Dear Earthlings,

At this time I would like to wish you a Very Happy Merry and and Extremely Joyful Wonderful. New Year. To you. In 2021. With sentence fragments. Batteries not included.

Thank you.

Holy MOLY 2020 was a very cronkulous year, no? Well it really was, because I just wrote it back there. In that previous sentence. Which was not a sentence fragment. Like I’m doing now. And if you’re not familiar with the word “cronkulous,” that’s likely due to the fact that I invented that silly word. You see, it’s like this: the German word for “sick” is “krank (pronounced cronk).” Therefore, since there was much blech and baroop and yukkity-poo during the year we cronkulously refer to as 2020, I took it upon myself to again take liberties with words and language in an effort to both amuse you and get you to agree with me that HOLY MOLY I’m kinda glad 2020 is not here anymore; in spite of my continued use of run-on sentences (which I don’t plan to discontinue from this silly column any time soon).

Very cronkulous indeed.

But now we are forging ahead into 2021, which for some reason I’m having difficulty typing. I keep typing 20201 and having to backspace to correct it to 2021, but that’s no fault of yours. A new year will hopefully bring relief from this deadly virus; and perhaps will also bring a few rays of sunshine into an otherwise cronkulous atmosphere of government barfwater and complete disregard for scientific yodeling and other forms of vertical Zoom sessions.

It is therefore in the spirit of greatly remarkable (and hopefully NOT cronkulous) personal betterment that I inflict upon all of you some of my New Year’s Resolutions for 2021. Please keep in mind that I may or may not achieve these lofty goals, but I will state them nonetheless, with hopes that I either succeed in my improvement endeavors or just go hide behind the compost pile until 2024. So without further ado, here are some of my resolutions.

1) I hereby proclaim that I will announce the declaration of my intent to disclose and therefore publicize communications to reveal and make known that which I shall divulge in a public manner. In other words, I’m gonna say stuff to people. Out loud. Nice things only.

*7) Remember that one thing I was gonna do the other day and I completely forgot my cat ate the little pieces of cheese I left lying on the counter? Neither do I. Sheesh, I wish I could find my electric crayon sharpener!!

H) There’s gonna be a reckoning around our house, I promise!! The dishes will be taught to wash themselves and crawl back into the cupboard at the snap of my fingers. You don’t believe me? Well you just wait!! I’ll call you when they start stacking up, and you can help me with the cleaning overload stinky surprise!! That oughta teach us!!

9x) One project I’ve never started and also never wanted to pursue is to learn how to sing Don McLean’s famous song, “American Pie” in reverse, and also in Swahili. Should be very flatulent!

Q@) What the HECK is that digital clock doing in the pantry again?? Doesn’t it know neither the potatoes, nor the flour, nor the macaroni have any idea of how to tell what their countries of origin are? Very indisputable. Very indisputable indeed!!

5i) Someone stole my pickled herring!!! Oh man, this is terrible. It was right there last night when I awoke at 3:15 AM to go tinkle and then I went on the hunt for a snack. And yes, of course I washed my hands!! Oh wait, it’s on the other shelf in the fridge. WHEW!!

Well, perhaps you all get the idea by now. All my New Year’s resolutions are extraordinary and completely disreputable, and will only serve to enhance my reputation as a rapscallion. However, one resolution I really do embrace each and every year is this: try to do better. And to complement that idea, I’ll throw in another: treat every living creature with kindness and love.

And yes, that includes all of YOU.

I sincerely hope 2021 brings good fortune to you and your loved ones. Hey, it’s gotta be better than 2020, right?

On the other hand, there was George and Gracie…

Dear Delightful Human People,

If you’ve been reading “Happy Friday!!!” for as long as I’ve been writing it, please accept my apology because I never meant to harm anyone; and if I’ve made you smile once or twice I consider that my privilege and I hope to continue provoking smiles and perhaps even laughter by writing silly and sometimes not so silly things until Herbert, my pet fountain pen, can no longer hit the keys of my computer keyboard thing to write all the things that are stuffed into a run-on sentence that is way too long.

Whew!

