area and ask for me by my new name, Broatly Konkledemp. I will be the one erupting in boisterous laughter as I make all the pens and pads of paper appear to float in the air; for you see by then I will have learned to make myself invisible.

In the meantime, please remember what Hyram C. Gilmore has said for years:

“It’s better to be you than for you to be me, and although you can count to it, eight is a word.”

Insincerely yours,

Krempledoat Bonkely

“And now,” as Mr. Cleese would have said, “for something completely different.”

A Very Merry Malapropism To You!

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A very merry who’s a what now?? Yes, that’s right, A Very Merry Malapropism To You. Some of you might wonder, “What the heck-a-ma-lookey is a malapropism??” Or perhaps not!! Well according to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, a malapropism (pronounced mal-uh-PROPE-ism) is:

The usually unintentionally humorous misuse or distortion of a word or phrase

especially : the use of a word sounding somewhat like the one intended but ludicrously wrong in the context.

What can I say, I love to play with English. It often makes my whole self laugh at myself. And that can be a very good thing. My professional opinion is this: there is so much ickety boo in the world, we need to take a break and laugh a bit once in awhile. I’ve learned long ago not to do this at anyone else’s expense, no matter how much I would like to (yes, I’m human…).

So one of my favorite ways to play with English is to inject malapropisms into my speech or writing. For example, my son came over for dinner yesterday. I was hoping to find a DiGiorno’s supreme pizza at the store but for some reason they weren’t in stock. So, I settled for a rising crust plaza with sausage and pepperonly. As you can see, I not only misuse words, but I misuse the eye deer of pudding two words to gather even when they don’t belong.

Because it’s fun.

Hope everyone had simply marvelous holly day season. We enjoyed a very nice time with just our intermediate family… my daughter and son-in-law, two grandsons, my son and me. The six of us traveled to Florida in separate cars together (son and I rode together). It was rather weird having Christmas with out the Mom of the family (my Beautiful Honey Pie); so my daughter thought a trip to Florida would be a good disk traction.

No add traction stuff for us this time. No Disney World (makes me barf), no See World (yuck), no Universal theme park (did that last year). Nope. Instead, we went to St. Augustine to see the very old Spanish fart with very old canyons and we got in for free because I’m a veteran and I never knew that all veterans can get a lifetime free pass to ALL national parks and they didn’t charge ANY of us for admission; witch, in my professional opinion was, like totally cool and hey, there’s my first run-on sentence of the year so I hope that helps you smile just a little bit.

Then we went to Ripley’s Believe It Or Not museum. That was very enjoyable, egg specially since my Lovely Wife and I went there with our two kids when they were much younger peep pull. Lastly we went to a medieval torcher museum which caused me to be very sad in my heart (seriously) because of the audio guide which described in detail how all the terrible things are used. I went into the rooms ahead of the gang so I could quickly be reminded of how horrible people can be to each other, but I waited outside while they went in and listened to the audio guide.

Ouch!! Yuck!! Ptoo!!!!

Awl in awl, we had a very nice trip, in spite of the crazy drivers who zipped in and out of traffic as if they owned the hole road. I found myself wishing they would fall into a hole in the road, but I wouldn’t really wish anyone to be harmed so I guess they should knot really fall into a whole. Butt they sure do drive like may knee acts. Those are the lunar tunes who cause accidents, ya know what I’m saying??

Sew now I’m home, and there are so many things to do. It’s probably gonna take me some time to play ketchup; butt that’s OK… since I’ve bean retired I try hard not to put too much pretzel on myself. I mean really, who kneads the stretch of shelf imposed deadlines? Those can be way too stretchable for me; and one thing I don’t need is more stench. No… I prefer a calm existence and make it a point to enjoy each moment. There are times when I try to quiet my mind through transcontinental medication, but too often I get random thoughts that distract me from calming my nerds ineffectively.

Anyway, hope all of you are having a very nice 2025. So far so good for me. Perhaps one day I’ll develop a style of writing that doesn’t involve frivolously misused words (or even made up words).

Ummm… no. I don’t think so.

Well, this guy never did much with word mangling, but he always made me laugh.

My New Year’s Revelations For 2025

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Can someone please tell me what happened to 2024? Seems like it should still be with us. I mean heck, it was Thanksgiving just a couple weeks ago. Now it’s gonna be a whole New Year!! Lots of people will be making very merry on New Year’s Eve, and many will also make promises in the form of resolutions to (hopefully) do some things a little better. Actually, that’s exactly what my New Year’s resolution has been for many moons now.   I just keep it simple: Try to do better.

