Kakahead

Dear Tinker Toy Handlers,

 This is to inform you that our house is exploding and the bottle rockets have prevented me from listening to the stereo for 13 weeks.  I know that you are the ones who forced me into this situation, and I demand immediate constipation.  If you do not comply with this request, I shall be coagulated instantly while I sail off to Bermuda with a large tube of toothpaste.  No one has the right to tell ME what to wear to the Chicken Festival!  So please, before our relationship has been too greatly damaged, change that stinky underwear you have on!  You should know by now that the brown and yellow crusties are a clue that wash day is past!

 And another thing:  every time I sit down, my butt makes contact with another thing!  I wonder:   how many times has my butt touched another thing without my asking the thing if it wanted to be touched?  I’ve also learned that my butt and my brain appear to be connected.  I know this to be true because a) I’ve made some really embarrassing mistakes during my stay on this planet we call Rhubarb, and 19) every time I forget something, I sit down and instantaneous remembering occurs within 7 or 8 millirockens. 

Now don’t correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m sure you cannot be allowed to stay in the country after those things you did with that flyswatter in the restaurant.  I mean, people who try to eat soup with a used flyswatter are probably not going to be invited to my burping contest anytime soon.  Unruly behavior will be rewarded with gentle slappings about the eyes and shoulders with the standard issue licorice flavored water balloons.

Please remember that the child within you needs to be nurtured, and only you can do it.  

If you ever feel sad or lonely, you can take action on this by paying me some big bucks.  I will gladly use the money for disturbance mechanisms which will not allow you to get proper rest.  A few weeks of this and you will forget all about that whiny inner child; and you will sport a pleasant, robotic appearance.  Another tried and true method of healing the inner self is to shame the heels that find you.  In other words, whenever some schmuck tries to perk you up, grin politely and suggest that they eat bark and poop at the moon.  They will usually be glad you were honest, and will mumble unintelligible affirmations as they briskly walk away.

Well, as you can see, there is no reason to panic.  Nothing is all right here, and the world is coming to an end.  Please understand that I have found some very effective ways to deal with the stress that Armageddon brings.  Firstly, give yourself the treat of some good all around attention:  walk through the mall without clothing on, and smile to all you meet.  Second:  stop in the restaurant and briskly apply jelly to your ears.  Your eyes will get squinty, and you will laugh loudly at the lack of pockets for hankies to wipe it off.  Next will come the overpowering urge to charge people extra for car repairs.

Nevermind.  That may have been a dumb idea.  Just try something else, ok?

If you question my sanity or the validity of any of the aforementioned delinquent prostitutions, I say to you, “tough beans, Mr. or Ms. Smartenheimer!!”  Sheesh!!  Being absolutely correct is one of my hobbies, and unless I am mistaken, I have never been totally accurate on any doggoned thing in my whole life.  Fortunately for me, however, I know now that the more I learn the less I know.  I learned that… I think.  Ya know??

So in silence, I grant you three wishes, none of which will ever come true so forget about it.  Don’t push me into something I don’t understand.  I have low self-esteem and you know it.  I have been taking classes for this, and they told me the best way to talk to people about your problems is to lie about the weather and run away laughing. 

Be friendly to all you meet, as you may wish to borrow their used cereal someday.  Have a conversation with a foreign car.  Sing loudly with a mouthful of spaghetti; you’ll quickly learn who your real friends are.  Feed your fish some dust and see how they like it.  Try drinking from the toilet, cats do it all the time.  Carry fried food in your pocket and offer it to strangers.  Lick a telephone pole for fun. 

Above all else, please remember:  GOD MAKES NO JUNK, SO LOVE THYSELF!!  OK?

Thank you for being, it gives me great comfort to know that you are.

Also, thanks in advance for not eating the crayons.

Peace, Love, and AM Radio,

Forvis “Green Tongue” Marbleswapper

a.k.a. “Runs With A Flashlight”
 
Speaking of nonsense, here’s the master…

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. 

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.”
 

Hello Abnardles,

Just a quick note to inform you all that new tasting tanks have been installed in Room 1023.  You can enjoy the flavor of any gravy or fruit salad by merely entering the tank and setting the knob to 2.3 while pointing your index fingers to Alpha Centauri and / or Cleveland.

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

My ears are full of sand.

If you have any questions about the use of the tasting tanks, call 800-400-0001 and ask for Mr. Crinkleberry. He will never really
help you, but he is an excellent listener and has been known to make really good dingleberry jam.