So yeah, like if you’ve been reading this silly thing for more than a year, then perhaps you know that this time of year inspires me to issue a mandate to all mankind regarding the items I expect to receive during the Holiday season. Perhaps you may find it a bit greedy of me to demand that I be showered with gifts; but that’s OK, because as long as everyone gets me everything I’m about to list there will be no need to worry about the safety of the sawdust piles that lurk in the ditches of my sock drawer.

Or something.

Very well then. I shall now commence to issue the list of things I’m sure all of you will agree are required for me to receive this year.

A) Please send 347 fifty gallon containers of that new “Corona Oh No” juice I saw on TV during my dream last Wednesday. I guess it works really well; and what you do is pump up the included spray canister and zap anyone who’s not wearing a mask when they come near you. It really gets their attention and has the added benefit of glowing in the dark so others will be alerted when the lights go out.

G1) I’m definitely gonna need some new battery operated spice jars. My current ones are unreliable, and yesterday my Lovely Wife complained greatly when our breakfast had too much oregano in the oatmeal. I’d like to stay married, so please make sure I get the new kind with the solar amplification modules.

11) As you all know, COVID has most restaurants basically only doing take out these days. I like take out. However, I don’t understand why some of my favorites don’t show up on take out menus. I mean, you can’t even get regular stuff like sardine sandwiches, Soup on a Stick, or even Chicken Cockamamie. What is this world coming to??

&) This year I’ll need many more bags of potato chips please. Yes, I know the ones from last year are all stacked neatly in my garage; but in my professional opinion, there’s simply no such thing as too many potato chips. What? Why didn’t I eat the old ones? Do you know how difficult it is to stack bags of potato chips 14 high and have the pile be presentable?? Sheesh!!

Red) Oh yes, I’ll need you to special order me some Peter Pumpernickel’s Pickled Herring Pot Pies. That brand is the very best, you see. Of course, if you can’t find those, I’ll settle for Oscar Olafsen’s Chocolate Covered Oyster Candies. Mmmmmm those are disgusting.

z5) OH WOW!! I remember where I left the spare tire for my minivan!! Hope that guy doesn’t mind me driving through his cornfield again…

4b) Just saw an ad in the paper!! The new X-Box with the power assist cheese slicer is on sale this week for a mere $376.29 at all local mattress stores!! Get one today!! Oh and get me one too!! And what’s up with all these extra exclamation points?? Oh and now it’s extra question marks?? What the heck!?!?!?!

Tell you what: instead of wracking your brain trying to figure out what to get for me; I’ll make it very simple: just sell all your stuff and bring me the money.

Thank you.

OK, that should keep you all busy for a few microseconds. But seriously folks, all I really want is the same old thing I’ve always wanted for every Holiday I can remember. I just want Peace, Love, and Kindness to be the guiding principles for all of us on the planet. And of course that means that we must all treat our dear Mother Nature with Love and Respect too. Dunno about you, but at our house we are blessed in so many ways. We try to give back, and hope that if any of you out there can afford it that you would please give to charities or somehow help those in need.

And as always, if you’ve actually read this far, thank you for being you. And please remember that it’s always better to be you than for you to be me, and although you can count to it, eight is a word.

Und now we go to da Grampy cartoon awreddy

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 2^nd 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 21^st 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 47^th 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…

Hello Dearest Snapping Turtle Ticklers,

I know this time of year brings out the unique extraterrestrial sandwich making abilities of all the people I’ve never met. After all, another year is coming to a close, and that of course means that a new year will soon be shoving itself under the doorjamb with increasing intensity during the Artificial Aurora Activation, building great suspense as to what the new year may hold in store for us while the cat dashes to the refrigerator for another tall, refreshing glass of Onion Powder Surprise (“…wow!! This tastes like onion powder!! What a surprise!!) and yet another run-on yet very silly sentence makes it way to the interwebs for unsuspecting Chocolate Clickers to read while sipping Bark Noodle Tea.

Yes, I think so.

As the Holidays wind down to a dull roar, this is the time for the often customary promises to be uttered aloud, but sometimes not uttered at all; and these are heavily intensified in order to cajole our brains into thinking that we can actually improve ourselves somehow by creating lofty goals to which we can aspire and hopefully make something better either inside or outside of us.

Huh??

