If you live in Michigan, you’ve been
enjoying a remarkably mild winter this week month of the year time
day. I can offer a simple explanation for this constabulary
indigestion: I threw coat hangers at the sun all last week. Yep, I
threatened the sun within an inch of its life. Much yelling and
flinging, yelling and flinging. When you embark upon such an
ambitious goal, it’s very important to be loud and repetitious. As
you can see it paid off. Now we can all be happy that the sun will
listen to me when I shout.
My beautiful girlfriend, Zonikula, was
completely compressed at my perforation. I know this to be true
because she would often fling open the door and shout, “boy, you’re
really something, aren’t you??” during some of my
sun training routines. At this point I would look toward her and
smile, and she would then say a few more words while shaking her
head. Of course I took that to mean, “oh, the poor sun has no idea
what it’s up against with this hubby of mine.”
She is so proud of me.
Disfortunately, however, the weather
cribbled from Holy Moly Cold to What The Hoochie?? Warm. This of
course brought Very Big Rain and Very Fast Snow Melt, which of course
brought water into our basement and many other armpit caverns. Roads
have been washed away, buildings badly damaged, Too Much Warming Too
Darn Fast. I very much apologize to my friends and all those whom
I’ve never met for my meterological coat hanger amplification.
I will do some fancy dancing tomorrow
in an effort to make Nice Weekend Weather.
You see, it’s rather important to me
that we have nice weather this weekend because I plan to get off my
butt and rent a blanex. I have been putting it off way too long; I
need to recover the hammer sand that keeps purging my swamp honkles.
The window of opportunity is very gummy and full of decomposing
marble trays; so if I don’t get this done before the tingly science
filters arrive I’m sure I’ll be living in the boathouse.
I mean seriously, do you ever expect
the train to stop on time? Nobody sees that far. Please, just
resimplify twenty three percent of your milktoast warblers and bark
moonly at the wild. After all, there’s really no certainty that
Calvin the Edible Plastic Spoon Vendor will be able to click in the
parking lot for more than 12 milliseconds.
So my friends, you can obviously confer
that changing the weather is easier than pushing a large oak
toothpick into a deliciously prepared cast iron jelly donut. If you
ever have any doubts as to the antiquity of my animation, please
amplify your pencil sharpener with short, regular spritzes of vinegar
and moose dust.
If none of those calibrations deplete your catatonic sofa concerto, simply stuff your mouth full of corn bread and sing at least 3 verses of “The Rhyming Song.”
Please enjoy the clam sandwiches currently available at the Old New Dehli Deli. You will find the sam clandwiches right next to the Belly Jellies, in the frinkle sauce department of a Kolibbik store near you.
You may qualify for a package of used cheese. Please do not write to the following address to see if you have entered your name in the North American Bilge Experience (NABE):
Log Turner Contest
24Cx Bugsnot Blvd.
Chiclet, MI 44404
Please call 1-800-555-1212 for the number. Ask for Phlegm.
Be advised that all nickels will be collected by a rodent during the coming drainy season. Do not worry about any plugged drains, for as we all know if a plain gets drugged there are more than enough socks to prevent the chafing. Hey!! What’s that gourd doing with the cat food now??
Now of course you can be happy to know that I have more paper for sale than ever before. Some of it is useful. If you want some, send $23.70 in dickels and nimes to my pet dirt clump over there in the hedgerow. Upon receiving the money, I will send you your 43 tons of compressed paper. Please make sure the car is not in the garage that day.
If any of this makes sense to you, make sure you contact your local Hamper Salesman by July 27, 2019 . There are also community resources on which you can rely, such as the Cribbled Office Of Pie Stashers (COOPS) and the Ceramic Octagon Plucking Society (COPS). Neither of these entities will run to your aid. Therefore, if you understand any of what has been written heretofore, you are basically toast.
Enjoy toast with all your might. Remember, the toast you crave may be on loan.
Happy Bortinkulars to you, and may the sand never fly into your cereal.