Sincerely yours,

Navnik Obblesoot
a.k.a. “He Who Burns Dust Mites”

————————————————-

“Please pass the ketchup, I think it’s going to rain.”

OK, so there I was, at work, in the industrial manufacturing stress pile that seems to grow smellier with each passing hour, no plane, no parachute, and thinking about writing a run-on sentence, with no semi-colons but only commas, and probably grammatically incorrect; but that doesn’t bother me one little bit; oh wait, there are a couple of semi-colons back there.

On this particular day at work, I was heating up my lunch in the nuking machine.  My friend Mary saw the vegetation in my Pyrex bowl and said, “you eat a lot of leaves.”  I smiled and said, “yes, and today I have leaves, roots, and the flesh of a dead bison.”  I mentioned that I intended to consume kale, collards, parsnips, and some bison meat from Oleson’s in Manistee.  Mmmm-mmm yummy.

At this point she ran screaming through the top floor window while her ’65 Mustang was in flames and all the propane tanks burst into an explosive conflagration causing the air to become very brightly orange but then black with smoke as the rest of the cars in the parking lot exploded one by one and the military came in full force to let the cat into the shower so she could drink off the floor while the Happy Friday Ken Guy wrote yet another run-on sentence with nary a comma or semi-colon to be found within the whole darned thing.

That crazy Nevvie… she loves to drink off the shower floor!  We believe she may be addicted to shower water.  She is 17 years young and will broop and mee-roouu  until one of us turns the shower on for just a bit.  Then of course we must let her know we are OK with her going in there to drink.  It’s a ritual you see.  Shortly after she gets her drink, the earth’s crust splits open and large steel structures vault toward the sky while people are screaming and running for cover and toasters are flying sideways through the violent winds that are generated (of course) by the huge bats that arise from the bowels of the planet and OH MY GOD HERE COMES ANOTHER ONE get down and hide behind this big rock OH NO THE TREE MONSTERS ARE STEALING ALL THE ROCKS those dirty selfish stinkers they wish to protect themselves and who gives a flying mahookey about us, right, we should be grateful the trees are safe and there’s yet another run-on sentence with questionable (at best) grammatical structure.

OK.  So, what have we learned from this week’s installment of “Goats On Parade?”  Well boys and girls, we’ve learned that some guy who works at an explosion factory likes to eat leaves, roots, and bison meat from Oleson’s  grocery in Manistee Michigan.  We could also possibly infer that the author of this week’s installment of “Radio Sandwich Dust Lanterns” is prone to writing run-on sentences.  Also, a very likely possibility is that I, the author of this week’s “Happy Burger Filled Sock Drawer” may have had a stressful work week and am simply trying to blow off some steam in the form of nonsensical rants that have absolutely nothing to do with the Republican Primaries. 

Therefore, I implore all of you:  Please, if your job is stressful and ouchy, PLEASE remember that work is what you do for a living; but it does not necessarily have to define who you ARE.   In my case, four egg sample, I’m grateful I have a job, but if I let the stress consume me I’m no good to anyone at all.  Hence, I will be sometimes known as the person who sends messages to his peers with the following content as an example:

       My dustflute sings much better than our dog’s frozen trumpet.

None of you may ask, “hey Ken, did you have a stressful week at work?”   And of course I would reply, “does a chicken have lips?  Is a frog watertight??” 

I had a chocolate chip cookie at lunch today. 

It was truly constabulatory!!

“Now,” as Rocky would say, “here’s something we hope you’ll really like!”

There are times in this universe when I get so inoculated that I am motivated to write a very short, yet silly story

Here goes:  Once upon a time… THE END.

There.  A very short story.    If you took too long to read it, you should really enlist in the Merchant Marinara Sauce Brigade Platoon for Wayward Wives and Stepfathers.  There you will be shown how to involve very small dirt particles in happy games that require colorful shirts and rooster licking.  Of all the meetings I’ve never attended, I enjoyed the weekend of the 33rd of Octember.  Now that was a cranberry stomping episode I’ll never forget!!  It’s almost as if the Chiclets were let out of their cages thirteen minutes earlier than last year.  Santagoopa certainly knew that all the clock fizzlers would be found guilty of lentil crushing.  But that could only have resulted in electric shaving incidents.

Seriously, can someone please tell me why I have to brush my tooth with fossil strings every weekend??  I’m sorry, but I fail to see the winking radioactive clouds that bring this custom to KalamaKazoo.  The residents of Abracadabra don’t even have any slots for the rusty washers that all clowns pay for parking with… how could these gentle jelly citizens of Okeefenokee be expected to change lanes in a soup throwing contest?