You know, New Year’s Resolutions.

Yes, have some.

OK, I will. Here are some of the revulsions I may or may not be interested in spraying on my Jinkle Toast during the coming year. I must warn the reader in advance: some of these New Year’s Resonations may cause involuntary snorking and / or ha ha crinkling. In other words, I hope they give you a smile.

Therefore and with Great Fanfare, I Hereby Unnecessarily Capitalize The Announcement of My New Year’s Resuscitations For 2019:

R) I hereby promise to try to attempt to take a whack at an effort to strive for an undertaking; and maybe even 7 of those. Attempts. Tries. Maybe.

4) My body fat index has reached 947% !!! OH MY!!! Maybe I need to enjoy fewer Lard Licking Contests!! What do you mean you’re not supposed to eat the bacon grease?? And… no!!! No more Olive Oil Milkshakes made with 100% heavy whipping cream?? Good Gravy!!! How will I survive??? Oh yeah… fruits and vegetables. Oh yes, and lean proteins. More from plants than animals. Yes. Thank you.

G!) As I sit here typing, I realize that I could combine this finger flinging activity with something more aerobic like perhaps hang gliding or bungee cord plunking. I often try with little success to perform bungee cord concerts, but the notes all seem to come out the same. Perhaps the hang gliding bungee cord concerts will give me a new perspective on what it really means to be more like my favorite super hero, Eggplant Man. Um… never mind. Erase this one. Besides, I can’t find my flashlight.

#X) It seems that every year, all I really want to improve is my view of the TV. Please move a little more to the east while we’re binge-watching Vikings or other any of those other outer space adventure series.

U*) After much consideration, I’ve decided to finally come to terms with my new illness: Serial Compulsive Recreational Insect Preparatory Tasting (S.C.R.I.P.T.) Disorder. Yes, Preparatory Tasting… all I wanted to do was find out what an insect tastes like before I decide whether to harvest them for our next social gathering. I’ve learned the hard way that most bugs simply are not delicious, and many object to being tasted. For example, stinkbugs secrete a very nasty bad smell ocka pitoo when being being touched by my tasting tongue. And bees and wasps… well, forget about it!! I’m seeking treatment; but each time I visit the S.C.R.I.P.T doctor I have to wait for 12 minutes for her to stop laughing.

And finally…

1!) My real New Year’s Revolution is always pretty much the same: try to do better. Lord knows I still have much to learn, and I truly hope I can remain teachable in this fascinating journey of uncertainty we call Life.

In the meantime, I’d like to wish you all a Very Happy New Year, and may all your nostrils be free of obstructions; especially when you’re sniffing the delicious lasagna I’ll be making on New Year’s Day.

Peace, Love, and Hugs to You All,

Kenny

WARNING!!  THE FOLLOWING STORM IS LACED WITH LARGE DOSES OF
PURE NONSENSE.  IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO ASSIMILATE SUCH COMPLETE
SILLINESS, DISCARD THIS DOCUMENT IMMEDIATELY, IF NOT SOONER.
*************************************************************

Many of you may know this already, but I’ll say it again anyhow.  I am married.  Not only that, I married The Most Beautiful Woman In The Universe (FYI: all other women are The Second Most Beautiful), and we are very happy. This horrible marriage event occurred 44 years ago; and if we make it till August 21 it will be 45 years!! Is that crompulary or what?? We are best friends, and even love each other enough to smooch and all that other married people stuff. There appears to be no cure for our amplification.

So, on or about August 21, the date of our welding happen thing, we will probably go on our annual honeymoon. This reminds me of one of my favorite honeymoon outings at 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 want) for a room, dinner and breakfast for two, taxes and tips all included in the bill.  Very nice.

Back in 1876, or perhaps it was another year, I don’t know, I had booked a Ranch Room 22 years in advance, as a surprise.  Finally the big day arrived.  There we were, in the 1971 Maverick we never owned, galumping 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 ya shoor youbetcha by golly dere (dey are NOT yoopers dere… I just trew dat in for da halibut).

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 ’83.  The hotel was everything we never 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 those famous 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 arriving 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 chained to huge iron pilings.  To our amazement, that very moment they were sold into slavery and commissioned to teach giant 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,” Kathy asked.