My eyes are lamps,
Kebbic G. Fefflewonk
A.K.A. Harvey Ticknoodle
P.S.: Thank you for changing the tire leggings last night. I’m not sure my car would have tolerated another month of “swish – swish KABOOM!!”
As the title of this story may or may
not indicate, our grandsons are visiting this weekend; and my duty of
making up a very silly story is being fulfilled with large buckets of
animal crackers lightly seasoned with crayon shavings and Captain
Kaboom Dust Flavored Saxophone Sauce, rolled into a run-on sentence
that of course invites all the truly masculine garbage cans to
disguise themselves as tiny triangular toaster tables that shimmer in
the darkness of our new Radio Ranch Wiggle Worms.
Yes.
Perhaps none of you have often been
asked, “what do you think the most delicious color of the alphabet
sounds like??” I never have been asked that either, so of course
my very first answer I never supplied was, “Snurch Lip Surprise!!”
After saying that out loud for the 347th time, nobody
will ever again ask me what time the Peanut M&Ms will be flying
in from Antarctica. After all, while Penguin Pete and Silvia Seal
drive their go carts to the laundromat, we all will be learning new
recipes for Shrimp On The Half Shell and maybe even Chopped Cat Food
Surprise.
Mmmm Chopped Half Shrimp Shell Cat
Surprise!! Remember the good old days when we stored that in the
basement for 23 weeks? Oh my, the smell was bigger than a bag of
toast that’s been sleeping in the sewer with all the other fizzy,
candy coated ice cream handle bar polishing brushes. I never
realized just how much shampoo would be wasted on such a gigantic
pile of paper when it explodes out of the sock drawer!! My socks
cried for days after powdered sawdust was added to the salad
dressing. I was finally able to receive their radio lunches in a
less than dignified way… all I had to do was tilt my head back and
watch the moths sharpen their antlers on the ceiling fan.
These days, life is much more gribbly,
and what I mean by that is we all have to put pudding in a friend’s
shoes before they leave on a long trip. This will allow them to
squint while they walk, and each step will be a squishy adventure.
Who would have ever discovered that lawn ornaments could learn to
play hockey with soup ladles? It just proves that we can always use
a nice refreshing cup of shoelace extract to help us make friends
with all those crazy grasshoppers that hang around at Walmart. Why
else would those happy railroad clowns hide their flashlights?
Everybody knows that green toilet paper makes the very best
substitute for parsley flakes when nobody’s looking. Yes, those
removable elbow shields you sold me came in very handy during my last
trial run in the “Slide Until You Stink Competition.”
In closing, I’d very much like to make
an important announcement.
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.
Here we are again, the grandsons are at our house, it’s late outside, and cartoons are done. Time for the youngsters to hit the hay, and if the hay doesn’t cry too loudly or hurt too badly, then Ollie and Gabe might be able to get some sleep. The hay may not like being hit you see. Not sure if anyone has ever asked. Anyway… teeth are brushed, grandsons are settled in for the night.
“Good night you guys,” I say to both.
“Will you write us a story?” asked Gabe.
“What should I write about?” I queried.
“Ollie,” said Gabe, “what should Papa write about?”
“Well it’s gonna be Hallowe’en soon…” I offered.
“Yeah,” says Ollie, “write a funny Hallowe’en story.”
Well I don’t know about funny, but I do know how to write very silly things. So here goes:
I think this Hallowe’en should be extra special. Ollie could maybe dress up like a vacuum cleaner, and Gabe could be an electric train set. No… that won’t work; we’d have to have very long power cords so they wouldn’t be able to go very far. Perhaps Gabe could be a corn stalk and Ollie could be a bean pod. Or maybe we could color them both green and they could go as two peas without a pod!!
Or not…
I know!! They could just wear their regular costumes, but we could go trick or treating in that one neighborhood where the only treats you get are pepperoni and venison jerky. I believe that’s in the Upper Peninsula of Italy if I’m not mistaken. On the other hand, we could stay local and when we get to people’s houses we could sing “How Much Is That Turkey In The Window” and ask for drumsticks and wings. We could keep the gravy in our pockets… nothing is more satisfying that dipping a turkey wing in your gravy pocket just before a nice nibbling session.