On the other hand, you have doable.  Some people actually use that as a word… they say, “DO-able.”  Well I’m sorry, they are wrong.  Doable.  Since it’s spelled with oa in the middle, that would be pronounced “oh” kinda like boat or toad.  So doable, as it is spelled, looks to me like it should rhyme with “noble.”

Sometimes politics and corporate shenanigans make me want to barf on the floor and find an elf in the pajama closet.  Too many people sniffing bricks and licking stop signs, if you know what I mean.  Their opossum doesn’t have enough cheese to make the baloney go to the top of the elevator sandwich.  They are just a few bottles of cellophane short of a complete truckload.    The toilet mechanism is just waiting for your approval.  Do you get my wind?  Do you understand where I’m arriving from?  Have you gotten the clue of my talk noises yet?  Listen carefully:  do you smell something??  I CAN’T SEE IN HERE WITH ALL THIS NOISE!!!  If you carefully touch all the bugs you see in one day, you will probably want to live with them.  You might even be able to train them to sing worm songs.  You just never know.

Well, one of the twelve or perhaps twenty five things I know for sure is this:  if anyone gives me a lot of money and expects absolutely nothing in return, I will be greatly amused and toasted inside with a blue sugary coating of genuine American Cheese flavored bicycle tire pumping rituals.  In other words, I’ll drive as quickly as I can straight to the nearest Kentucky Fried Chicken Laxative Emporium and set all those poor coleslaws free so they can find their way back into the wilderness.  I will also find special homes for the mashed potatoes and gravel.

Well my fiends, I must leave you all with this important symbol:  which of course represents the true tolerance and love our Creator designed us to have.  The symbol also represents what happens when you smash a pair of binoculars to yank the prisms out and then you put them in your windowsill and force the sunlight to make ha ha rainbows on your walls.  This is the way of refraction.

Be well, and may all your coleslaw be free and may your mashed potato gravel be found only under the sink with all the other cleaning agents.  Enjoy life and love your fellow humans and other animals, for you never know when an aardvark will be your boss.  Tell Frinkle I said hello.  Eat marshmallows.  It’s fun!!

I’m really getting sick up and fed with all this job stuff. I try to stay grateful to be working, but Holy Mahlooka it gets on my nerves sometimes. May I be retired now please with zero debt and lots of spare cash?? OK, thank you, that’s very kind.

I have the privilege of joining my two offspring at a They Might Be Giants concert this coming Sunday. That will be very good medicine in the realm of stress relief. I try to make my job as much fun as theirs seems to be. It’s all in the mind you know.

I’ve been taking work Way Too Seriously Again Lately.  Some of the things that go on there and around the world in general make absolutely no sense.

Therefore, in an effort to make even less sense, I offer this profound yet utterly nonsensical invitation to escape your inner knives and harbor no further garages against your fellow mange.

As none of you have heard frequently, Toyden Amookalobbnis of Quality Infusions, Inc. will be arriving soon to inspect the cambernackles.   Please ensure that all edible click wrapper standards are well concealed and thoroughly hyphenated before Toyden’s infestation.  

During this exercise, please note that cambernackles will be inspected on the 3rd Tuesday of each week, twice monthly, with liberty and justice for all.  That information may be shared freely with any and all individuals whose names rhyme with “lumberjack,” as they would appear when divided by the pertinent day of the month.  

For example:  on the 1st Tuesday of 2019, the week begins with the letter R.  Therefore, you may share this with people like:

Reek Cumberjack

Rum Cambersnack

Rink Snanderjunk

And of course Roopy Wofflenick.  

Note that the inverse modification standard never applies.

If you have any questions regarding this modulation, please insert two nickles and eleven dimes.  After all, your toaster is probably orange with chrome bide flenders.

I’m sure none of you are wondering by now whether the sky has been removed from the Ionized Bugle Machines (IBM).  There’s probably a good chance that someday I can divulge the particulars of that molecular substation, but this is no time for soaking baby toys in cups of sesame oil.

I ate a bug the other day.  It had very little flavor, and really was not as pleasant as one might surmise.   This required minimal effort:  I opened my mouth, a small insect flew in, and I closed my mouth again.  I tried to pitoo, then kerchack, but when I said “orgkkk” the swallowing mechanism switched on and down the hatch it went as I Bit My Tongue (IBMT). Possibly there was some struggle on the part of the poor bug, as I am somewhat sure I felt griggling actions as the very small Insect Bit The Dust On The Way Down My Esophagus (IBTDOTWDME).