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

Kathy 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 slide-in place, but that didn’t dampen my moisture.  I ordered fill-it magnum, and Kathy 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, Kathy’s mood had been visibly altered.  She gazed at me longingly, as if I was the next course, then began nibbling 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 imitation peppermint rice filled avocado pebble crunch with boat scrapings and black mold filter 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 the last upheaval; after which they finally shoved us into the room and slammed the room shut on us.  We laughed most jolly and tried to reach the pondscum fireplace with our bellies dragging on the floor, splinters in our garments and happy broken belt loops.  Needless to say, Kathy did the napkin-nibbling 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 some other anniversary.  Until then, please deform all your friends and neighbors.  Their armpit hair, after all, will soon be converted into satellite receivers.  Now please pass those hot dogs!!

Oh… one last thing:  it has occurred to me that because I am older than most compost, many of you have never heard of nor seen a “Little LuLu” cartoon.  Well here’s one from 1945…

Please allow me to greet your face and hands with a very Happy 2018; and may all your wishes be sold to Smoked Fish Merchants (S.F.M.) in trade for Used Flip Flops (U.F.F.) while numerous soft yet Bristly Sock Monsters (B.S.M.) chew rapidly during the Great Raisin Gathering (G.R.G.) at the 134^th annual Anonymous Snack Snarfers Hand Or Leg Egg Slappers (A.S.S.H.O… wait a minute!! No no… not gonna do that) chamber pot tossing competition.

So here I am, following my 1^st annual run-on sentence with a (late) report what my New Year’s Revolutions for 2018 very well might be. I’m reporting these revolutions in a tardy manner because I simply had to pay tribute to Dick Orkin, the creator of “Chickenman” who passed away last week. And also, in addition, I say to you that these “might be,” my New Year’s Revolutions because I am unreasonably certain that I’m not likely to dig up enough used crayons to change the climate in St. Petersburg, Florida.

My really true and uncrompulated New Year’s Revolution has actually been the same every year for the last couple decades: Try to do better. But if I were to make new revolutions, they “might” go something like this:

A. I hereby resolve not to ever use superfluous exclamation points!! I mean, hey, that’s the least a person can do!!! Think about it!!!! So many people emphasize way too much with exclamation points!!!!! This rather diminishes the effect of using any exclamation points at all!!!!!! Don’t you think so?!?!?!?!?!?

U. My 14^th resolution is to avoid using imaginary words that only I can infliborize. Sure, I sometimes use nonsense words for the sheer bagnaffley horkle tones of the contersneffeck. I probably amuse myself more than others with this style of vasherbinking, so perhaps I will cease and desist with the silly words awreddy.

$. Procrastination has always been a lingering hobby of my cat and other members of my corn field. Therefore, I herewith intend to stop procrastinating either today or tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll keep putting off the procrastination until I can’t avoid procrastinating any longer. Or maybe I could delegate my efforts to someone who can postpone them indefinitely. I’m not exactly sure. If one of you has any suggestions, please e-mail them to my garage and I’ll try to read them one of these days.

X12. Have you seen my new socks?? You know, the ones with the fancy frog nostril prints all over them. They really keep my toes happy.

M6. Please erase resolution “U.” above. I do apologize (no, really I don’t), but I am very fond of writing various ibblesnick tenterdoodles. My professional opinion is that with all the horrible things in our past and present world, a little silliness can be a very good stress relief cabbagehamper.

And finally:

O!2!: I plan to do my best to spread Peace, Love, and Hugs to everyone in the Universe. Of course, some people don’t want hugs. That’s OK, I will Love them anyway. And some people don’t want Love, but I will Pray for them whether they like it or not. And some people don’t even want Peace, and I will Pray for them even more. Now don’t get me wrong… even though the People Upstairs tell me I must Love EVERYONE, doesn’t mean I’m gonna like everyone. So I will beam Prayers of Love and Peace to the people who insist on being nasty; but it ain’t too likely I’ll be inviting them for dinner anytime soon.

Alrighty then. That’s what came out of my brain today for the Happy Friday!!! New Year’s Revolution thing. If you have made any, please don’t bonk yourselves or call yourselves bad names for coming up short.