The new Hallowe’en tradition that never happened is the truly awesome practice of yodeling with a mouthful of chocolate milk. This is done by the full moon while walking between houses during trick or treating. If you are actually able to do this it sounds like a strange gargling noise. Try to keep the chocolate milk in your mouth while you walk, we wouldn’t want the werewolves to slip and slide on the milk trail.
My costume will probably be… um… I dunno… how’s about I dress up like a raisin tree. You know, a tree that is in full bloom with raisins. Yes, I know there’s no such thing as a raisin tree; but walking around makes me hungry and when we go trick or treating I’ll be able to pick the raisins off my costume and eat them with my face and hands.
Finally, when we all get back home we’ll need to dump out your trick or treat bags to count how many pieces of turkey venison pepperoni jerky you get. We’ll also need to make sure that if you get any chocolate by mistake, that I take them and quickly plop them into my gravy pockets so I can munch on them later.
If you don’t like any of these ideas, I suppose we could just go regular trick or treating and just get a bunch of candy and stuff.
Now that you have been eating all those bug flavored crayons, please remember to wash the tree cups with yellow potato hair before Santa starts singing rodeo songs again. You probably know by now that only really good children will get spaghetti with baseballs for dinner. That’s exactly why I have gone to the Coconut Store for a fresh batch of pencil slime.
Sometimes I can see through walls!! Other times, I walk right into them. It all depends on whether they are made of glass or gravy. The gravy can be scraped off with a Radio Rake and used to make a very yummy Chocolate Pudding Pot Pie. Just add a few handfuls of ice crackers and about 3 quarts of raisin skins and you’ve got yourself a brand new bag of fluffy pajamas. This is best served in a steaming hot squid basket just before the full moon drops its corn dust in the hall closet.
All joking aside, I really need to ask you both an important question: why do you keep asking the toaster where the cat is hiding his new computer?? Don’t you know that toasters will make a horrible clanging noise when they fall out of bed?? Do you really think the cat will use his computer to draw up plans to make another burping shed? I mean, I don’t even know why people have to use the shed for burping… you can burp just about anywhere these days. Just always remember to be polite after you burp and say, “more soda please.”
Now we get to the part where I issue you your work assignments. After all, there is much to be done around here. Always remember that doing chores with a smile on your face requires you to be both quick and slimy at the same time. Chores include mud making (we need 372 pounds for the upcoming Snork Festival), telling stories to the lawn tractor, and on Tuesdays we also need someone to grease the bath mats. Oh, and not to forget: we need someone to wash, dry, and fold all the firewood before we plant it in the seaweed sauce for next year’s log harvest.
Very well then. As you can see, the sky will turn purple with pink polka dots shortly after we put the macaroni and cheese in our pillows. New dust lanterns will walk to school together to learn about ketchup farming in New Norkulus. The cream cheese I put in my shoes will give my ankles great happiness; and I can’t wait to tell them how silly they looked at Harmonica Harry’s liquid television store. Snakes will give more money than ever before to all the owners of cellphone activated minnow traps in Northern Michigan.
I like you very much, and I’m glad we don’t have to argue over that last piece of peach dust I found in the Martian Money Basket I’ve been sniffing. Please tell your parents that we are very pleased with their nervous systems. Remember to have the scientists inspect your nostrils before you go flying backwards through the jelly spraying trucks.
As you may not be aware, there will no longer be any need for teeth tightening in the upcoming gall bladder confusions. This of course means that if just one member of our Secret Society launches more than 67 Raisin Rockets this week, all of us will be in big trouble with Mr. and Mrs. Punchworm. I therefore urge none of you to grab your cat’s elbows while making popcorn.
Of course, there probably should have been stronger crayon warnings during last night’s graham cracker storm. It’s been well known for years that improperly colored crackers will never enjoy an afternoon in Lake Michigan. Better hurry up and get a nice jar of “Happy Frog Nose Surprise” jelly for that often interrupted afternoon snack. Truly delicious with plastic bread and stainless steel soda.