Now of course we must discuss this business of intermediate tree watering schedules.   Please do not go there with me ever again.  Why would you insist on watering the trees with that Jell-O dispenser I shall never understand.   Don’t you know that pressurized prune skins can injure cats and other flying rodents?  We really need to talk about your compulsion to slide wildly through the Baked Apple / Rhubarb Fritters (BA/RF).

OK.  I really must go to the store now.  They have metal objects on sale, and one can never have too many metal objects.

Thank you for not licking my car.  Unless you did.   In which case I will stop.  Writing in incomplete sentences.  Which cannot be sentences at all.  Since they are incomplete.  So therefore they must.  Be sentence fragments.  So there.

Thank you,

Norvis Pimpleburger

Supervisor,

Feline Antler Inspection Dept.

“If you want something done, don’t remove the cat’s antlers.” – Milton Wildpockets
 
“And now for something completely different,” as Mr. Cleese of Monty Python would say… Never heard of Flip the Frog before but here he is from 1933.
 

Dear Ninks and Semmerflubens,

I am writing to all of you from the back yard where no children are stuffing bread into the worm holes.  This week has been especially stressful at work, and a lot has been going on in the news.  Therefore, in the interest of clam flavored desserts, I feel the need to remove my corporate tortellini.  Those of you who know me are aware that some stressfully sprinkled donuts prompt me to write letters to fire hydrants.

Let this past century of my work week be no Oldsmobile to that incubation.

I was walking through the factory the other day, scowling inside my rib cage and doing my darndest to ignore all the noisy dirt.  Soon I found myself saying, “hey Self!  For why you are so poofely??  Don’t you agree that your employment status brings gas to your table and puts food in your car?  Are you not, indeed, a very fortunate person who no longer requires adult supervision at most Twinkie eating contests??  And c’mon man!  Get with the gratitude awreddy.”

My Self agreed that grouch makes ouch.  I decided I really ought not allow this job to remove my ventricles or extinguish my lapis lazuli.

The following morning, I smiled and decided not to be El Groucho inside my brain world any longer.  At least not for 27 minutes, then I could reevaluate and perhaps even continue another 14 milliseconds.  By golly, that may have actually worked.  I tried hard to not take work too poisonously.  Sure, since my friend Reebo has retired and I inherited an extra work load my job has become inflamed with large pickles that fly violently in all directions.  And yes, there is really no way to keep up with the demand, unless I find a way to successfully clone my onion rings before Hubert The Closet Painter arrives from Denderflaven.  If he gets here before the sauerkraut capsules are fully declawed, there is absolutely no guarantee of the existence of any newly sharpened Jell-O forks.

And we all know what that means!!

So, I’ve decided to just be happy until I feel grouchy again, which seems to come quickly when people at work allow their children to surf the web on their work computer, and then they come crying to me because they can’t get their computer to do anything except offer to fix horrible computer problems that don’t exist, and then I get to spend many minutes trying to kill the bugs when all they had to do was forget to allow their kids to surf the web with their work computer, and then I end up blasting the hard drive anyway so I can write run-on sentences with increased vigor and lengthy applesauce.

After all of that new grouchiness, I start my day over again with a new happy and grateful attitude.  Then I get grouchy once more, but a little less, and keep practicing the gratitude thing.  Then I go between buildings and sing happy songs like:

Leave me alone or I’ll bite you.

Your ears are made of sticks.

Why do you talk to ME like that??

I’ll send you cat logs in the mail.

This of course is sung to the tune of “Leave Me Alone Or I’ll Bite You.”

Then I laugh at my silliness and life is once again refreshing and full of new opportunities to enjoy fruit and perhaps even the occasional flying insect.

Sometimes I restart my day 479 times or more.

So, how was YOUR week?

Dear Lumpflatteners,

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 clibbik 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 pickles 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 with the rubbing and the ouch and the hoy hoy hoy awreddy.

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. 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 EAP representative by July 27, 2019 .  Be aware they cannot dispense medication but they do know some really cool recipes for Dust Salad.  There are also community resources on which you can rely, such as the Office Of Pie Stashers (OOPS) and the Ceramic Octagon Plucking Society (COPS).  Neither of these entities will run to your aid.  Therefore, if you derive meaning from any of what has been written heretofore in this letter thing, you are basically toast.