Maybe you noticed that the title of this week’s Happy Friday!!! mentions revelations, not resolutions. Well that’s because I like to have fun with this writing stuff; so if you are not interested in such silliness please run to your nearest widescreen TV and watch a few thousand cat food commercials while I plunk the keyboard and write what will likely be my very last run-on sentence for this year; although it will certainly NOT be the very last one I will write, because my friend Dave likes them and also my friend Kathleen and maybe others; and although my punctuation may be questionable I really don’t give a royal SnickerlyDoodle about it.

So there.

OK. Now I am making with the New Year’s Revelations. My intent is to take some time tested sayings and offer shiny and productive ways that you may or may not find useful in your own lives. There are many such sayings that seem to have been with us for eternity, but that can’t be possible because we are still here. Anyway, here are some that come to mind and my reactions to their bronchial indigestion.

1) A stitch in time saves nine.

This makes no sense to me. Maybe it’s because my limited experience with stitching is in the form of an emergency repair on a pair of britches, or perhaps replacing a button. Ever bend over to pick up a penny and hear a nasty rrrRRRIIIPPPPP!! ?? It’s rather embarrassing. Especially if you have to traipse about looking for someone who has a sewing kit. Then once you’ve found that person, you have to be careful how you enter / exit the room so they don’t get frightened that your undies (or God forbid, your hiney!!) are hanging out. No, for me, a stitch in time is merely a stitch in time.

2) A penny saved is a penny earned.

Well that’s a nice thought. Remember that penny I bent over to pick up and my pants ripped open?? There was a cost of more than a penny to find someone with a sewing kit for cryin’ out loud. Well OK, there was no actual cost of money; but there was a price to be paid for the embarrassment of it all. And ya know, when I toss pennies into the change bucket at home, I don’t think I’m really earning anything. I’m just emptying my pockets. Besides, all my social security and pension pennies are direct deposit, so there are no actual, physical pennies when I put stuff in the saving and / or checking account.

L) He who hesitates is lost.

Now there’s one I can relate to!! Remember that one time when we were coming back from Canada and you weren’t even there but I’ll tell you anyway?? Yes! Several moons ago, my Beautiful Girlfriend and I had just crossed the border and entered Port Huron. Mind you, on the way to Canada we had no problem. But on the way from Canada, I got a little bit kerfuffled. There I was, minding my own business, watching the signs and forgetting the exact route, and then (uh oh, I can smell another run-on sentence), and thinking to my self, “Hey Self, I think you missed your exit,” but my Beautiful Girlfriend and I were chatting and I was wondering and pretty soon we’re on I-75 going south and WHY THE HECK DOES IT SAY WE’RE ON THE WAY TO DETROIT WHEN WE LIVE IN MUSKEGON??

I’ll tell you why, I hesitated!! And then we got lost!! Well, OK not completely lost. I mean, if you’re in Michigan and you go too far south you hit either Ohio or Indiana. Too far north and you hit the Mackinac Bridge. Too far west and you’re on the shores of Lake Michigan. So we weren’t lost, just… ummm… on an adventure. Thankfully I keep some prehistoric road atlases in my car for just such an occasion. Remember road atlases? You know, printed maps? In a book?? Yes, I still have those. And thankfully the car has a compass so we were able to navigate. And yes, I have a smell phone but hey, I like to use actual maps, alright??? But our adventure yielded a big plus: we stumbled upon Crockett’s Country Cafe in Columbus, Michigan (never even knew there was a Columbus in Michigan) and had some very nice bison dinners with more than enough to have leftovers for the following day. We hesitated, we got lost, we ate well, we went home. Not such a terrible thing.

To finish up, I’ll include one of the most time-honored sayings that may have helped you or perhaps someone you know avert conflict between friends and loved ones:

9r) You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your friend’s nose.

Can’t argue with that!! Another variation of that is: you can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can’t wipe your friends off on the sofa.

I can honestly say I’ve never thought that picking someone else’s nose is a good idea.  And wiping them off on the sofa??  Hey, what you do in the privacy of your own home is your business.  Well, OK I have to retract that statement about not picking someone else’s nose; only because I’ve helped my Lovely Girlfriend to raise two kids. I’m sorry, but my professional opinion is that anyone who has kids but hasn’t dealt with kid boogers has never really been a parent. And of course now we have grandkids, but both of them are getting very adept at nostril maintenance.