Now I must ask all of you: how do you find the time to hide all those cranberry marshmallows under the couch? Wouldn’t it be safer to fill your toilet with gasoline? Is it not possible that audio cables could decide not to order Mexican food? Are jellyfish reading too many books? Can you think of anything else I want to ask??
No, of course not.
Forgive me, please. I’ve been sleeping with too many tomatoes in my armpits lately; and it’s beginning to fascinate my pet soap dish. You all probably know what it’s like to stuff carrots into a flute; so the cooking process just might cause the antlers to fall right off the minivan. Some of us will probably consider sleeping in the salad bar; but those of us who know better will joyfully roll around in the dessert bar instead.
Finally, I’d like to close with what’s known in knowing places by what’s known as an unknown run-on sentence; and in this particular sentence the word “known” is being known all too often, because you should try really hard to soften the hard boiled eggs with Professor Slapperhank’s portable egg softening lotion that is only sold in stores where the language of choice is Pazookey and all the employees can’t seem to get their freckles to line up to form various words that likely wouldn’t mean much anyway with the possible exception of Trabnack and Blooplinka Ifflebottom.
Very well then. I hereby call this meeting to order with a nice side of oven roasted Hairball Chowder and all the accompanying Crunchy Little Rocks.
Farewell till next time; and please remember to ventilate your ice cream before your lungs fill up with chopped walnuts and fancy sprinkles.
Yours with new nostrils,
Jon Again Pobblestick, Information Specialist 21 ½ Winky Avenue Clam Sneeze, Frongolia 2209098
On the other hand, you have some pure Rock Nonsense…
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 theheck 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…
There’s a tradition at our house: when the grandkids are visiting, we watch cartoons till it’s late outside. My brain was running out of steam, so I asked our oldest grandson for some writing inspiration.
“What should I write about tonight, Ollie?” I asked, looking for ideas.
“Berg Snerfles that live on Mars,” Ollie replied.
“Bird snergles?” I wondered aloud.
“Berg Snerfles,” Ollie retorted.
Once more, for verification, I asked, “Berg Snerfles??”
“Yes,” he said, “Berg Snerfles Who Live On Mars.”
“OK,” I replied, “I’ll see what I can do.”
So without any further ado, here goes…
Berg Snerfles Who Live On Mars
by Ken Hansen
Back in the day, which was the day before a few thousand days before today, on a Saturday, a large, pickle shaped meteorite fell to Earth with great screeching and flaming and smoke and kaboom. All the local folk saw it land in Clem Barfington’s corn field; and it seemed like just as soon as it hit the ground there was a crowd of curiosity seekers closing in to check it out.
Several minutes after the meteorite landed, there was still quite a bit of smoke floating up from the cornfield crater. However, the smoke was very strange… it was bright orange with green and purple stripes; and had a very unique odor. Cindy Tringletoes was pretty close to the site, and had been breathing some of this strange vapor as the crowd grew. Suddenly, her eyes opened really wide as she took a couple long, deep sniffs. Then her face kind of twisted sideways as she started speaking out of the left side of her mouth and said, “hmmm… smells like a combination of Zanga fruit and brope noodles!!”
After Cindy’s strange announcement, her Mom started to ask her what the HECK she was talking about; but was interrupted by a faint tapping noise coming from inside the meteorite. The tapping grew louder… louder… LOUDER and was quickly followed by a shrill noise as a part of the meteorite began to move. The movement continued and it quickly became apparent that some kind of door was opening out of the meteorite. The crowd gasped and stepped back quickly; and Steve Woofclank blurted out, “ummm folks?? This here ain’t no meteorite!!” Of course by this time the crowd was pretty aware they were witnessing something very strange.
The door opened completely and two strange beings climbed up from inside; and stepped out of what the crowd now knew to be some sort of space ship. A hush fell over the crowd as they stared in amazement. None of the townspeople had ever seen beings from outer space before; and the bright orange skin with green and purple stripes (very much like the strange smoke) fascinated them to the point that they all stood very still with their mouths open.