Enjoy toast with all your might.  Remember, the toast you crave may be on loan.

Happy Bortinkulars to you.  I’m certain that you and your family will enjoy the customary Baseball Bat Surprise which can only be found in specially marked boxes.  Please, don’t chew with your mouth full.  Go fourth in peace… 2^nd or 3^rd simply will not do.  May your friends welcome you with open storage containers.  May your kitchen sink never be lonely.  May the sands of Greenland never fly into your cereal.

My eyes are lamps,

Kebbic G. Fefflewonk

a.k.a. Harvey Ticknoodle

Please to enjoy now the following live action recorded audio video combination doohicky by viewing it with the vacuum tube operated device of your own choosing yes OK fine thank you. (Be careful though… if you recognize any of the characters you may be admitting you’re as old as me!!)

Hello Darling Friends and Zimplers,

Just a note to tell you that I’ve learned how to eat what snakes don’t like. Please, all of you, before it’s too late: change your weevils soon or your dentifrice will be subject to humiliation. You’ve always known what eggs are, so get with the program. OK, maybe you didn’t always know what eggplants are. But the second you found out, I’ll bet you enjoyed their rich, chewy centers.

Twelve times this year I’ve sanctioned your optic nerves. Now it’s time for YOU to do something for me: bring “the stuff” to the next curbside travel aroma infestation. Do this for me in remembrance of the good old days, when men were mere clods of soil and women were tender, loving, delightful bags of chocolate crème oatmeal.

Clams have been telling me the best doggone stories I’ve ever ignored during the past few milliseconds. I often am astonished at their true talent and willingness to stack coloring books to the ceiling. If only they would cease applying the maraschino cherries to all those taffy-sucking, dust-gathering, elegant and kind bovine conversation artists. How pleasantly they yell to my cats while I’m sleeping: “HEY!!  GO USE YOUR CLAWS ON THE HUMANS!”

As I wake up each morning with cat ouch on my freckles, I’m beginning to understand why God made dump trucks.  It’s the noodle thing you know.  People fling noodles in the streets as a sign of protest during times of tardy laxative infusions.  When the doody is late, the people are… well… noodle flingers.  Some floodle ningers are just plain angry, and other fling noodlers are having the best time of their lives.  Why anyone would shake up a bottle of Pepsi and hand it to the “birthday boy” is beyond my wildest tent caterpillars.  I’ve seen the look on “birthday boy’s” face as the brown foam covers his favorite television clicking carpet.  It’s just one of those moments when you just gotta have a pair of pineapples to stuff in the pencil sharpener.  So as you can see, the noodle trucks were made to pick up all the dump flingers.  Is that a remarkable paint remover or what??

OK.  Step awaaay from the rhinestones.  We will glue them to your armpits later, after you’ve washed those two bags of Camel Chow with radio juice.  Don’t worry about all the precipitation, Camel Chow is made to last even in the worst banana storms.  After all, Uncle Clogpipe will certainly let you know when it’s time to rotate the fossil camera.  Remember, always duck when the banana storm begins, or you’ll be the first one on your block to own a 12% rayon staple gun.  I’ve seen this happen at least – 0.5 times, maybe even less.  Don’t try to argue with me on this one, alright?

Wumba, wumba, wumba goes the tire with the small baseball bat inside for extra bad handling on those tight turns and special goat races.  Carefully pick your friends, for if you are picking your friends carefully, then you’ll never have to worry about picking your friend’s …. um…. lint globs.  You thought I was gonna say nose, didn’t you?  Ha, ha ha…  it’s snot something I wood say hear.  I mean, you can pick your friends and you can pick your knows, but you can’t wipe your friend’s boogies off behind the sofa.  Sew there!  Eye didn’t say it!!  Ha ha on you!!!

All right then.  You better not read this anymore.  You may find yourself being lost within your shelf, and then there will be no finding of anything.  Who needs surround sound anyway??  I’ll tell you who:  ME.  I’m gonna tell someone to have it for me so I may enjoy it viscerally.  Or perhaps vivaciously.  Possibly even vertically.  My Belt is Yellow.

Horizontally Yours,

Kreb ZooZookena

P.S.: Something tells me Betty Boop would understand exactly what I never said…

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 doing these things that were originally assigned to me without my hello?  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 2003 racing Toyota Corolla, 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, 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 BE ANYWHERE NEAR ME??”

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 chocolate today.  Three times.  That was helpful.

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…