All we can do is try.

Now let’s all scream our lungs out while we sing along with these “revolutionary” guys.

Well Boys and Girls, it’s been awhile since I announced My Retirement Countdown In Superfluous Capital Letters and Expensive, Imported Clarified Butter Catapults that not Only Fling Large Amounts Of Butter in ALL directions, but also find New Meaning in Donated Capillary Floss Finding Missions which of course have never been discovered yet so please let’s not talk about those.

Thank You.

Yes, it’s that time again which happens pretty much every day I’m at work: I reflect upon the number of years, months and days I shall have to wait before the Great Retirement Lever is pulled with glee, sending balloons filled with sand over the rails of highway bridges that traverse the El Flampo River in the southeastern corners of Northern New Mashpottle.

In fact, today at the movies we saw the preview for a flick that will be released on March 2; the day after my belly button was built. As the release date was announced, I leaned toward my Beautiful Girlfriend’s Beautiful Ear and whispered unto her, “when that movie comes out I’ll have 1 year, 11 months, and 29 days till I retire!!” She nodded about 723 times in the course of twelve seconds, which caused her cranium to fly about with great speed and camouflage. In other words, she kinda grunted as if to say, “ya, OK… awright awreddy!!”

She may have heard the countdown a few thousand times.

It’s getting closer… and the more I announce the years, months, and days, the more the years, months, and days are announced by me. This is the way of my talking face parts. At work, I’ve found myself saying things like, “yes, these computers are leased, and everything needs to be returned when the lease expires. The lease is for 4 years. However, in 2 years, 5 months, and 1 day, I will not care about such things. But hey, who’s counting??” “Sounds like maybe YOU are…” my friends say with a smirk. Then they show their happiness for me by throwing expired pudding on my shoes and writing funny sayings on top of my eyebrows with markers.

Feels like it did when I was halfway through my tour in the Air Force. I am a “Vietnam Era Veteran,” which means I received much of the benefits of having served during that time; such as the GI Bill which paid for my college. Also got a VA loan that enabled us to buy our home. I served stateside for my entire tour, so the sacrifices I made for our country were minimal indeed compared to many who lost life and / or limb. But when in the Air Force, your life belongs to your Uncle (Sam), and most of us knew our “getting out” countdown by heart.

These days, I cheat because I have an app that plops the countdown on the screen of my work computer when it boots up every morning. Sometimes it gives me hope, other times it makes me want to smear jellyfish on my sandwich at 2:37 AM just to relieve the stress of working all the time; and I work on computers and all the people in our department who know what they’re doing are either leaving the company for another job or retiring; and that leaves the rest of us holding the bag full of slimy technological marshmallow residue that will break at a moment’s notice and then people like me have to figure out who’s still here and can fix this crap and HOLY COW everybody is freaking out because they can’t print their reports and their screens are oozing melted cheese while internally there is purple smoke and Oh Jeez this is no fun anymore.

HOWEVER… in 2 years, 5 months, and 1 day, I won’t care AT ALL about slimy marshmallow residual technology.

I’m really glad it’s Friday.

How’s this for a diversion?

Thank you all for allowing this work week to be so condribular and racknerfloven. It was a Very BIG ONE; and well you all know what THAT means, right? OK, maybe you just don’t know. Therefore, I must tell you: THAT means that my Beautiful Girlfriend and I HAD to go see Spider-Man at the Movie House to force ourselves to enjoy a marvelously brain flushing evening; because all day long this week I was shrieking silently and hoping that now that Friday Eve had arrived perhaps some Big Screen Happy Time would allow the stress crinkles to drip out of my cerebral cortex while tiny aluminum duck sandals renewed their strong scents of delirium with liberty and justice for all.

In spite of that terrible and confusing run-on sentence, please remind me to never again drink soda just before going to the movies. I mean, the Spider-Man idea was one of those impromptu “hey, wanna go see Spider-Man?” things where we both were aware that it would soon leave the big screen in our neck of the woods; and even if our woods were neckless, we’d still miss seeing the movie in the theater and holy marzooka, we really love going to a flick because it’s such a wonderful way for us to escape for a couple hours with miniature Snickers bars that cost too much but who really cares because hey, we’re at the movies and they use such naughty enticements to remove our dollars in large tortellini battery powered radish flossings.