Well that’s probably enough for now. Please, all of you who read this, PLEASE have a blessed New Year in 2025. Don’t know about you, but I have much for which to be grateful. If I can keep that foremost in my mind, life goes along pretty well.

Thank you and Happy Friday!!!

Hope you have a safe and enjoyable New Year’s… there’s a party goin’ on at Grampy’s house if you don’t have any prior engagements…

Jingle All Night Long

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Note: this story was pulled out of the archives during a time when I was still working. However, all too many of the premises in the story still hold true for me today…

Santa Claus is coming already! I suppose you folks all have your shopping done, right? Well, not me. I always wait till the last minute. It’s kind of a ritual, I guess. There may come a time when I quit procrastinating, perhaps tomorrow or the next day. But until then, look for me at the all night department store, right into the wee hours of Christmas Eve.

Wonderful rationalizations get cooked up in a part of my brain (which I lovingly refer to as the “lazy cortex”) around this time of year. First of all, I figure the number of other shoppers in the middle of the night is way down; and that’s the way I like it. Therefore, I tell myself, it’s best for me to shop later at night.  Secondly, since I’m always living from paycheck to paycheck anyway, the last check of the year is the logical choice for holiday shopping. Sure, I suppose I could squirrel away a few dollars here and there to prepare for the holiday season. However, that would require something terrible of me: discipline and planning. Those two concepts just scare me to death!

Once upon a time, I did do a little shopping for my Beautiful Honey Pie while on a business trip to Pennsylvania a few years ago. Because of a tight schedule and absolutely NO CLUE where to go, I asked Siri The Nice iPhone Lady where the nearest shopping was. She directed me to Promenade Place; which appears to be where all the rich people go. Although I’m blessed in millions of ways, I’m not independently wealthy. But I ventured into a jewelry store with hope of finding a nice pair of earrings for my sweetie. I knew I was in trouble when none of the items in the fancy glass cases had prices on them. Then I found what seemed to be a reasonably priced pair of turquoise earrings. The nice man said, “Those are 4-0-5.” And he didn’t mean 4 dollars and 5 cents. I thanked him for his time and hit a two other stores called Francesca’s and Charming Charlie’s. Between the two of those I found about 6 pairs of nice earrings that fell well into my price range.

I had grandiose plans of stashing some of the jewelry for Christmas; but the rule when I traveled on business is that I was to “bring back a surprise.” Even though I was only gone for a couple days I missed my Baby so much that I ended up giving her all the loot in one shot. That, of course, meant I had to go on the hunt again; with Christmas drawing ever nearer.

My wife just shook her head and laughed at me, bless her soul. And that year, with the economy “in recovery,” the stores are enabling my last minute mania.  Stuff just kept going down in price!  It was amazing!!  Of course you have to be willing to wade through hordes of other procrastinators.  And unfortunately, some of them are getting rather ornery.   I was in Meijer the other day (our local everything store, for those of you who don’t know Michigan), and it was a complete madhouse.  People packed and zooming all about.  After I finally arrived at the cashier, I joked with her, “Well you must be completely bored today, what with it being so slow and all.”  She smiled and related how nice it was to have the time whiz along.  “So, at least folks are in a good mood,” I added.  “Nooo,” she said in a low tone, “people are nasty.  Getting mad ‘cuz nothing’s in stock, or it costs more than they think it should.”

Like the cashier has any control over such things.  Unfortunately, our wonderfully materialist world has all too many folks convinced that Christmas is all about the presents, instead of the peace on Earth and all that stuff.  Couple that with the pressure of uncertainty in the job market… heck, uncertainty in the world, and people get a bit antsy.  Then add a little “holy cow it’s only 4 days before Christmas and look at all I gotta do,”  and some folks get downright nasty.  All that lovely Christmas spirit gets converted into scowls and hustle-bustle.

I don’t get ornery… I’ve just pretty much accepted the fact that my Santa mode doesn’t kick in very early in the season.  In other words, one thing about my holiday shopping is pretty predictable: I’ll be running through all the stores with my just-before-Christmas-paycheck like a head with my chicken cut off (or something). By the time I reach the last checkout, I’ll be too exhausted even to balk at those crazy tabloid headlines.  Something like, “120 YEAR OLD WOMAN CLAIMS TO BE TRUMP’S TWIN SISTER,” would usually prompt me to snicker or chuckle. By then, it will just be a cold stare, and robotic “hmmm.”

I’ll fumble for the credit card, cram the receipt in my wallet, drag all the stuff to the car, and it’s home again, home again, jiggety-jog. On the way home, I love to tune the AM dial and look for that distant station playing Dickens’ “Christmas Carol.”  Maybe sing some carols while it fades out.

The approach to the homestead involves a little Santa trick. I kill the engine, coast into the driveway, sneak inside with the goodies, and hide somewhere to make lots of crinkly noises with wrapping paper until 4 a.m. Finally, I’ll stash the loot under the tree, and flop into bed; vowing to start at least two days earlier next year.

Or not.

Maybe if I learned a few things from Grampy, all the Christmas presents could be built right at home!!

To My Friends Of Whom I Have No Intrusion

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Dear Mandible Jigglers,

Good afternoon, ladies and germs. I’ve been thinking of what a horrible time I had getting to this point in my life, but then my legs fell off when I climbed down the drain to rescue the noodles which were trying to escape my chewing machine. I know I am a lazy green tomato shaver, but every time I have an urge to yell “No Twinkies for YOU!” at Brobe, the local shredded wheat policeman person, a large and ugly nail collector jumps on my belly like a trampoline.

Now as you all well know, I have been impersonating a sofa for many years. New people have been looking under me for the long lost Legos, but when they lift me up I jingle too loudly so they cry for assistance. Fortunately, I wear a red raspberry raincoat to protect me from the flying squid. Those things make me really scared. Have you ever seen an angry squid show its wings? Ooooo, they don’t have any. But if they did it wouldn’t be my fault. I was never there and you can’t prove anything I say is real or smelly.

Oh, I forgot to tell you that smartphones are all programmed to barf large amounts of blue slimy cake-waste on the 29th of August. Don’t pay any attention to that man behind the curtain! Can anyone hear me? I made jelly with lint yesterday, and it’s difficult to play the harmonica now. In fact, I think I put too much duck breath in the pie today. I have been a mess like this lately, and it’s probably due to the large pile of rotten tongue depressors I found in the middle of the road. I mean, you can tell that the trees are just happy to be here. They’ve been singing those same stupid tree songs ever since I can remember. Then they wrap dirt in fancy paper and present it to each other during that “Dumb Dirt Festival” they have everyday on the Breadhouse lawn.

Ah yes. The Beautiful Breadhouse. The only thing wrong with such a house is that it’s really a mess when it rains. Mold comes and they have to get out the lawn molders to chop it down to less than knee-high by the fourth of July. But the stupid trees keep going to the bread store to build a new house; then they have nightmares about french toast and butter knives. I tried to convince them to use Elmer’s glue and rice, but they sniggled at that idea. Now look at them, they can’t get a job and they won’t eat their house. I just don’t know. I could mail them some weeds! But then I would be getting close to another paragraph page, and I don’t think I can talk about this kind of thing for more than eleven sixty two.

So there, I have bared my soul to you. You are now fully aware that I am not the guy you have come to know, I am merely a small piece of the space shuttle looking for a nice garage sale. Can you please guide me to the nearest litter box? I have something special in mind for the creeps who turned my car into a hammer handle.

Well, my dearest friends, I can’t for the life of me remember your names. But if we ever meet again, please give me a lot of money. I know that’s a big request from a

stranger, but you know as well as I do that the best things in life are free… So give me your money darn it!!! Do you really want to trap your soulds in useless material possessions?? Give me all you have and let me bear the burden for you!

I promise I won’t sell your most beloved things until I get around the corner. If your pets are selling watches on the street, what business is it of yours? They can’t work at McDonald’s all my life. I mean hey, we gotta get something from somewhere and find out what the heck it is! Otherwise, we won’t know what we have, and then we’ll be at the end of this letter! And it’s about doggoned time!!

Sing loudly and bark at the bugs!

Insincerely yours,

Hembert “Crinkles” Wopplecracker

a.k.a. Your Favorite Life Coach

And now for something completely different…

How To Bake Bread

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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 might 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!

**!!WARNING!!**

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!

My Holiday Requirements for 2024

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Dear Friends,

Hopefully all of you had a very nice Thanksgiving. According to the TV commercials, we are well into the Holiday Season. Anyway, as I hope you truly know, I love all of you very much and hope you have a very Happy Merry and a most Joyful Wonderful. My sincere hope is that all of you are blessed each and every day of your living lives, and that you are as happy and healthy as possible. If you have trouble believing that I feel this way about each and every one of you, I’ll be compelled to call my Cousin Rocco (yes, I really do have a Cousin Rocco who hails from Brooklyn).

Please don’t make me go there.

Those of you who know me well are aware that I’m not exactly Mr. Material Wealth Guy. I am a product of the 60’s, and am perfectly happy growing vegetables organically and letting what’s left of my hair grow just as long as I can. I do try to express gratitude to Those God People, but sometimes my wants exceed my knees.

The upcoming Holidays, after all, are a time of giving. Therefore, I would like all of you to remember to buy me the things I will list here; and if you don’t mind, just consider them demands and get with the program already because there are only a couple of weeks left to shop and HOLY COW I’m way behind with my own shopping but I already scored some cool stuff for my family so I think I’m gonna be OK but just in case I’ll probably hit some stores at the last minute because I truly intend to quit procrastinating either tomorrow or the next day; but until that time I’ll just marvel at this run-on sentence since this is probably one of the first one I’ve ever written that didn’t have at least one comma or semi-colon oh wait there are four commas and two semi-colons but really I have to wonder why anyone would want a semi-colon anyway as it seems it would be very bad for your digestive system because a full colon likely could be much better.

OK.

Without any further ado, here is my list of required gifts you must get for me this year. Simply work together and coordinate between youse to satisfy my need for the following mandatory items:

A) 12 sets of matching pretzels (none of my current sets match).

12) The 10th edition, signed copy of “Don’t Sniff The Railroad Tracks,” by Wilbur “Flathead” Grumpington.

6r) A dark yellow pair of flannel boxer shorts with both USB and HDMI ports.

5) One or two jumbo 14.7 oz. boxes of Kelloggg’s Plastic Pops Dental Floss Cereal.

y9q) Why is the coffee pot so stinky?? OH FOO!! I LEFT IT ON WHEN IT WAS EMPTY AGAIN!!! Oh wait… that’s not supposed to be on the list…

M) A Blu-Ray copy of that famous 1922 holiday classic, “Billy’s New Nostrils.”

Pox) Next time you go to the store, would you please pick me up some more kitty litter? Oh, and we’re almost out of toilet paper. Probably could use some raisins for tomorrow night’s gravy also. What? No, I don’t have any money!! Sheesh, I thought you had some! Oh nevermind.

1W) I’ve always wanted a radio controlled tape dispenser!! Better get 3… I’ll use them often.

P3G) One time I was dreaming, right? And there was this bowl of blue shiny stuff that smelled just like licorice. People would step in and it would make them speak strange languages. Please buy me one of those.

X5) I’m pretty sure my robotic ear itcher needs a new crambosis membrane… nudge-nudge, wink-wink…

Finally, I’ll be needing larger amounts of cash than last year. I’ll accept gold bullion or even platinum ingots if absolutely necessary.

If you can’t come through with any of the aforementioned items, please be aware that my kale and potatoes are sleeping soundly in the garden under a nice blanket of leaves topped with snow. Come by some time and we can dig up some tubers and leaves; and we’ll make some snake eye soup and gorge ourselves on tree bark.

In the meantime, please have a blessed day, every day. Peace and love to you all.

So there.

Yours with much flaming dandruff,

Broink Zubblepuff

a.k.a. Ronky “The Belch” Burpenwiggles

Here’s a novel old gem… watch for appearances by Laurel and Hardy, The Marx Brothers, and the Three Stooges!! Animated, of course…

Good Mung, Dad!!

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Money. I hate money, especially when it isn’t plentiful. Like right now, at my house. I’m so broke, I can’t afford to pay attention. My wallet has been converted from a billfold to a card library.

Wait! I found a whole dollar in there!

Mind you, when I say I’m broke, it certainly does not mean I’m poor. Not by a longshot. But since my wife’s passing, income is less; so I’ve been trying to cut corners a bit. Yesterday I made an elegant meal of Stouffer’s macaroni & cheese mixed with Swiss chard from the garden, some slided up hot dogs, onions, and green peppers. Came out OK… hey it was nourishing (I think). When I described the managerie to my son he said, “You mean like that mung you used to feed us?” “Ha ha, yeah, I guess!!” I chucked. “I forgot about mung!! Sounds like a good ‘Happy Friday!!!’ topic!!”