The beings sensed that the crowd was amazed, and maybe even a bit frightened by what they were seeing; so they quickly spoke through their cravnabs to introduce themselves. And yes, like every strange story about space beings, the visitors knew English…
“Hello Fellow Universe Beings!!” the first visitor said. “My name is Wognob, and this is my wife Bleeftok. We are Berg Snerfles from Mars, but I think we made a wrong turn near your moon. Hope we didn’t mess up your corn crop too badly when we landed.” After Wognob uttered his greeting, he turned to his wife and whispered, “oh my these strange beings are rather weird looking, aren’t they??” Bleeftok pinched Wognob’s cribnoot and whispered back, “the Creators made all beings in the Universe, we must not be rude to them even if we find them homely and smelling like Martian fish food.”
Then Bleeftok spoke up and said, “we need to get back to Mars soon because we’re missing the Celebration of Chiggles. But we’ll need some fuel and we hope you can help us.” Cindy Tringletoes, still very wide-eyed, walked up to them and asked, “I will help… what can I do?” “Well,” Wognob said abruptly, “we believe your Earth has just the fuel we need. We’ve been receiving your television signals for many years, and we are pretty sure that if we could get some of your Lucky Charms and a little milk that would help quite a bit.”
Very quickly, Bleeftok turned to Wognob with a puzzled look and asked, “how will that help our fuel situation??” Wognob’s face turned turquoise as he looked at the ground and said, “OK it won’t, but I’m hungry.” The crowd laughed, but Cindy and Steve took off and quickly returned with several boxes of cereal, some milk, bowls, and spoons. It wasn’t long before everyone was sitting down while munching on Lucky Charms and telling stories about their children and the upcoming Firefly Festival.
Bleeftok ate her share and stood up to thank everyone. “We very much appreciate your hospitality,” she said happily. “Now if we could just get a few hundred gallons of maple syrup and a pack of matches we can be on our way.” George Frocksnibble shouted from the back, “I have a load of syrup on the back of my pickup truck you can have!!” “That’s right neighborly of you, George,” said Bleeftok. So George backed his truck up near the space ship and Bleeftok jumped aboard and began slurping ALL the syrup out of the containers. Afterward, she got some matches from Brenda Shortsnout and pushed them into her left air sniffler.
Bleeftok’s head began to wiggle strangely as she ran back into the space ship. Suddenly, what sounded like a huge sneeze came thundering out of the belly of the ship; and very soon afterward the outside lights started flashing as a whirring noise seemed to signify that the spaceship was starting up. With a startled look, Wognob dropped his bowl of cereal and ran over to the door of the ship and shouted a few things to Bleeftok, who was still inside. With a few nods of his head, he turned to the crowd, smiled, and shouted, “sorry kids!! Gotta go!! Thanks for everything!!” Then he jumped inside and the hatch closed behind him.
The space ship shuddered a bit, then rose slowly as more orange smoke with green and purple stripes began to flow away from the landing site and over the crowd. Finally, there was a very large farting sound and the ship was gone. After getting a few sniffs of the weird smoke, the crowd all became very wide eyed and smiled broadly as they started reciting Martian poetry and did the Elbow Hooking Dance.
Wognob and Bleeftok were very grateful for all the help they received, and have been leaving messages of thanks on the insides of boxes of Lucky Charms ever since.
The End (…for now)
Tune in again some other time when another grandson requested story comes tumbling out of the Happy Friday keyboard!!
Warning: the following installment of Frappy Hiday contains large amounts of nonsense and intestinal worms. Do not read any further if you are prone to sleeping with rubber bands in your cereal or have an allergic reaction to sense that makes no things.
What the heck kind of title is that? Anyhow??? Is this going to be one of those stupid dog butt sniffing stories?? Come to think of it, I’m not sure I know any dog butt sniffing stories. I could maybe make one up, but there’s really nothing you can buy with three nickels anymore. So why would I sniff the butt’s dog? My friend Musky da sniffed a butt’s dog recently, and he seemed to be very intent with this activity. Does this mean that sniff dogging is similar to wise wondering?
No, this is an adventure in stress relief. You see, I’m being a bit indulgent here… and I’m going to just crack open a jar of petroleum jelly and a box of crackers, and make a nice snack that not only sticks to your ribs but lubes the bones and coats the skin with a nice shiny paragraph on Al Gore and his TV Dinners. Then I’ll wash it all down with a nice tall glass of dry ice. Work has presented numerous “challenges” of late, ok? I placed “challenges” in “quotes” because there are some “people” who are getting on my “nerves” and I would love to “choke” them but I don’t want to go to “jail” just because the “kakaheads” are making me “crazy.” You “know” what I “mean??”
Then there’s the “guy at work” who seems bell lent for heather to “drive me up a tree” and I don’t even have a seat belt for that tree or anything. No air bags neither. No smell phone to stick in my ear so I can drive like a zombie and crash into a giant salami. I mean hey, if someone is determined to “tree me up a drive,” the very least that person could do is provide air conditioning and a hybrid engine that gets well over 93 miles to a gallon of ice cream.
Am I right or am I wrong??
Of course I am!!
I’m keenly aware that the only “solution” to letting someone “up me tree a drive” is to tune out their bullroni and strongly suggest that nasal cheese insertion be performed. The instructions would come in a format very much like this:
“Hey you with the face! For why you are asking for my resistance with these things you require yesterday or the day before, but you’ve jumped into this ‘project’ with no planning ahead or even knowing what the do you are hecking?? Are you in the want of pickled toilet paper? I am now urging you vehemently to cram large cheese globs in your nose to enhance your breathing!! And while you’re at it, why don’t you place your tongue in that electrical box over yonder?? That box needs testing, and you’ve just the tongue to do it!”
This, I am sure, is the only true way to diplomatically tell flame-headed wombats just how wonderful you feel about their actions.
Don’t you agree??
Of course I do!
I was also very compressed at the driving ability of one total bark-eating numbskull just yesterday. There I was, careening down the boulevard in my 2014 racing Toyota Sienna, and going the legal speed limit or even less, and some tonk-mookler decided to pass me with less than 2 millimeters clearance between his bumper and my front fender with no regard for the safety of any insects or other humans. I mean, this tampon-brain forced me into the evasive “holy cow” maneuver. Then of course he (or she??) proceeded to cut off numerous other innocent sidebanders while zipping in and out of traffic. Now THAT’S intelligence, don’t ya think? Seedless to nay, I had a few opinions which instantly arose from my brain and out of my mouth as I flailed the steering wheel about while I tried to prevent the kersmooshing of metal objects and finely crafted petrochemicals.
Now, believe me, I understand that people don’t intentionally do things TO me, they just DO THINGS. But sometimes I just let it get to me and then I go find a bug and try to teach it to sing karaoke. I try to be tolerant of people who are less than wonderful… I think I’m getting better at being nice these days; but while my eyes and mouth are being pleasantly neutral, my mind is screaming at the top of its lungs:
“HOLY MACKEREL, WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT TO BREATHE ON THIS PLANET?? I’M BECOMING CONVINCED THAT YOU NEED TO EAT BARK AND POOP AT THE MOON!!”
This is not very kind, so I’m very grateful that I don’t often react with nastiness to those type of folks. Anymore. Used to be I would actually SAY the things that my mouth wanted to spit, but then I’d have to apologize and offer expensive candy or something. Maybe that’s part of getting old enough to remember when the Beatles came over on the Mayflower, I dunno. But I DO know that stress is a very small pair of pajamas that seek dogfood in a jar of jellybeans. So the next time I get angry, please remind me that there really is a bus that has one way tickets to Indianapolis. I don’t really want to go there, but if I never run away again it will be the next time.
I had an ice cream cone today. That was helpful. And in spite of the intense heat, most of this tasty treat went into my mouth.
Perhaps I need a new job. You know, where the stress is zero minus 173 and you get paid for loafing. Bud Abbott and Lou Costello did a nice bit about just that very subject…