So there I was, pretending to be in control of all my faculties and functions, when after about 4/12ths of the movie had played I learned that my bladder would not listen to my inaudible screams of “NO!! I DO NOT WISH TO PEE!!” This forced me to politely leave the movie room place and run with great zoomophone to the nearest vestibule, deposit some used Cherry Pepsi into the appropriate flushmobile, then briskly (but thoroughly) wash my hand-hand-fingers-palms (I like to hold my Honey’s hand during the movie you see); then zoom back with great runophone to the movie door thing and quickly but quietly interrupt several people’s line of sight for approximately 12.47 milliseconds each while grabbing again my seat of movie viewing oh boy I’m glad I ran in the halls like a wild man but oh wow I didn’t miss much and that is so cool.

If you’ve ever been to a Marvel movie, you are likely aware that after the movie there are credits that roll past on the screen. What?? ALL movies do that?? Oh. Well Marvel movies are more differenter like, you know, because they like, you know, have these little… um… let’s call them “short scenes of actors and such” doing some sort of like, related or like, not related Movie Monkey Business that are strategically placed between some of the credits and like, if you fly out of the theater after the movie is “over” then you like, miss all these totally non-crapulous scenes (my goodest usaging of English and punctuation back there).

We saw the first short scene thingamabobber and that was nice… but hey guess what?? I HAD TO PEE AGAIN!! Both of us were guessing there was one more at the VERY END of the credits and whatnot, but just to be sure I asked the cleanup crew if there was another scene. They said, “yes, you’ll like it!!” And I said, “THEY NEED TO HURRY UP BECAUSE I GOTTA PEE!!!” Then they laughed and threw all their garbage in my general direction but no not really but holy flazzletran I was not comfortable.

After the last scene, I demonstrated to my Lovely Girlfriend Who Allowed Me To Marry Her that this old man can still sprint when personal safety or personal holy flazzletran is at stake.

The moral of the story: please threaten to bite my elbows if I think soda before a 2 hour, 13 minute movie is a good idea.

Thank You And Please Try To Be Happy Even When The Stress Wants To Harm You.

Oh, and tell the guy who wrote this to leave the stinkin’ shift key alone.

P.S.: We enjoyed the movie very much; and I no longer wish to cram large scraps of lumber into my nostrils.

For this week’s video, I found an old cartoon depicting movie stars who were around during the Great Depression.  Recognize any?

Dear Beautiful Ones,

Some of you remember that around this time of year, I carefully urge everyone who might read this to drop whatever it is they are doing and run (and I do mean run) (no cars, that’s cheating) down to the nearest Holy Mackerel This Is Expensive Junk store and fulfill my annual need for material goods that either enhance my quality of life or are merely amusing or perhaps just delicious and please believe me, this sentence is not only way too long but I’m using all these extra words to let you all know just how serious this really is.

Really.

Those who know me understand that I’m an old tree-hugger peacenik hippie kind of guy who really has been “blessed” (too much stuff is not necessarily a blessing) with more stuff than I’ll ever really need. However, I am a spoiled rotten American, which means that Greed is my middle name and I have every right to insist that I get what I deserve. Therefore, in the spirit of all the Holiday Commercials That Are Trying To Sell Us Even More Stuff Than Any Of Us Will Ever Need, I hereby lay down my list of Holiday Requirements for 2016.

M) This one is very simple: please have Santa come every day and top off my gas tank on our minivan. I know that sometimes this is inconvenient; but that doesn’t matter. I have important places to go, you see.

x9) Please stop squeaking that silly dog toy. The dog is sleeping anyway and all you’re doing is trying to wake up the baby. Don’t you understand that I already had the chicken pops? Would you like a hot chocolate?

R4) I really need a new Happy Barber Poultry Styling Kit. I’ve been practicing the art of making really cool, fashionable, and yes, noise reducing Chicken and Turkey Haircuts. I call them haircuts because if I start saying anything about feather cuts (which is what really would be cut), they start running through my house and hiding all the remote controls. Not very often I get the chance to do some feather styling, but just in case I need to be prepared.