More about mung later…

My Mom knew how to save bucks by being creative in the kitchen, a feat I never fully appreciated until we were blessed with children. Poor Mom tried her best to make a silk casserole out of a sow’s rib cage, but my brother Eric and I would taunt her when something was less than delectable.

Take Chicken Fricassee, for example. No, really. Take it. That stuff was nasty. Chicken molecules in a creamy white sauce with carrots, celery, onions, potatoes and stuff all cooked to death and plopped in our bowls. This was the end of the road for the chicken carcass and bones essentially. It was OK I guess, but we had it once too often one month. When my bro and I learned it was on the menu AGAIN, we went outside to march to and fro while chanting:

“Chicken fricasee is blech! Chicken fricasee is BLECH! Chicken fricasee is BLaaeeCH!”

Mom would come out and sigh, “Awright youse guys…,” and go back inside and put more stuff in the pot. Seemed to work for a while, we didn’t have chicken fricasee for a few months afteward.

I have since renamed the dish Fricken Chickasee. It’s not allowed at our house.

Other days brought predictable staples: macaroni & cheese with hotdogs and spinach; potato hotdog soup; spaghetti with God Knows What (whatever meat happened to be around); and macaroni & cheese with tomato sardines and spinach. Anybody see a pattern here?

Eric and I were the older kids, and with sis and another brother we numbered four. God bless Mom, she always managed to keep our bellies full. She got her frugal kitchen skills from growing up during the Great Depression, and used her knowledge to stretch Dad’s paycheck. We always asked, “What’s for supper, Ma?” Usually cheerful even when she had to scrimp, she’d answer, “Leftover Delight!!” We’d groan and go back outside. If we asked about the menu when she was bummed by life, the universe, and everything; she would scowl at the pots and mutter, “Slum Gullion.”

When I became a Dad (and a Mom, when my lovely wife was working nights), I really appreciated this culinary legacy. Especially when our cash supply was running in phantom mode. I went a step further and became creative when naming my impromptu dishes. I stole one such name from Saturday Night Live, when Mike Meyers and Dana Carvey were doing a “Wayne’s World” skit and uttered the word, “Mung.” Garth asked Wayne what that meant, and Wayne confessed that he didn’t know, but he liked the sound of it. There are such things as mung beans, which are often found in Asian dishes in the form of sprouts; but that’s not what Wayne was talking about. Needless to say, I really liked the way mung rung.

Hee hee!

So, when asked what’s for dinner, and I had to improvise, I’d tell the kids, “We’re having mung;” and they’d reply, “Oh jeez.” Mung could be anything from Hamburger Helper with extra pasta and a vegetable, to spaghetti with GodKnowsWhat. One of my personal favorites was Chicken Cockamamie: leftover chicken (and hey Mom, I actually DEBONED it first!) heated up with a couple cans of cream of celery soup, and veggies plopped in there. Served over those crunchy Chinese noodles. If the flavor passed the test, the kids would warm my heart by saying, “Good mung, Dad!!”

Of course, I got leftover mung for lunch the next day at work. That was always wonderful. I’d plaster it with garlic powder the night before, and when I’d nuke it at work, inquisitive noses came a-sniffing:

“Hey, whatcha got there? Smells pretty good!”

“Mung. Leftover mung from last night.”

“What’s mung?”

“Well, today it’s Chicken Cockamamie.”

“Right. Oookay. What the heck is that?”

Then I’d explain. Many ran away screaming. But others listened intently, mulled the recipe about, and would often modify it out loud…

“Oooo. Maybe some peas would go nicely in there too.”

“Bet that would be good on mashed potatoes.”

“Sure,” I’d nod with a smile.

Payday would finally arrive and there’d be no need to make any mung for two, maybe three days. Then I could daydream about such delightful entrees like… oh I dunno, how about Bread Helper. Or Mashed Mung with gravy.

I knew one thing for sure… it wasn’t gonna be no Fricken Chicasee.

OK kids, pardon the slapstick, but this is still a funny one. Nor sure if they’re making mung or what…

A Grand(son’s) Story Suggestion

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When our grandsons spent the weekend with us, I was sometimes given a suggestion regarding a topic for Happy Friday!!! So lemme think… I believe this was in March of 1897… that one year the cannibals went to the grocery store for cake or something. Anyway, after the customary cartoons before bed, my Beautiful Girlfriend asked, “Whatchya gonna write about tonight?” “No idea,” I replied. Then Ollie piped up, “How about The Secret Habitat Of The Wumbledorg?” “Wumbledorg??” I asked.

OK… so this was the result.

The Secret Habitat Of The Wumbledorg

by Ken Hansen

It is not common knowledge, but as I’m sure none of you remember, there are things in this world which simply cannot be sold to potato ranchers unless it’s raining really hard and the knobs on the toaster are set to 92 just before the trees slide sideways through the grocery store while small children ask why this run-on sentence doesn’t stop; please stop now please.

Thank you.

Twelve of the things that can’t be sold to potato ranchers are accustomed to living in electric caves that zig and zag under many parts of New Jersey. In fact, Zelda Snorklefoot called all the toads in the Brinkle District to instruct them all to please quit barking at the new sand eating applesauce jars. When the toads received this request, all 17 of them quietly marched into the electric caves to complain to Brambo, King of Neeflehoppen. Of course, each toad carried his or her own Cosmic Crayon in case there were any large paper antelopes blocking their way. It seems that these creatures do NOT like being colored in any way, as they prefer their natural shade of Jellyfish Purple.

All but 29 of the toads lost their way to Brambo’s Palace. None of them had maps, and only 34 of them knew how to use GPS. That didn’t matter much anyway, because when you’re in an electric cave it’s difficult to get electronic devices to sneeze politely. No, they simply had to rely on the maps that were made in The Ancient Times by their ancestors. These maps were very valuable, because without them it was impossible to find out where the secret doors were clanging softly during all those very cronkulary exploding mustard songs.

Zelda tried to warn the toads before they left on their cave marching journey. In fact, she did her best to warm them musically with a song that sounded rather familiar, especially around this time of year.

All 58 of the toads smiled a gribbly smile as they fondly remembered the words…

“You better watch out!!

Better not cry!!

Better not pout!!

I’m tellin’ you why…

Wumbledorg is under

the ground!!”

Although most of the 82 toads had heard this sung to the tune of “Santa Clause Is Coming To Town” before, some of the youngsters were really greasy from playing on the sculpture of a minivan that was made almost entirely of fried chicken. So the youngsters cried and pouted on their way down inside the electric cave; not aware of the danger that could be in store for them. The other 136 toads tried to get them to “SSSHHHH!!!” but they were all insistent on throwing radios during the entire cave march.

After the 23rd radio was tossed, a small “binking” sound could be heard. As the group approached the corner of Cavern Boulevard and Stalagmite Street, the binking grew louder and louder. The closer they got, the louder the binking; until they arrived at a shimmering part of the cave wall that didn’t look anything like the rest of the ketchup castle.

Vornis The FlyBiter was the oldest toad, and therefore the most experienced in electric cave crayon cribbling. Despite his best efforts to keep the location a secret, he was horribly aware that young Skeebles was going to put his hand near the shimmering wall. Vornis shouted, “DON’T!! YOU’LL WAKE UP THE WUMBLEDORG!!”

Too late, unfortunately.

Suddenly the shimmering wall began to open as if someone was operating a floppy curtain while trying to ride a bicycle into an oatmeal box. As the wall opened, the binking sound got much louder, and now it was accompanied by flashing lights and streams of gold and silver confetti. All 251 toads stood motionless and wide-eyed as a strange creature with large, furry eyebrows and red pajamas with white polka dots came out dancing. “Oh great,” snorted Vornis. “You woke up the Wumbledorg. Now we’re in trouble.”

The Wumbledorg wasted no time. He smirked a smiggly smirk, and started chanting As Seen On TV commercials. “The fantastic Salad Exploder cannot be found in stores!! Order today for only $19.99 plus shipping and handling!! If you order RIGHT NOW, you can get 2 Salad Exploders for the price of one!! Order today!!” All 379 toads were enchanted at first, but after the 45th commercial, they all replied in unison, “Thanks, but no thanks.” They marched away from the Wumbledorg with their heads held high, and doing so prevented them from seeing the Magic Manhole they all fell into. It was OK though… each of the 759 toads could be heard shrieking with glee as they slid into the Magic Manhole, which of course was lined with insect flavored gummy bears.

The moral of this story, of course, is: never wiggle the shimmering wall or the Wumbledorg will try to sell you things you never knew you needed.

The End.

OK here’s something weirdly ha ha. Bad Lip Reading makes me laugh until I fall on the zucchini. Suggestion: turn on the closed captions ( CC ) while watching this video. Prepare to be tightly wrinkled.