GL12) Before Jangulary 75^th please get one of those cardboard Interstellar Mailing Tube things. I hope to send more messages to my friends in the Skoldern Galaxy, Sector 23 VX but I’ll need a much larger sling shot this year for launching the aforementioned Intergalactic Sailing Lube things. Nobody can really do much Interstellar Mailing without Intergalactic Sailing Lube, now can they??

Y5) I need a new app that will hasten my retirement while building my savings to an enormous level. Once my retirement begins, this app will slow the days down so they last much longer. I’m pretty sure someone is working on this in either Saskatchewan or perhaps Bermuda. Make sure they send me the evaluation copy with a lifetime free trial.

And finally,

*^%) I can’t seem to get my cat to have dinner ready for us when we get home from a hard day at the Doorknob Mines. Doesn’t he know that our meager $.17 / hr. is what’s bringing home the cardboard disguised as bacon? The least he could do for us is try to at least get some take out at the local Skoldern Galaxy Surprise Buffet or something. Sheesh!!

OK. That’s enough Material Madness from the likes of me. Just please make sure it all happens; because what I really want is that all of you and yours have a Happy Merry and a Joyful Wonderful, and that you forget to sneeze in each others’ eggnog while zipping happily through the forest on the brand new, diesel / solar powered cyber rocket that I’m pretty sure you bought for me already.

You’re so nice!!

I believe my wife is acquiring super powers. Either that or she has some secret agenda to be on this Earth way longer than me; I’m just not sure.

For example, this past February, she had a titanium knee installed. The doctor says it will last 20 to 30 years, and then she can get a new one. Titanium is very strong stuff, so it’s probably bullet proof. See where I’m going with this? I mean, I have my original knees. No titanium for me; just boring, brittle, calcium phosphate. Pretty darn sure they are *NOT * bullet proof. But at least the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk could make bread with them…

Feee! Foe! Fum! Fie!!

I smell the blood of a Norwegian guy.

Be he live or be he dead,

I’ll grind his bones to make my bread.

See what I mean? That giant dude won’t be grinding no stinkin’ titanium for his bread, now will he?? Unless, of course, he likes that nice metallic flavor in his mouth. Dunno about you, but I only get that when something really scares me; and it is not very delicious. So my Beautiful Bionic Girlfriend will be safe if there are ever any bone crunching giants roaming around.

OK.

So then, she goes to renew her driver’s license, right? It’s been awhile since her last eye exam; so first she goes to the eye doctor. She saw what I went through earlier this year. Like a dummy, I went to the drivers license house before having my eyes checked. I flunked the stinkin’ vision test. First time in my living life I ever needed actual prescription type glasses. I was bummed. The eye doctor told me that he could probably write me an excuse saying I passed the basic requirements (my eyes are not too bad… yet) but I said, “no, I’d rather play by the rules.” He smiled, and $320 later I had glasses that enabled me to pass the vision test.

OK.

So she calls me after her appointment, and I can tell by her tone that she’s rather annoyed. “The doctor says I have cadillacs,” she said. Well sheesh… she is obviously holding out on me (like with the Bionic Woman Knee thing) because all these years I thought she was driving a Toyota. Never heard of anyone having little cars in their eyes. “I’m going to need surgery,” she grumbled. “Right,” I’m thinking to myself. “More Bionic Woman stuff. First it’s the knee, now she’s having her optic luxury cars replaced.”

I remember gazing into her beautiful eyes when we were first dating, and I noticed a tiny spot on her left pupil. “You have a hole in your eye,” I used to say, just to tease her a bit. Well now I know what that was all about, don’t I?? She’s been enjoying micro-miniature luxury cars in there without my knowledge!! Must be they are convertibles. Probably what the eyelids are all about.

Well, I need to be less afraid of all this Bionic Woman stuff and be grateful that we have the medical technology to keep my Beautiful Honey Pie well. As for me, I don’t have any replacement parts yet. However, I’m pretty good with a soldering iron; and I have some power tools in the garage I can use for experiments.

Some day.

Maybe.

OK.

So I’m not sure what’s going on with these eyeball automobiles.  But when I went hunting for a “crazy car cartoon” I found this: